This story was written for the LotR Big Bang challenge, which encouraged its participants to either write or finish an unpublished multi-chapter story. My story has been sitting on my hard drive in various pieces for a while, so I decided to hammer through some impressive writer's block and get it done. The finished result is six chapters long, and I'll be posting one chapter every day.

My heartfelt thanks goes out to some wonderful people who made this story possible. There are quite a few, but in particular, I have to single out Docmon and Baranduin for heroic beta efforts on various chapters. Also in conjunction with the Big Bang, Dreamflower has made a STUNNING piece of art that goes along with this story. You can view it over at the Many Paths To Tread archive under Dreamflower's artwork. It's entitled "The Nindalf." Check it out! It's beautiful! And with that, I'll leave you to read and hopefully enjoy!

"Lie still. Do not move!"

Faramir freezes, suddenly and acutely aware that he is not where he should be. The taste of dank and rot fills his mouth. Darkness shrouds his vision. Damp, sucking mud clings to his arms. Shivering violently, he finds himself lying flat on his back in what feels like a stagnant pond. "Where—"

"Hush! If you voice your fear, they will kill you!"

Faramir blinks, and the darkness retreats enough for him to see another kneeling at his side. "Legolas? Legolas, what—"

"There is time." A hand rests upon Faramir's chest as though to prevent him from moving, but Legolas's attention is not on Faramir. It is on the shadows around them. "You can still confront your fear, but you must do so in silence."

Utterly bewildered, Faramir pushes himself upright, dislodging the elf's hand. Confusion and a growing sense of alarm make it difficult to ask even one of his myriad questions, but eventually Faramir manages, "Where are we? How—"

"They come!" Legolas's hissing rasp is harsh and strained. He snaps his gaze to Faramir, facing him for the first time, and the chill of the water lapping Faramir's legs is nothing compared to the chill in the elf's eyes. "They must not see you with me. You must face them alone!"

"Legolas!"

Legolas darts away, disappearing from sight. Faramir scrambles to his feet and tries to follow, but the shadows close too quickly. Night blinds him to all save darkness.

"Legolas cannot help you."

Faramir spins about, one hand flying to an empty scabbard hanging from his belt.

"Nor can any who enter this place," the new voice adds, and as it did with Legolas, the murk lifts just enough to reveal the speaker.

"Gimli!" Faramir exclaims, staring at the dwarf. "Gimli, I… Think not that I am unhappy to see you, but how are you here? How am I here? Where—"

"I have no answers to your questions," Gimli interrupts. "Not yet. Soon. When I do, perhaps he will return. Perhaps you will find help. But you must not voice your fear! If you do, then there is no hope. Do not voice your fear!"

Faramir stares, frustration warring with caution. "I do not understand what—"

"Of course not!" Gimli says sharply, and something in his voice makes Faramir pause. "How could you understand? You have denied that which would enable understanding. And to that end I ask: Who are you?"

Faramir takes a shaky breath. "My friend, do you not know me? I am Faramir."

For a long moment, the dwarf studies Faramir. Then his eyes dull, and his head bows. "No," Gimli whispers. "Not yet."

Faramir shoots upright, heavy blankets pooling in his lap. His heart pounds in his chest, and sweat trickles down the back of his neck. One shaking hand runs through his tousled hair while the other fists the thick folds of his sleeping pallet.

A dream.

Nothing more than a dream.

A dream identical to a dream from the night before…

With a slow shudder, Faramir bows his head and rests his chin upon his chest. His limbs still tremble, but he no longer gasps for air. His body, at least, is calming; his thoughts are another matter. The images from the dream are as vivid now as they were when he slept, and those images trouble him.

Faramir frees his feet from the twisted blankets and feels about for his boots. It will be some time ere he can sleep again, and spending that time alone in a dark tent with dark thoughts does not appeal. He requires movement. Conversation. Something to leech the turmoil from his mind so he can better examine the dream. When this dream came the previous night, he noted it but gave it little heed. No stranger to night terrors, Faramir assumed his restless slumber resulted from proximity to the Nindalf. He has no pleasant memories of the bogs below the Falls of Rauros, and at the time, it seemed only natural for the Nindalf's foul smells to inspire foul dreams. But now that the dream has come again, Faramir cannot easily dismiss it.

But neither can he easily study it until he is calmer.

Finding his boots and wrestling them onto his feet, he stands and pulls a thick cloak about his shoulders. Spring near the marshes is always cold. Snowmelt cascades down both the Anduin and the Entwash, filling the swamp where they meet with frigid water. The chill of the water then lends itself to the chill of the air, especially at night, and Faramir already misses the warmth of his blankets. But he knows the cold will clear his mind, so he pushes through the flaps of his tent.

He immediately wrinkles his nose. During the long struggle against Sauron, he was occasionally forced to lead Rangers into the Nindalf, sometimes for concealment and sometimes in pursuit. No matter the reason, the experience always involved nauseating odors, and even on the edge of the swamps, these smells stir dark memories.

Rubbing his arms, Faramir reminds himself that their current situation might be equally dark. The number of people to mysteriously vanish around the Nindalf is a growing mystery that hints of ominous designs. The loss of one or two could be understandable; tragic accidents are not unheard of when spring floods the fens. But the disappearances are increasing as summer approaches, and the victims' companions say someone or something is moving within the swamp. Even more troubling is that many of the disappearances take place on the northern edge of Anórien, where the King's authority is direct and absolute. Such a blatant disregard for the crown is particularly worrisome.

His thoughts turning to Aragorn, Faramir glances across the fire pit at the King's tent. To his surprise, he finds it lit from within, the glow of candlelight spilling out beneath the sides. Aragorn is still awake.

Hesitation wars against hope. Speaking with Aragorn will soothe Faramir's mind; there is no doubt of that. But Aragorn will almost certainly sense Faramir's unease and inquire after it. Given the dream's twin warnings about voicing fear, Faramir would like more time to examine the dream before seeking another's counsel. Moreover, there is a… weight to the dream. A feeling of portent. Of foresight. It is not unlike what he experienced when he dreamed of the command to seek out Imladris, Isildur's Bane, and the Halfling. And after losing Boromir to those promptings, Faramir is in no hurry to repeat history.

But the glow of the tent is inviting, and the promise of both a stalwart liege and a wise friend overcomes reluctance. Wrapping his cloak tightly about himself, he sets out toward the King.

The guards about Aragorn's tent straighten at his approach, but when they recognize him, they nod a greeting and stand aside. One steps back toward the tent and speaks quiet words before moving away and gesturing for Faramir to enter. Now standing before the tent flaps, Faramir inclines his head in silent thanks, clears his throat to announce his presence, and steps inside.

"Lord Steward," Aragorn greets, his gray eyes sweeping over Faramir.

"My liege," Faramir answers, sketching a brief bow before stepping further into the tent. The King is seated at a small plank table covered with maps. Andúril lies before him, and he is polishing the blade with quick, sure strokes. The presence of the sword on the table seems to be all that has changed since Aragorn met with Faramir and Legolas to discuss the best strategy for searching the Nindalf. That was hours ago, but Aragorn undoubtedly poured over the maps long after Faramir and Legolas departed.

"I thought you had taken yourself to bed," Aragorn says, interrupting Faramir's musings.

"I thought you had done the same," Faramir replies, hoping the deflection will be enough to stall questions.

"Soon, yes, but you professed a need for sleep. Surely that need is not already satisfied."

Aragorn's gaze sharpens, and his hands still on his sword. Faramir quickly casts about for a distraction. His eyes settle on the maps, and he moves to the table to better examine them. There is nothing subtle about his ploy, but perhaps so obvious an evasion will dissuade Aragorn by virtue of sheer surprise. "Has Legolas returned?" Faramir asks, picking up one of the maps.

There is a pause before Aragorn answers. "Not yet. He sent word that he was venturing into the swamps with the scouts. I do not expect him to return until morning. If the elves find a path of firm ground, they will follow it to see how far we may trust the trail."

"I will marvel greatly if any trail they find offers aught in the way of firm ground," Faramir murmurs, tapping his fingers on the parchments. The foremost map depicts the Argonath, Nin Hithoel, the Falls of Rauros, and the swampy Nindalf below the falls where the Entwash flows out of Rohan to join the Anduin. The courses of the two rivers and all around them are clearly marked, but the ever-changing swamp has few details.

"When did you last enter the fens?"

Still hunched over the maps, Faramir risks a glance at Aragorn. Though the King is again polishing Andúril, something in his demeanor suggests his mind is not on the sword. But neither is he pressing the issue of Faramir's sleeplessness, and Faramir cannot decide if he should be concerned or relieved. "Four years ago, my liege."

On the other side of the rough table, Aragorn sets aside his polishing cloth and holds Andúril up to the candlelight, sighting down the blade. "That would be two years before Sauron's fall," he murmurs. "Curious. I also found myself in the Nindalf that year."

"Indeed? Which season?"

"The end of summer." Aragorn grimaces. "I was tracking the creature Gollum, and his trail forced me into the fens. Fortunately, he only subjected me to the Nindalf. He was on the border of the Dead Marshes months later when I caught him, and grateful am I that he did not venture further. I would sooner wade the Nindalf ten times over than contend with the lights of the departed."

"We missed one another by only a few weeks, then, for my Rangers followed a group of orcs into the Nindalf during the harvest," Faramir says, his brow furrowing at the memories. "The fens are driest just before winter, but even so, we went forth on foot. It was too dangerous for horses."

"We shall have to do likewise now," Aragorn sighs, setting Andúril down. "This past winter was wet."

"Which makes our mystery all the more confounding." Faramir traces one hand over the maps. "Travelers have been vanishing around the Nindalf as though it is home to brigands, but I cannot fathom even the most desperate thief making these swamps his base."

"Agreed," Aragorn says. "And I remember well your words at supper: A band large enough to be responsible for all these disappearances would find no place large enough to shelter in the Nindalf. Since then, I have called to mind my own experiences in the marshes, but I have had no more success than you. There are countless clusters of trees and brush throughout the bog, but there is little in the way of firm ground where one might construct a camp. Not in the spring, at least, when the waters are highest. Yet the reports seem clear: The attacks come from the Nindalf."

"With respect, I must disagree," Faramir says as wind stirs the sides of the tent. "The reports are not clear. They are taken from distraught and grieving kin."

"Yet you agree we should focus our searches around the Nindalf."

"It is the only common thread among the stories," Faramir says, raising his voice as the wind blows open the tent flaps. "Merchants traveling north from Cair Andros," he continues. "Homesteaders along the Entwash. Traders upon the Anduin between Osgiliath and the Falls of Rauros. They all speak of the Nindalf, but…" He trails off, a strange foreboding chilling his heart.

"But…?" Aragorn prompts.

Faramir shakes his head, his eyes drawn to a flickering candle.

"Faramir?"

The tiny flame dances, swaying in time to the distant sound of—

"Faramir…!"

"Lie still. Do not move!"

Faramir freezes, suddenly and acutely aware that he is not where he should be, but also suddenly and acutely aware of where he is. It is the dream! The dream that is making its third appearance! Yet only moments ago, he was in Aragorn's tent! Wresting his arms free of clinging mud, he pushes upright and immediately feels Legolas's restraining hand upon his chest. "What—"

"Hush! If you voice your fear, they will kill you!"

The elf has spoken these words twice already, but they still make no sense. When the shadows lift, Faramir catches a glimpse of strained features as Legolas stares into the darkness. "Legolas, I do not understand! How—"

"There is time. You can still confront your fear, but you must do so in silence."

"What fear?" Faramir demands. "What do you—"

"They come!" Legolas hisses. His glance snaps toward Faramir, and his eyes glint with something fell. Something crazed. Something that stirs Faramir's last memories of Denethor. "They must not see you with me. You must face them alone!"

"Legolas!" But as before, the elf is gone, enveloped by the dark. Faramir is powerless to alter the course of his nightmare. Or is it still a nightmare? Is it real? He cannot remember going to sleep, but neither can he remember anything that would explain his presence in what seems to be the middle of the wretched Nindalf! Struggling to his feet, he wraps his arms about himself, wondering if—

"Legolas cannot help you."

"Gimli," Faramir whispers with relief. If Gimli is here, it is yet a dream, for in the waking world, Gimli is far away in Aglarond.

"Nor can any who enter this place," Gimli continues as the shadows lift.

"Why am I here?" Faramir asks, hoping a challenge will prompt clarity. "And what is your purpose? What do you and Legolas—"

"I have no answers to your questions," Gimli says. "Not yet. When I do, perhaps he will return. Perhaps you will find help. But you must not voice your fear! If you do, there is no hope. Do not voice your fear!"

The dream is the same. The same yet not the same, for Faramir now knows it is a dream. But he is no closer to understanding. "Will you not speak plainly? If there is a warning in this, I do not see—"

"Of course you do not!" Gimli snaps, and even if only slightly, the script of the dream changes. "You see no warning, for you refuse to believe! You still deny! And thus I ask: Who are you?"

Wondering why the dream is changing, Faramir hesitates. "You asked me that before. I do not know what you—"

"Who are you?" Gimli roars, his eyes flashing.

"Faramir," Faramir says firmly, hoping the dream's changes will continue. Hoping the changes will become answers. "I am Faramir."

But as before, the dwarf's eyes dull and his head bows. "No," he murmurs. "Not yet."

"Faramir!"

"Gimli!" Faramir cries, reaching out. His fingers close around rich folds of fabric, but he does not grasp the dwarf's tunic. He grasps—

"Faramir!" Aragorn's face is stern, and his voice is sharp. "Faramir, look at me! Silence your thoughts and look at me!"

Faramir shudders, and his hand falls away from Aragorn's sleeve. The King kneels beside him in terrible mimicry of the way Legolas kneels beside him in the nightmare. A shiver wracks Faramir. Suddenly, all he wishes to do is sleep. Dreamlessly. But the King has commanded, and summoning his faltering will, Faramir fixes his eyes upon Aragorn's.

"Better," Aragorn says, his voice softening. "Now, lie still and slow your breaths."

Faramir sees the roof of the tent behind Aragorn's head, and he wonders how he came to be lying down. On the King's pallet, no less. Loud voices call to one another outside, as though a commotion stirs in the camp. Turning his head toward the tent flaps, he begins to push himself up, but Aragorn immediately stops him.

"Did you not hear me? Lie still!"

Aragorn looks as though he wishes to say more, but the tent flaps part and two guards rush in. One bears a large brick of stone held gingerly with heavy tongs. The other carries a pot of boiling water. Under Aragorn's direction, the brick is placed beneath the blankets wrapping Faramir's feet, and Faramir immediately feels warmth soak into him from the fire-heated brick. The pot is placed beside Aragorn, and Faramir catches the sweet scent of athelas as the guards are dismissed with a quiet word.

"I have been here all along," Faramir whispers, blinking at the realization.

"In body," Aragorn says, "but not in mind."

A headache begins to pound behind his eyes. "What happened?"

Aragorn raises his brow. "That was to be my question for you. What do you remember?"

"Studying the maps of the Nindalf," Faramir says slowly.

"Nothing else?"

Faramir frowns. "Wind. Fire. Then—"

Do not voice your fear.

Gimli's voice echoes through his mind. If the dream is a product of foresight, he can ill afford to ignore such a warning.

"Then you collapsed."

Faramir flinches, his eyes snapping to Aragorn. "Collapsed?"

"You fell onto the table and slid off one corner." Aragorn nods at the scattered maps on the floor, "I caught you ere your head hit the ground, but I could not call you back to the waking world. Your mind was drawn too far away. Thus I return you to your own question: What happened?"

Faramir takes a deep breath and pushes himself up. This time, Aragorn does not stop him, and Faramir is grateful. Lying down feels too vulnerable. "Last night," he begins, "I was visited by a strange dream. Earlier this evening, it came again."

Do not voice your fear.

"When I collapsed here, I found myself once again caught in the dream," Faramir continues, wondering exactly what fear he is not supposed to voice.

"What is the nature of this dream?"

Faramir hesitates. "I believe it to be a warning."

"Of what?"

"I do not know. And if I did know, I do not know if I could tell you. In the dream…" He closes his eyes, searching for words. "In the beginning of the dream, I am with Legolas. He says many things I do not understand, but his primary concern seems to be a warning: I must not voice my fear. Then Legolas leaves, and Gimli appears. He also speaks to me, and in the course of our conversation, he gives the same warning."

"And because you must not voice this fear, you hesitate to say more," Aragorn guesses quietly.

Faramir nods, his eyes still closed.

"Do you know of what fear they speak?"

"No," Faramir murmurs.

An aggrieved sigh breaks the stillness. "I do not recall giving you leave to have difficult foresight on this venture."

Despite himself, a smile creeps over Faramir's face. Opening his eyes, he gives Aragorn a look that is equal parts amusement and protest. "Were it not impertinent to do so, I might name another in this tent with a history of difficult foresight."

Aragorn returns the smile before sobering again. "So you do not know what fear the dream warns against, and even if you did know, you could not voice it. What can you voice? Where does this dream occur?"

Faramir's jaw clenches. He is reasonably certain the dream takes place in the Nindalf. What little he saw of his surroundings supports this, and the dream began only after arriving at the Nindalf. But while he does not fear the Nindalf, he cannot deny that the swamp inspires unease. "I know where I am," he says carefully, "and it is not a place I welcome."

Aragorn nods, seeming to understand when Faramir says no more. "Do Legolas and Gimli caution you separately or together?"

"Separately. Only when one leaves does the other appear."

"And both warn you against voicing your fear." Aragorn sits back on his heels, his gaze distant. "Is there aught that they fear?"

Faramir frowns, not having considered that. He plays the dream over in his mind and watches the details. He studies the strain on elven features. The curt words and harried movements. The way Legolas constantly searches the dark, only once glancing his way. "Legolas fears something," he says at length. "When he leaves the dream, I believe it is either to flee from it or charge toward it. But as for what this fear is, I do not know. Gimli…" He trails off, and something tells him this question is important. Whether or not Gimli fears something is important.

"Gimli…?" Aragorn prompts.

Faramir's eyes narrow. Unlike Legolas, Gimli does not search the dark. He searches Faramir. His eyes are urgent. Measuring. Concerned. But fearful…? "There is no fear in Gimli," Faramir decides. "Rather, there is warning and…expectation. And when that expectation is not met, there is disappointment. But not fear." He pauses to search his memory again. "Not yet," he amends, certain of his impression but uncertain of its meaning.

Aragorn's expression becomes almost a mirror for Gimli's. "Will there be fear?"

His headache growing, Faramir closes his eyes. "I do not know," he murmurs.

"Why is Gimli present in this dream?"

Another important question. Another question to which Faramir has no answer. He shakes his head in wordless frustration.

"Are both Gimli and Legolas intent on the same purpose?"

At least this question he can answer. "No. As I said before, Legolas is concerned about whether or not I will voice my fear. Gimli…" Once more, Faramir finds himself at a loss. "Like Legolas, he warns against voicing my fear, but that is not why he is in the dream. He asks a question of me, and it should be a simple question. But the answer I give does not satisfy, and the dream ends." Faramir grits his teeth. "I do not know what he wants from me."

There is silence for a moment. Then a warm weight falls upon Faramir's shoulders. His eyes open in surprise, but before he can protest, Aragorn pushes him down onto the bedding with firm hands. "We will speak of this later," Aragorn says, releasing Faramir with a warning look against rising. "We are both weary, and reason will come easier when day drives back the night." He reaches into the pot at his side and pulls forth a damp cloth laden with the scent of athelas. "Sleep," he instructs, smoothing the fabric over Faramir's brow.

"If I dream again—"

"Then we will speak again," Aragorn interrupts. "But for now, sleep."

Faramir relaxes back into the blankets, his body demanding he follow the King's orders. He watches Aragorn retrieve a stool from the table and set it next to the pallet. Askance, Faramir starts to sit up. "My liege, you—"

"I have slept in chairs far less comfortable than this, and given your earlier collapse, I would rather keep you where I can see you. Sleep!"

The last word is a firm command, and Faramir is too tired to argue. With the warm cloth soothing his aching head, his thoughts begin to wander. Almost ere he is aware of it, his eyes close. He wishes to offer one last protest, but his weary body refuses. Comforted by the creek of the stool beside him, Faramir drifts into slumber. And for a brief time, his sleep is even dreamless.

But only for a brief time…

"Lie still. Do not move!"

Faramir stiffens at the words. As before, he becomes keenly aware of frigid water around him and squelching mud beneath him. He surges upright, forcefully knocking aside the elven hand pressed against his chest. Three dreams in a single night is three dreams too many. "What—"

"Hush! If you voice your fear, they will kill you!"

"So you have said before!" Faramir says heatedly as the shadows retreat enough to reveal his elven companion. "Who are they? Why do they concern themselves with my fear?"

"There is time. You can still confront your fear, but you must do so in silence."

He changed at least a part of the dream with Gimli. A small part, admittedly, but it felt significant. He is determined to do likewise with Legolas. "What will silence gain me? You are not silent! Why—"

"They come! They must not see you with me. You must face them alone!"

Surging forward, Faramir catches hold of Legolas's arm. He braces against the elf, tightening his grip when the other starts to run, and for a moment, he believes he has succeeded. He believes Legolas will turn, the cycle will break, and he will learn the meaning behind the madness. But then his hands close upon empty air; Legolas literally vanishes. Off balance, Faramir falls backward into the frigid water.

"Legolas cannot help you."

Shivering against more than the cold, Faramir pushes himself to his knees. He stares at his hands, barely able to see them in the gloom. "It is as though he was never here," he whispers. He waits, knowing Gimli has more to say, but there is only silence. Lowering his hands, he struggles to his feet and peers into the night. "Gimli?" he calls.

He hears a sigh, and the darkness lifts enough for him to see the dwarf. "So near," Gimli says, shaking his head, "yet understanding still eludes you."

"Then aid my understanding!" Faramir says, wishing he understood the why and when behind the dreams' changes. "Earlier, you said I could not see the warning because I refused to believe. What do I refuse to believe?"

Gimli watches Faramir for a long moment, his face expressionless. "Legolas was never here," he says at length.

A chill courses down Faramir's spine. "Is this dream a warning for Legolas?"

"Still you do not understand!" Gimli exclaims, eyes flashing. "And until you do, he will not return! There will be no help!" The dwarf shakes his head, his arms rising and falling at his sides in frustration. "You must not voice your fear. If you do, there is no hope. Do not voice your fear!"

"No!" Faramir protests. "I know these words! You need not repeat them! What more have you to tell me? What must I—"

"Who are you?" the dwarf demands.

"Faramir!" Faramir shouts.

Gimli's shoulders slump, and he shakes his head. "No," he whispers. "Not yet."

Confused and shaking, Faramir wakes with a gasp. The tent glows with the light of the rising sun. In the camp beyond, he hears the sounds of men preparing for the day. Morning has come.

Faramir pushes himself up on trembling arms. His intent is to stand, but he barely manages to sit upright. The simple effort drains him, and he shakes his head, wondering at his weakness. He also wonders why he is alone in the tent. Aragorn seemed intent on watching him the previous night, yet the King is nowhere to be seen.

Counting this a boon, Faramir decides to collect his strength and ponder the dream. Though it has the weighty feel of foresight, it is like no foresight he has ever encountered. The presence of both Gimli and Legolas baffles him, and he cannot fathom why Legolas reacts to nothing while Gimli's portion of the dream changes. Nor has he any idea of what answer he should give Gimli at the dream's end. Sighing heavily, Faramir pulls one leg up to his chest and rests his brow upon his knee. Perhaps he is asking the wrong questions. Or searching for the wrong answers. Perhaps—

"Faramir?"

The sudden voice at his side causes Faramir to jump. Clutching his chest, he looks to his left and inwardly groans. He is not confident of his ability to converse with one who has been haunting his dreams.

Kneeling beside Faramir, Legolas offers a smile that does not reach his eyes. "My apologies. I thought you heard me enter."

Faramir waves a dismissal and struggles to achieve an indifferent air. "If you apologize for entering, I must apologize for inattention. I am distracted this morning."

"So I noticed." The elf's sharp eyes rake over Faramir. "Are you hungry? I can send a guard to fetch breakfast."

Faramir's first impulse is to decline, but his stomach betrays him with a loud rumble. Startled, Faramir looks down at his belly.

"A fair answer," Legolas says wryly. "I will see to the arrangements."

"Far be it from me to gainsay such a beast," Faramir says, surprised to find that he is indeed hungry. "You have my thanks."

"Thanks are unnecessary," Legolas answers, rising to his feet, "for I also desire a meal."

While Legolas speaks to someone just beyond the tent flaps, Faramir struggles to order his mind. Aragorn kneeling at his side the previous night was bad enough. Legolas kneeling at his side this morning is almost too much to endure. It is as though the dream is coming to life in bits and pieces around him.

"Faramir?"

"What tidings from the elves?" Faramir asks. He prays the tremor in his voice will go unnoticed.

From the doorway, Legolas gives him a searching look and then moves to the plank table. "We found several paths we might take into the Nindalf," he says as he begins stacking maps and scrolls. "My scouts were able to travel a good distance along each, but I do not know what men will think of these roads."

"To begin with, we will probably not think of them as roads."

"A poor choice of words," Legolas concedes with a smile. "The scouts are now acquainting Beregond, Mablung, and other captains with these…trails, if that term suits you better. We will soon learn if they are acceptable."

"Where is the King?"

Legolas stills, his body poised over the growing stack of maps. "His services as a Healer were required this morning."

"Someone is sick?" Faramir asks, moving the blankets back and easing himself to his feet.

"Several are sick."

"Several?" Faramir echoes. "Sick enough to need the King? That does not bode well. It is not uncommon for illness to be shared among men on the march, but we have only been here two days. What symptoms are there?"

"I am unable to say much," Legolas answers, though something in his voice suggests he is not unable but rather unwilling. "If you are concerned for your men, I am happy to report that the White Company and Rangers are hale. You may take heart in that."

"I will," Faramir says, concerned by the elf's avoidance, "but I will also ask for what little you can tell me about those who are sick."

Stacking the last of the maps, Legolas looks up at Faramir, his face blank. "You would do better to ask Aragorn."

Faramir's jaw tightens. When Legolas does not wish to speak, he is as tight-lipped as Denethor used to be. An image from a different dream flashes through his mind, and for a moment, Faramir smells the smoke of a funeral pyre.

"My lords?"

The memory fades, and Faramir shakes his head as a guard enters with a platter of meats and breads.

"My lords, I come with your morning meal. Do you wish me to attend you?"

"Leave the plate. We will see to our own needs," Legolas says, picking up the maps and depositing them on the sleeping pallet. "Our thanks for your service."

The guard does as instructed, but Faramir scarcely notices. His stomach is rumbling again, and the burnt smell of the meat—these soldiers seem unable to differentiate a cooking fire from a beacon fire—is strong enough to overcome the smell of the swamp. Indeed, it is even strong enough to overcome the memories of the swamp, and Faramir seats himself with a smile. Years ago, time and shelter enough to char a meal in Ithilien meant the Rangers had found safety.

Legolas joins him at the table, and both turn their heads to the West for a moment of silence, Faramir does so in honor of Númenor. Legolas… Faramir has never asked what Legolas sees when he looks to the West. For now, it is enough to believe that he does so out of respect for his dining companions. Afterward, he and the elf give their attention to the food, and Faramir quickly discovers his hunger is unfeigned. He all but forgoes proper decorum in his rush to eat.

Faramir does not know how much time passes, but eventually he becomes aware of a steady, measuring gaze. Pausing over a chunk of bread, he looks up and catches a flash of both amusement and concern on Legolas's face. "It seems your stomach has spoken again."

Faramir glances down at the remnants of breakfast, surprised by how little remains. He also receives the distinct impression that Legolas has not eaten much. "My apologies," he begins, but Legolas immediately shakes his head.

"Save your apologies for those deserving them. Clearly you needed the repast more than I." Legolas pauses, as though uncertain of his next words. "I understand your sleep was less than restful. During the night, the men say you were…distressed."

Faramir does not doubt this. If he has learned anything in his service to Gondor, it is that soldiers spread rumors faster than do old spinsters. Legolas puts little stock in rumors, though, and Faramir suspects the elf has spoken with Aragorn. "I swooned in this tent late last. Aragorn was anxious for a time."

"More than a time," Legolas corrects, confirming Faramir's suspicion. "When I returned with the scouts, he was at your side and loath to leave, even when he was called away."

Faramir frowns. "Did he sleep at all last night?" The other's silence is answer enough, and Faramir shakes his head. "I should have returned to my own bed."

"He would not have allowed it," Legolas says with quiet conviction. "He was—and still is—greatly concerned. As am I. Is there aught I may do? I know little of mortal illness, but I can send for more food if you are yet hungry."

The Legolas before him is so different from the Legolas of his dream. Different, yet not different. This Legolas offers and reassures while the Legolas of his dream demands and frightens. But the concern in this Legolas is akin to the terror in the other. Faramir leans back in his chair and rubs his brow, wondering if there is a connection. "What do you fear?"

"I fear for your well-being. More specifically, I fear you may be—"

"No," Faramir interrupts, "I do not mean now. I mean…I mean the question in a general sense."

Legolas cants his head to one side. "What do I fear?" he echoes.

"Yes. What frightens you most in this world?"

"Must it be in this world?"

By elven standards, Faramir has not known Legolas long, but he has known him long enough to recognize a stalling tactic. He also recognizes that Legolas is not avoiding the question. Rather, he is gathering his thoughts. "From this world, in this life, beyond the circles of both, I care not," Faramir says. "I simply wish to know what you fear."

"Why?"

Faramir has been asking himself the same question. "I do not know," he confesses. "A feeling of foreboding is upon me, but it is taking a strange form. I believe it may play into fears."

"And thus you wish to know what I fear." Legolas sits back and folds his arms across his chest, his expression pensive. "I do not know if I can explain it in a way you will understand. In a general sense, I suppose one might say I fear a divide."

"A divide?"

"Elves are not as Men," Legolas says slowly, his eyes becoming distant. "And contrary to what others might tell you, even those of us who have never seen the light of the Two Trees are aware of a great division in this world. Of a schism between seen and unseen. Creation and machination. Fëa and hröa. Such division is necessary and natural, but our awareness of it renders us sensitive to other divisions not as natural. My mother's Silvan blood makes it impossible for me to ignore the call of the Sea, but through my father, I also hear the voices of the Sindar who stayed their march and rejected the Valar's summons." Legolas bows his head, his eyes closing. "A part of me longs to answer the Sea's call. To take the journey my people once refused. And this part of me fears the bonds of these hither lands. The trees. The realms. The voices of those I love. But another part of me fears the Sea. The power. The command. The sundering of all I will leave behind. Two fears, different yet the same for they grow from the same division. Thus I fear that to which I also cling, and thus I fear the divide."

"I…think I may understand," Faramir ventures.

The slight huff of air may be either a sigh or a laugh; it is difficult to tell. "Nay, you do not," Legolas says, opening his eyes. "Even my own people do not understand. Their hearts have not been stirred so as to deepen the divide, and as such, they do not know how much they should fear it. Or even that they should." Legolas is silent for a moment, distant again. At length, he turns a curious look upon Faramir. "Does that answer your question?"

Faramir rolls Legolas's words over in his mind, wondering how—or if—a divide might pertain to his dream. "What of the dwarves?" he asks, thinking of Gimli. "What do they fear?"

"The dwarves?" Legolas smiles, and for the first time this morning, there is true mirth in his face. "What do dwarves fear?" he muses, seeming to speak to himself. "It is well we do not have a dwarf here to ask, for in the presence of an elf—and in particular, a son of Thranduil—many dwarves would claim they fear nothing."

"And what would they say when not in the presence of such an elf?"

"Depending upon the dwarf, some would give you the same answer."

"Then what of those who would give a different answer?" Faramir presses, suddenly impatient. He suspects Legolas is gathering his thoughts again, but the evasions are too similar to the way the dream ignores his questions.

Legolas tips his head back, his eyes on the roof of the tent. "Dwarves fear what the mountains fear. They fear the crumbling of foundations and the loss of heritage. They fear they will never recover the old ways. The old glory. The old families. Dwarves believe the gifts of Aulë— the gifts of language, home, and tradition—tie them to the Valar. As these gifts erode and fade, the dwarves cannot help but do likewise. Or so they believe."

Versed somewhat in dwarven lore, Legolas's answer is familiar to Faramir. But he is more interested in what one particular dwarf believes. "Does Gimli share this fear?"

Elven eyes cloud. "Once," he says softly. "And I believe it lurks still in his heart. But the darkness of Moria awoke in him a greater fear, one that divides him almost as much as the Sea divides me. His fear may prove the more grievous, though. My fear divides me from myself, but I still have the support of my people. Gimli faces his fear alone, for it divides him from his kin."

"How?" Faramir asks, struggling to unravel the cryptic words. "Are you saying Gimli fears his own people?"

"Say, rather, that he fears the power and heritage of his people. More accurately, he fears the twisting of that power and heritage. The dwarves are a strong race. Aulë made them so, for he knew well the evil they would endure at Morgoth's hands. But the dwarves' strength can been turned against them, and Gimli fears the desire to regain what was lost will cause the dwarves to repeat past mistakes. He fears the corrupting of their strength and the darkening of their hearts. He fears their ties to the Valar will prove their undoing, and he fears the dwarves are now too few to recover from another loss." Legolas leans forward and places his folded arms upon the table, absently flicking at crumbs. He seems about to say more, but his eyes sharpen and his head turns toward the tent flaps.

Following the other's gaze, Faramir realizes the noises outside the tent have changed. He still hears the shouts and activities of the camp, but they are muted and the guards around the tent speak in lowered voices. "The King returns," Faramir realizes, and seemingly cued by the words, Aragorn enters.

"My friends," Aragorn greets, scowling when both Faramir and Legolas start to rise. "Sit!" he orders, casting his cloak atop the maps on the sleeping pallet. "I would not have it said that I interrupted your meal!"

"I believe we have finished," Legolas says, his eyes darting to Faramir.

"We have," Faramir confirms, sinking back onto his stool. "But if you have not eaten—"

"I ate ere sunrise," Aragorn says, pulling a third stool up to the table. "And it was well I did, for I was called away shortly thereafter and have had little time since."

Aragorn's voice is casual, but as he speaks, his eyes stray to Legolas. Answering an unspoken question, Legolas shakes his head. It is a small movement. So small that another man would not have noticed. But Faramir was trained from youth to watch for small things,. "Legolas tells me there is illness in the company," he says, studying his companions. "Legolas also tells me I should ask you about their symptoms. Do we face a crisis?"

"Every inch the Steward," Aragorn smiles. "Though stricken yourself in the night, your first thought is for the men. But ere he looks to others, this Steward should look to himself. How do you feel?"

"Weary," Faramir admits, knowing Aragorn will be able to discern the truth. "And I dreamed again just before waking."

"What of after waking?"

Faramir shakes his head. "Legolas and I enjoyed breakfast together. Beyond that, naught of note has happened."

Aragorn glances again toward Legolas, and the tent fills with unvoiced words. After a moment, Aragorn turns back to Faramir. "If weariness is your only complaint, I am grateful. And I apologize for my absence this morning, but it could not be helped. I trusted Legolas to provide adequate company."

Though Faramir tries to give no outward sign of his feelings, his brow furrows at the admission that he was assigned a minder. With effort, he pushes aside affronted dignity. "Legolas has been a most courteous companion, my liege, but if we have concluded the subject of my morning, I would return to the subject of your morning. What sickness has befallen the men?"

Hesitation flickers across Aragorn's face, and he gives Faramir a long look. Then he leans forward, seeming to make a decision. "If sickness it is, then it is a sickness of the mind."

Faramir freezes.

"Those afflicted have no physical illness I can discern," Aragorn continues, his gaze steady but his voice soft. "Rather, the malady appears in their actions. Or in some cases, their lack of actions. Those stricken are slow to respond to others. Their sleep is restless, filled with strange dreams and strange voices. Some of them hear these voices even in their waking moments, and while in the thrall of dreams, they speak and act as though unaware of where they are. It is difficult to pull them from such dreams, and when they do rouse, they are dazed and confused. Only a few have been able to tell me of these things. The others will speak to none and lie abed in silence, staring at that which only they can see."

"This all began this morning?" Faramir manages.

"No," Aragorn says, and now his voice is no louder than a whisper. "I believe it began two nights ago with restless dreams. But it went unreported because the men first afflicted did not feel their dreams were of any significance. That changed early this morning when dreams began to intrude upon their waking hours."

"My scouts and I found a guard wandering into the Nindalf," Legolas adds, his eyes dark with concern. "He did not respond when we hailed him, and even when touched, he gave no sign that he knew we were there. We turned him about and brought him back, but we were forced to guide him every step of the way. Though he did not fight us, he was persistent in trying to enter the swamp. Had we not seen him, he might now be counted among the missing."

"I have heard tales of this happening before," Aragorn says. "There are lands where the air or water becomes marred by some foul plague. Those susceptible lose their wits and fall prey to strange sights and omens."

"Then…mayhap there are no brigands in the Nindalf," Faramir says, struggling to speak past the lump in his throat.

"That thought crossed my mind also," Aragorn says quietly, "but not all have been afflicted. Legolas and I agree we should still enter the swamps and conduct a search."

"Then mayhap there is a pattern concerning those whom this illness strikes," Faramir continues. "Something we may guard against."

"Would this pattern apply to you?"

Faramir presses his lips into a thin line, not ready to count himself a victim. "I meant it would behoove us to explore all possibilities."

"True," Aragorn agrees, resting a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "And we must also consider the possibility that this illness, whatever its source, might best be treated in the Houses of Healing. Removing the stricken might even be enough to restore them to health."

Alarm sparks in Faramir's heart. Aragorn's suggestion is reasonable, but if Faramir's dream is foresight, he cannot afford to be sent away. The Nindalf has woven itself into his dreams for a reason. If he is to uncover the dream's meaning, he feels he must remain near the fens. "What of contagion?" he asks. "We are all but isolated here. If you send the stricken to Minas Tirith, the illness may spread throughout Gondor."

The hand on his shoulder squeezes gently. "I have taken note of who is sick and who is hale. This illness does not seem to spread the way other illnesses spread. And if the sickness is caused by the land itself, you will not take it back to the City."

Faramir shakes his head. "Even so, will you risk the possibility? And what if this is not illness? What if this is the work of sorcery? Or foresight?"

"The afflicted still able to speak tell me they are not given to foresight," Aragorn says. His eyes narrow. "With one exception."

"Then it cannot be ruled out," Faramir argues. "Not entirely. Nor have we discounted sorcery. If the afflicted are removed, the sorcery may find new victims."

"If this is sorcery, it is strangely selective. And it is…cautious in its selection."

"But until we are certain of answers, it would not be prudent to send away those who might still be of service to you. Only they can relate the particulars of their affliction."

Reluctance darkens Aragorn's eyes, and after a moment, he turns to Legolas. But Legolas's face is unreadable, the elf apparently taking refuge in his people's time-honored tradition of withholding counsel when the course is unclear. With a huff of annoyance, Aragorn turns back to Faramir. "You argue for prudence," he says, "but I cannot see the prudence in allowing the afflicted to remain."

"You are not proposing to move the entire camp, my liege," Faramir notes. "Clearly you do not think more will be affected. At least, not many more. Might I ask how many are currently ailing?"

"I visited with fourteen before returning this morning. That includes the sentry who wandered into the Nindalf."

"And what is your gravest concern for these men?" Faramir presses. "That they will wander also into the Nindalf? Now that the illness is known, we can guard against that."

"I worry that their affliction will increase and that they may become a danger to themselves and to others," Aragorn answers, his eyes never leaving Faramir's.

"Coming here was a risk. The stricken understand that," Faramir says evenly. The words leave a sour taste in his mouth, but this is not the first time he has condemned men to unknown danger. Moreover, the danger is shared, for he is asking no more of others than he is of himself. Leaning forward, he continues: "We came here to protect those whom we have pledged to serve. To solve a mystery that is preying upon Gondor's people. With respect, my liege, it would be unwise to dismiss those who might have fallen prey to a vital clue."

Heavy silence descends upon the tent. Faramir can feel Legolas's concern, but he refuses to look away from Aragorn. Countless thoughts seem to chase one another across the King's face, but they move too quickly for Faramir to guess what the otheris thinking. At length, Aragorn sits back, his jaw tight. "I still see little prudence in your request," he says slowly, "but we know better than most that prudence is not always the path of wisdom. So be it. For now, the sick will remain. But," he adds, and his eyes glint with warning, "if conditions worsen, I will revisit the matter and send the afflicted to the City. All of them."

"So be it," Faramir murmurs, satisfied with the compromise.

Aragorn nods briskly. "Now, let us speak of other matters. The captains returned from the Nindalf as I was making my way here. They approve the paths discovered by the elves, and I propose we set out the maps and make plans for this afternoon. If possible, I would have advance parties move into the swamp before evening."

"Lie still. Do not move!"

The darkness encompassing Faramir is nothing compared to the darkness in Faramir's mind. With the light of morning filtering through the sides of the King's tent, it was easy to attribute his nightmares to foresight, not illness. But caught again within the dream, doubt is quick to rise. "Legolas—"

"Hush! If you voice your fear, they will kill you!"

The shadows lift. Fear does not. "Your words are too vague," Faramir whispers, pushing himself up. "I do not know what you warn of!"

"There is time." The dream continues its relentless march, and Legolas does not take his eyes from the surrounding dark. "You can still confront your fear, but you must do so in silence."

"This is folly!" Faramir hisses. "No matter what I say or do, you—"

"They come!" Legolas whispers harshly, whirling to face Faramir. "They must not see you with me. You must face them alone!"

The elf flees, disappearing into the night. This time, Faramir makes no move to stop him. He does not even try to stand. Rather, he folds his legs beneath himself and bows his head, doubting his mind.

"Legolas cannot help you."

A bitter laugh escapes Faramir. "No. He can only tell me that which I already know and then flee into this murk." He lifts his head and stares at the darkness. "During our last meeting, you claimed Legolas was never here. If that is true, what of my own place in this madness? Or yours? Are either of us truly here? And if not, then what will it matter if no one can help me?"

The shadows ease, and Gimli appears, his mouth set in a firm line. "It matters because you must do all you can to ensure his return."

Faramir frowns, feeling the onset of a headache. "You said Legolas cannot help me. Why, then, should I ensure his return? And how can he return if he was never here to begin with?"

"And still you do not understand!"

"Nor will I until you cease to speak in riddles!" Faramir snaps.

"Then know this: you must not voice your fear. If you do, then there is no hope. Do not voice your fear!"

"So you have said before! I still do not know what—"

"Who are you?" the dwarf demands.

"Who are you?" Faramir counters.

He expects the dream to proceed as it has before. He expects Gimli to bow his head, shoulders slumped in defeat. He expects to wake more confounded than ever. But instead, the dwarf stares at him, and in his eyes, something sparks. "What would you learn from my name?" Gimli asks. "Your own name still eludes you."

Faramir shoots upward, his breath coming in short gasps. Blankets are twisted about him, and he wrestles them off, restricted by their tangle. He is in his own tent, and he is blessedly alone. The shadows on the walls indicate it is early in the afternoon, but Faramir's last memories are of midday. He took the noon meal with Aragorn and Legolas after which Aragorn instructed him to rest. Knowing the King still wanted to send him to Minas Tirith, Faramir obeyed without protest and returned to his tent. He remembers that much, but he does not remember falling asleep. He cannot even remember lying down on his sleeping pallet. Perhaps he collapsed. Again. If so, he is fortunate none saw it.

Shaking his head, Faramir turns his thoughts to his latest dream—or illness, for he is too wise to ignore the possibility—and calls to mind all that was different from the other dreams. He is convinced the differences are a key. If he can uncover what he says or does to inspire them, he may learn answers. But try as he might he can make no sense of the bizarre conversation concerning whether or not Legolas could return, whether or not Legolas could help him, and whether or not Legolas was even there.

The headache pounding behind his eyes escalates, and he moves on, turning his attention to the last portion of the dream. Here he thinks he may be able to make progress, for Faramir is fairly certain a challenge was issued: He is to learn something of Gimli's name and something of his own name. The latter could be difficult, for Faramir already knows the origin and meaning of his name. He does not know what more there is to learn. Gimli's name, by contrast, is something he can explore. Suiting thought to deed, he rises and pushes through the tent flaps.

The camp is filled with activity, and Faramir pauses to let his senses adjust to the din. If he reckons the time aright, Aragorn and Legolas will soon depart for the Nindalf, along with a fourth of the encampment. Faramir is to stay behind with the remainder of their forces. The situation reminds him a bit too much of Boromir departing for Imladris while he remained in Gondor. Forcefully setting aside his misgivings, Faramir returns the task at hand. He needs Legolas, but where to find him? The men around his tent seem to be engaged in preparing for departure, and those not leaving are sorting supplies. Faramir hopes this means there is a bit of time before the company gathers and decides Legolas will probably be among the elves. He sets out toward the western edge of camp.

When the elves first came to Ithilien and crafted a home in its fair trees, Faramir was initially amazed at the elegance and grace that seemed to attend their every effort. Then he and others joined them on patrols in an effort to purge the Ephel Duath of orcs. He learned quickly that dust and dirt did indeed cling to elves and that when removed from the niceties of society, elves could be as trail-worn and rough as the most seasoned Ranger. Moving into the elven camp, Faramir sees evidence of that now, and he smiles in silent amusement. The ladies of Gondor's court constantly primp and preen if elves are sighted in the Citadel, but he wonders if they would be as quick to do so if they saw those same elves mired in the Nindalf's mud.

"Faramir!"

Turning at the sound of his name, Faramir counts his search fruitful. "Legolas!" he calls back, spying the elf in the company of several scouts.

"You were told to rest," Legolas says. He dismisses his scouts and gestures Faramir toward a nearby tent.

"So I was and so I did," Faramir answers, ducking into the tent ahead of the elf. "I even slept."

"Did you? That is more than I expected," Legolas admits. "But you are neither sleeping nor resting now. What brings you here?"

"A question," Faramir says, and he suddenly wonders how he should phrase this question in a way that will not convince Legolas he has fallen to madness. "A question about Gimli," he adds, casting about for words. He should have planned the course of this conversation, and he curses himself for not looking ahead. Perhaps illness is indeed at work.

A prickling on his skin interrupts his musings, and looking up, he finds himself the subject of sharp elven scrutiny. "You dreamed again," Legolas says.

The statement takes Faramir by surprise, for he has said nothing to Legolas about the specifics of his dreams. "What has Aragorn told you?"

"Only that there are dreams," Legolas answers. "But my ears are keen enough to hear both what is said and what is left unsaid. I know your dreams leave you weary and restless. I know they are a source of concern for both you and Aragorn. And I know they have somewhat to do with myself and Gimli."

"True on all counts," Faramir concedes, opting for the direct approach. "And yes, I did dream again. This time, my dreams have raised a question you might be able to answer."

Unease colors the elf's face. "Rest may be a better cure for—"

"If my dream is a product of illness, then rest is certainly a worthy remedy," Faramir interrupts. "But so long as my dream might be a product of foresight, I must try to learn its warning."

The unease remains, but Legolas slowly nods. "Your question?"

Faramir releases a slow breath. "Gimli's name: What does it mean?"

"Gimli's name," Legolas repeats, his tone flat. "Are you certain that resting is not—"

"Legolas," Faramir pleads softly, "I beg your indulgence in this as a friend. Please."

The elf looks away, muttering something in elvish that Faramir elects not to translate. "Gimli's name," Legolas sighs, shaking his head. "I assume you do not mean his true name, for such things the dwarves reveal to few."

"I do not know. For now, let us consider the name by which he is known among us. From my study of the northern languages, I would guess that 'Gimli' has somewhat to do with fire."

"You are not wrong, though if you were to say 'little fire,' you would be more accurate."

Faramir blinks and considers what he knows of Gimli. The dwarf might be small in stature, but in all other things… "How came he by the name 'little'?"

"I asked him that once." A smile teases the corners of Legolas's mouth. "Once was all I was allowed. I did not ask as…politely as you have asked."

Faramir feels the tug of an answering smile. "I marvel that you escaped unscathed. Did you learn aught from the experience?"

Legolas's smile grows. "That dwarves move quickly when angered."

"No doubt the lesson has served you well," Faramir retorts. "But did you learn aught that might benefit me?"

Legolas inclines his head, eyes twinkling. "It is common among dwarves to name children in a way that ties them to their kin, and so it is with Gimli. His father's name means 'glowing one.' Thus, Glóin is the fire and Gimli is the spark that shoots forth from that fire." Mirth fades, and concern takes its place. "Is this of benefit to you?"

"Perhaps," Faramir murmurs. He falls silent, aware again of a watchful elven gaze. Paying Legolas little heed, he wonders what type of knowledge he should be seeking and if it should relate to his own name. 'Little fire' and 'sufficient jewel' do not seem to have much in common. Perhaps the names' origins? Gimli's name stems from his father while Faramir's name was given as a compliment to Boromir's name. To Denethor's more 'faithful jewel.' A bitter taste creeps into Faramir's mouth, and he presses his thoughts onward. What would the dream have him learn from this? What—

A horn cry startles him out of his musings. The blast echoes throughout the camp, stilling the din beyond the tent. Faramir recognizes it as a summons for the men and elves who are to enter the swamp, ordering them to rally beneath the King's banner. Turning to Legolas, Faramir offers a small smile and says, "I will see you off."

Legolas, however, makes no move to leave the tent. "Are you certain you wish to remain here with the camp?"

Faramir blinks. "I thank you for the offer, but given what has happened, Aragorn would never give me leave to enter the swamp."

"I meant that perhaps you should depart for Minas Tirith. I can arrange an escort—"

"No," Faramir interrupts quickly. "My place is with this company."

"So you think, but can you trust your thoughts?" Legolas challenges.

Weary of the concern, Faramir takes Legolas by the arm and ducks through the tent flaps, pulling the elf with him. "Legolas, there is no help for me in the City that cannot be found here."

"If leaving will make you well—"

"That would assume the swamp is making me ill," Faramir interrupts. "We are not yet certain of that. Besides, the whole of the White Company is to remain with me, as well as many of the Rangers. And I have no doubt but what the King will inform Beregond that I must be watched closely. Fear not for me. Rather, fear for yourself. You are the one entering the source of the disappearances."

"And as you noted earlier, your malady might be responsible for the disappearances."

"It is not my malady, nor are we even certain that it is a malady," Faramir says, falling in with the stream of elves and men. "Moreover, you assured Aragorn that I was hale this morning."

"Aragorn assured himself," Legolas corrects. "I said nothing."

"Like you, I can hear both what is said and what is unsaid," Faramir answers, but then he stops, thinking over his words.

As he is still holding Legolas's arm, the elf also stops. "Faramir?" Legolas prompts.

"One moment," Faramir says, his mind spinning around something simple. Something absurdly simple. But could it be that obvious? Could fire be the answer? A fear unvoiced but in plain sight? Indeed, a fear represented by Gimli's presence in the dream?

"Faramir?" Legolas asks again, his tone sharpening.

Faramir shakes his head. He will think more on this later. "I am well," he tells Legolas firmly.

"Lord Faramir!"

The call prevents further questions. Judging by Legolas's scowl, the interruption is not appreciated. "Captain Beregond," Faramir greets, stepping around Legolas and ignoring the elven glare.

"The King requests your presence and sent me to find you. But that was some time ago, and you were not in your tent."

"Then we should not keep him waiting," Faramir says, gesturing for Beregond to lead the way. "Lord Legolas?" he calls over his shoulder. "Will you permit my good captain to escort us? I believe you recommended an escort only moments ago."

"An unkind twisting of my words," Legolas murmurs, his voice pitched so only Faramir can hear. "Tread lightly, Lord Steward. You know that Aragorn and I will confer about you ere we move into the Nindalf."

Ignoring the warning, Faramir turns away and follows Beregond through the crowd. For the most part, he is unconcerned. With departure eminent, Aragorn will be reluctant to orchestrate moving the stricken to Minas Tirith.

Ahead of him, Beregond shouts for men to clear a path, and Faramir catches sight of the King's banner. The clamor of armed guards makes his head ring, but he steels his will and continues forward, weaving amidst the captains in search of Aragorn. A firm grip closes around Faramir's arm, and Legolas begins to guide him through the press, apparently having either heard or seen the King himself. Faramir takes a moment to marvel at this and wonders how the elf is able to distinguish one noise from another. If the commotion is loud to Faramir, it must be deafening to Legolas. It is a wonder that—

"Lord Steward!"

And then Aragorn is before him, his eyes studying Faramir's face. "My liege," Faramir greets, bowing his head both out of deference and to escape scrutiny. Sensing Legolas's restlessness and knowing the elf will speak if he does not, Faramir adds, "I dreamed again."

There is a pause, and then Aragorn gives a signal to his guard. A space clears around them. They might not be alone, but they can speak without fear of listening ears. "The same dream?" Aragorn asks.

"Yes and no," Faramir answers, pulling his arm from Legolas's hold. "The substance of the dream remains the same, but parts have changed."

Aragorn's eyes narrow. "Do you believe the changes to be significant?"

"Yes, but I cannot yet say how or why," Faramir admits.

The King's hand settles on the back of Faramir's neck as though in a friendly embrace, but his fingers wrap around the side of the neck where the heartbeat may be easily felt. "You are not feverish," Aragorn murmurs, his eyes never leaving Faramir's, "and your speech is clear."

"My mind also," Faramir says quietly.

Aragorn raises his brow at this.

"I am confused and weary," Faramir qualifies, "but my thoughts are my own."

Aragorn's hand falls away and he steps back. "You are intent upon remaining?"

"I am."

"Then once again, we will defer to your wishes," Aragorn says grimly, and he looks to the side. "Captain Beregond," he summons, and the man is suddenly beside them. "I leave the camp to the White Company and the Rangers. The Steward commands in my absence, but his welfare and judgment I leave to your keeping. Bear in mind that which we discussed earlier. If he should falter, command falls to you and Mablung."

"It will be as you say, my liege," Beregond says with a low bow.

Aragorn nods and turns back to Faramir. "There have been no new afflictions since last night and no others have tried to wander into the Nindalf. Even so, be safe, my friend, and be well. Perhaps you are indeed caught in the workings of foresight, but do not tax your strength beyond what it can endure."

"You also," Faramir says quietly. "Safe journey."

"I will send messengers this evening to inform you of our progress. Look for them as night falls." The King backs away and motions to his herald. Three horn blasts signal the men to organize into units for the march.

Beside him, Faramir hears Legolas sigh. "Guard yourself, Faramir," the elf murmurs. "I do not fancy returning to Ithilien with an ailing Steward. The wrath of the White Lady is not to be ignored."

That surprises a laugh out of Faramir. "Éowyn thinks highly of you," he says. "Her wrath may be lessened by regard."

"Or heightened by it," Legolas retorts, "for she also seems to think highly of you. Nor is she the only one to do so." The elf takes Faramir by the forearm, clasping it firmly in a warrior's grip. "Elbereth keep you, my friend."

Faramir clutches Legolas's forearm tightly. "As I noted earlier, I am not the one venturing into the fens. Stay safe."

Legolas squeezes once, his eyes dark, and then he pulls away. Men swarm around them, and the elf steps back, threading his way into the crowd and disappearing as swiftly as he does in the dream. Unnerved by the similarity, Faramir gestures for Beregond to lead them out of the ranks.

The company orders itself quickly, and before long, a horn from the rear signals that all is in readiness. The herald at the front sounds the march, and with a splash of feet in dank, muddy water, the men set out into the Nindalf. Faramir parallels their march until the edge of camp, and there he stops to watch. Others also follow, and together, they look on as the King's company passes into the mists. The haze of the swamp seems to close around them, and Faramir cannot quite hold back a shudder.

"Lord Steward?" Beregond questions softly.

Faramir does not answer, his eyes fixed on the disappearing company. A few banners from the rearguard float briefly above the creeping mists, flapping in the breeze as though waving a farewell. Then they, too, are gone, and those around Faramir begin to disperse. Uneasy, Faramir also turns his back on the Nindalf. Though the majority of the men remain, the camp feels eerily silent. Even the flags hang still and—

Faramir freezes, his mind clearly recalling his last glimpse of the departing company. The banners waved. He is certain of it. But he does not recall a wind, and there is no wind now. "Beregond," he says slowly, never taking his eyes from a nearby flag whose limp folds obscure the White Tree of Gondor, "has there been a breeze today?"

"Not since early this morning," Beregond says. "The wind ceased about the time the elven scouts showed us the paths they found."

"There was no wind in the marshes?"

Beregond shakes his head. "None that I felt."

Faramir turns again to the Nindalf. The cloudy mists are as still as the banners in camp.

"Lord Faramir?" Beregond says hesitantly.

"If I am needed, I will be in the King's tent," Faramir whispers, wondering if his mind is still something he can trust.

"Lie still. Do not move!"

The words still manage to surprise Faramir. With a strangled gasp, he again finds himself on his back in stagnant water.

"Hush! If you voice your fear, they will kill you!"

Faramir closes his eyes, struggling to remember where he was before the nightmare stole his mind. He hopes he was not among his men, but try as he might, he cannot recall.

"There is time," Legolas says, and a restraining hand rests upon Faramir's chest. "You can still confront your fear, but you must do so in silence."

It feels real. It feels as though Legolas is with him. But according to Gimli, Legolas is not here. Legolas has never been here. The elf's hand, solid and strong, is not real.

"They come!" Water splashes. Faramir opens his eyes in time to see panic flood Legolas's face. "They must not see you with me. You must face them alone!"

Once again, Legolas flees. As he did the last time, Faramir makes no attempt to stop him. He has not the patience to contest this part of the dream. Rather, he saves his arguments for the part of the dream that does change, and he struggles to his knees, waiting for Gimli.

"Legolas cannot help you."

"Nor can any who enter this place," Faramir answers grimly. "But in truth, I am the only one who seems to enter this place. Does this mean I cannot aid myself?"

It seems the right question to ask. For a moment, there is a…pause in the dream. Faramir can think of no better word to describe it. The mist stops swirling. The water stops lapping. The breeze stops blowing. It is as though the forces that compel him here must consider the question.

Then the moment is over. Darkness parts, and Gimli comes forward with a thoughtful look. "Not yet," the dwarf says. "Not as you are. Rather, you must become what you were."

Faramir's brow furrows. "What I was?" he echoes.

"Yes. That is when he will return, and that is when you will find help. But not yet. It is too soon. And you must not voice your fear! If you do, then there is no hope. Do not voice your fear!"

Shaking his head, Faramir decides to test the theory he formed in the midst of Aragorn's summons. "You claim I must not voice my fear," he says, "but my fear is here. It stands in plain sight before me!"

The dwarf's face is skeptical. "You understand? He has still not returned, and only when you understand can he return."

"Legolas cannot return! You said so in an earlier dream! But I do understand, and I know the fear you speak of. It is a weapon by which this dank and rot and wet can be driven back. I know not how, yet—"

"So near!" Gimli growls, his eyes burning. "But still, you understand only part. You refuse to see more!"

Faramir steps back, confused. "I did what you asked. I learned the meaning behind your name—"

"But that is all you have learned! And it is important, yes, but it may only be used if you accept that which you still deny! And you still deny your fear!"

Words fail Faramir. Ever since waking in the Houses of Healing, fractured memories of scorching heat and searing flames have haunted his nights. It is a real fear that answers most of what he has discerned from this dream. But if fire is only part of the answer, he is still missing something of the question.

"Soon there will be no time," Gimli continues, his voice rising, "and all because you fail to understand!"

"What do I fail to understand?" Faramir demands, begging the dream to explain.

"Who are you?"

"One who fears the meaning behind your name!"

"No," Gimli whispers, turning away. "That is only part. And though there are some who fear the fragment, you fear the whole."

Faramir starts awake. His cheek scrapes against rough planks, and his hands slap down on wood. Surging upright, he looks about and finds himself seated at a table in a darkened tent. The King's tent. A platter of food is pushed off to one side, and an overturned goblet explains the stain of wine on the carpets beneath the table. Groaning quietly, he cards his fingers through his hair and tries to remember what happened.

The dream is easy enough to recall, but before the dream… He remembers speaking with Beregond. He remembers ordering the night watches. He wishes he did not remember visiting the ill, but that is unfortunately clear in his memories. Their vacant faces and tortured eyes are all too similar to his own confusion. After visiting the ill, he remembers returning to the King's tent where Beregond brought him supper, and then—

Nothing.

A sigh escapes him. Perhaps he is stricken with sickness after all. And perhaps he grows worse.

In frustration, he thumps a clenched fist onto the table. His arm knocks against an unlit candle, and instinctively he catches it before it can fall. His fingers wrap about the cool tallow, and feeling upward for the wick, he considers lighting the candle. He also considers lighting the dwarven lantern beneath the table, but something makes him pause. Some hesitation about the spark needed to bring light to the tent.

Pushing his chair back, he stands and rubs his brow. When he dreams of his father's death, he is prone to wake in a cold sweat filled with images of flames. Fire is certainly something he fears, and thus he was certain it answered the dream. An errant thought niggles the back of his mind, reminding him of another fear, but he dismisses the idea. Why would a dream warn him against voicing a fear of madness?

Then again, why would a dream warn him against voicing a fear of fire?

Frustrated, Faramir begins to review the dream once more, but ere he gets far, his attention is drawn outward beyond the walls of the tent. There is a change in the noises of the camp. The sides of the tent shift in response to a light wind, and carried on that wind, a faint voice can be heard issuing a challenge. An even fainter voice responds, and Faramir immediately reaches for his cloak. Aragorn's messengers have arrived from the Nindalf.

Faramir is acutely aware of guarded looks from the sentries as he steps outside. Their concern rankles, for though well-meaning, such concern might easily translate into doubt. Faramir's mind is drawn to memories of his father's stern censure during the final years of the War, and with effort, he pushes those thoughts away. Leaving the tent behind, he sets out a brisk pace, fighting the wind that tugs the edges of his cloak.

"Lord Faramir!" calls a voice, and Faramir pauses as Beregond emerges from the twilight. "The King has sent messengers."

"I hear them," Faramir answers, starting forward again.

"I can conduct them to your tent," Beregond offers.

"I thank you for your consideration, but I will see them to the King's tent," Faramir answers coolly. "If you wish to be helpful, go there and light candles and lanterns. The tent was dark when I left it."

Beregond's expression is difficult to read in the shadows, but Faramir senses the other is troubled. He continues forward, forcing himself to focus only on the sounds ahead as the sentries and messengers approach. After a moment, he sees the glow of torches lighting the way forward. The advancing group stops as they catch sight of Faramir.

"Hail, Lord Steward!" cries the foremost messenger. "We bring tidings from the King."

"Gladly do I receive both you and your tidings," Faramir answers. "Come! You shall have somewhat to eat, and while you dine, you may tell us of our progress in the marshes."

As he turns to lead the way, Faramir realizes Beregond is no longer with him. Nor can he say when Beregond left. Doubtless the man is doing as directed: lighting candles and lanterns in the King's tent. But Faramir once prided himself on knowing his Rangers' movements in Ithilien's darkest shadows. His failure to note Beregond's absence is worrying.

But there is naught to be done about it now, so Faramir orders the watch back to their posts and escorts the messengers himself. News of their arrival spreads quickly through the camp, and a small crowd grows around them, curious to know how those in the Nindalf fare. Aware that the mood of the camp could be improved, Faramir gestures for the messengers to enter the King's tent—now brightly lit—but does not enter himself. Rather, he spies Beregond by the entrance and addresses him, pitching his voice so all may hear. "Bring refreshment for the messengers, and send word to each of the remaining companies: All captains who did not follow the King into the Nindalf are to gather here, and together, we will learn of the progress in the fens. The captains may then share what they learn with their commands."

The feeling of relief is palpable. The crowd disperses almost as quickly as it formed, the men satisfied in knowing they will soon learn how it goes with the King. A smile eases the lines around Beregond's eyes, and he hastens away to carry out the orders.

They do not wait long. Some of the captains were in the crowd, and those not present quickly learn they are wanted at the King's tent. All are soon gathered, and after food and drink are secured, the messengers tell of the journey in the Nindalf.

The report is as Faramir expected: The swamps are wet and treacherous. Progress is slow, and even the elves are mired at times. There are no signs of brigands, but the King intends to press on for as long and as far as they can be certain of a trail. Through all of it, Faramir listens closely, hoping for something that might relate to his dreams. But as the messengers continue, he begins to despair. Nothing they say strikes him as significant. Nothing they relate is any different from what he has experienced before in the fens. Nothing, that is, until the messengers near the end of their tale and describe the area where the company stopped for the night. Here they pause, and something in their faces changes.

"Just before the King sent us back, Lord Legolas took a small group and scouted the area around our encampment, such as it is. He found ruins."

Faramir blinks. "Ruins?"

"Stone ruins, Lord Steward."

"Impossible," someone mutters on the opposite side of the tent. All eyes turn toward Mablung, the Rangers' captain. "There are no stone ruins in the Nindalf," he informs them.

"Can you be certain of that?" Beregond wonders. "You told me yesterday that the fens change every spring. Perhaps these floods have forced something to the surface."

"So the King suspects," one of the messengers says. "There are not many ruins, and were it not for the keen senses of the elves, we might have missed them altogether. They are submerged in the water, and it is suspected that heavy rains have stripped much mud away, allowing the elves to feel them underfoot."

"What manner of ruins are they?" Faramir asks.

"They were described to me as the remains of a stone pathway, my lord," another messenger answers. "Some say they have also found part of an old stone wall."

"These ruins would have to be very old to be built ere fens covered these lands," Mablung says, his tone doubtful. "Older than any records we have and any legends we know."

Faramir folds his arms across his chest, his head bowed. Aragorn and Beregond may be right: the ruins might have been buried in mud, only to emerge now. But something in the back of his mind whispers the truth is more sinister. "What more can you tell me of these ruins?"

"Little, Lord Steward. The scouts did not spend long amidst them. The way proved treacherous, and there was a chill breeze that made the men shiver."

Faramir's breath catches, remembering the wind that stirred the King's departing pennants but touched nothing else. "Was there a breeze anywhere else in the Nindalf?"

The messengers exchange looks. "None that I remember, my lord," one says.

"I felt no breeze until returning here," another adds.

"Only in the ruins did you feel a wind?" Faramir presses.

"Not us, Lord Steward, but the scouts who went. Yes, they felt the wind."

Faramir's glances toward the tent flaps as though daring a breeze to stir them. "Have you aught else to share? Any other tidings?"

"Only to say we must leave early on the morrow."

Faramir nods absently, keeping his eyes on the tent flaps while his thoughts chase one another to and fro. He eventually shakes his head and turns back to the messengers. He can ponder the matter after he rids himself of an audience. "If you intend to make an early start, it would behoove you to sleep now. Beregond, have we lodging these men might share?"

"They are already prepared, and I have a man waiting outside to take them to their booths," Beregond answers.

"Good. Then I thank you for your service and wish you a pleasant night," Faramir says. He turns to the rest of the group. "Let us all follow their example. Return to your companies. Captains, you are charged with sharing tidings of our friends in the swamp. Afterward, post your watches and seek what rest you can."

With murmured acknowledgments, the group rises and the captains begin to leave. "Are you certain you can find the King's company again?" Mablung asks the messengers as they drain the last of the wine from their goblets. "The Nindalf is known for confounding its travelers."

The messengers assure Mablung of their confidence, but Faramir's attention is not on them. Rather, he looks sharply at Mablung, hearing an uncertain note in the Ranger's tone. Catching the captain's eyes, Faramir cants his head slightly to one side. The other reads his signal easily and steps away from those shuffling out the tent flaps. Within moments, the tent is empty of all save Mablung, Faramir, and Beregond.

"Shall I tell the sentries you do not wish to be disturbed for a time?" Beregond asks, his gaze darting between Mablung and Faramir.

"Mablung and I will be swift," Faramir reassures, "and I will see to the sentries when I depart for my own tent. Seek your rest."

Though reluctant, Beregond knows how to choose his battles. He takes his leave with a murmured farewell. When the tent flaps fall shut, Faramir turns to Mablung and finds a gaze as concerned as his own.

"There are no stone ruins in those swamps, Lord Steward," Mablung says flatly.

"None that we know of," Faramir qualifies.

"As Rangers, we traversed them often enough to know. At the very least, there are none this near the outskirts."

Faramir grimaces, unable to refute the claim but also unable to ignore the obvious: "Ruins do not spring forth overnight."

"Which leaves us two possibilities as I discern them: either we missed paved stone during countless and weary slogs through the fens, or something with abilities beyond our ken is at work." Mablung gives Faramir a measuring look. "My lord, the rumors in camp say you were ill last night, but you do not seem ill to me. Rather, you seem as one torn. Indeed, you seem as you did three years ago when restless dreams compelled your brother to seek Imladris. If I may be permitted to ask, have you fallen to the malady that afflicts others? Or is your illness the workings of foresight?"

Startled by Mablung's questions, Faramir does not immediately answer. During the War, the Rangers relied upon frank assessments of one another, and Faramir knows he should expect such boldness from Mablung. But over the past two years, the White Company's deference enabled him to avoid matters the Rangers would have forced. Perhaps in the future, he should spend more time among the Rangers. He has missed their candor.

"My troubles last night were the work of a dream," he finally says. "I have now been visited by that same dream several times."

"Then it is foresight."

Faramir shakes his head. "The sick who are hale enough to speak say they have also had strange dreams."

"Yes, but that is all they can say of those dreams," Mablung answers. "If you remember enough to know you have endured the same dream, it does not sound as though you suffer the same malady. Does your dream warn of danger, Lord Steward?"

"I believe so, yes," Faramir murmurs, rubbing his jaw. "But I cannot fathom the nature of the warning or to whom it applies."

Mablung's eyes darken. "Then I beg leave to lead a portion of the Rangers into the swamp. We could provide escort to the messengers and join the King's company. The rest of the Rangers would remain with you under Damrod's command, and should you understand more of your foresight, they will be available to counter any threat."

Faramir considers the request. Such an act would not unduly weaken the remaining company, and it would satisfy the demands of prudence. But something chimes a warning. Sending Mablung forth is not the answer. It is a part of it, but not the whole. Recalling that his last dream said much the same thing, Faramir grits his teeth in silent frustration. "You have leave to assemble a party of Rangers," he says, "but you do not have leave to escort the messengers into the Nindalf. Not yet. I must think on this further. Inform the messengers to seek you out in the morning. You will know your duty before then."

"It will be as you say, my lord," Mablung says, sketching a brief bow. He straightens, and there is a sudden twinkle in his eye. "Would you like me to inform Beregond that you have sought your blankets?"

"Yes," Faramir says, his own lips twitching. "Otherwise, he will not sleep himself."

Mablung laughs and bids Faramir a good night before slipping out of the tent. A cold breeze twists the swinging tent flaps, and the candles atop the table flicker, drawing Faramir's eyes. Despite his words to Mablung, he is not quite ready to retire for the night. He should. He needs rest, certainly. Yet there is something he must understand from his dream. Something that will dictate his actions in the morning.

Bewildered and frustrated, Faramir finds himself staring at one flickering candle. The sides of the tent stretch and shift in the growing breeze, and somewhere in the distance, he fancies he hears the sounds of…

"Lie still. Do not move!"

Faramir does not know why he is still surprised by the words. Perhaps it is the suddenness of the dream's onset. Or perhaps it is the shock of the freezing water. Regardless, he is again unable to muffle a sharp gasp, and as before, Legolas responds quickly.

"Hush! If you voice your fear, they will kill you!"

Faramir pushes himself upright, countering Legolas's attempts to keep him still. He is sorely tempted to shout the word "fire" as a last attempt to salvage what he thought was once an answer. But he holds his peace. Once again, a voice in the back of his mind reminds him he also fears madness. And certainly he associates memories of madness with memories of fire. But how might madness pertain to the Nindalf? Has it somewhat to do with the stricken men?

"There is time," Legolas says, and Faramir suppresses the urge to recite the words along with the elf. "You can still confront your fear, but you must do so in silence."

And why is that? Why would breaking his silence prove ill? Faramir shakes his hand free of the slime that passes for water and rubs his brow. There is so much he does not understand, and Legolas will not answer his questions.

"They come!" he hears Legolas hiss. The elf shoots upward, water splashing against Faramir. "They must not see you with me. You must face them alone!"

Abandoned in the dark, Faramir decides there is very little difference between Legolas's presence and his absence. He wonders what might happen if he were to walk away in the beginning of the dream. But where could he go? All here is dark. Perhaps he would simply find himself back where he began and be forced to endure the same conversation.

"Legolas cannot help you."

Mud squelches beneath his boots as Faramir rises. He remembers the King's messengers speaking of stone underfoot, and a thought occurs to him. Since the dream takes place in what appears to be the Nindalf, perhaps it mirrors what is currently happening in the fens. "Are there ruins beneath this murk?" he asks.

The darkness lifts enough to reveal Gimli. The dwarf's eyes are narrowed, and he does not immediately answer. "Were there ruins here before?" he asks at length.

"None that I saw or felt," Faramir says, certain he has stumbled upon something important.

"Then why look for ruins now?"

"Because this is the part of the dream that changes," Faramir says, and a piece of the puzzle slides into place. He pins Gimli with a piercing look. "In the beginning of the dream, Legolas repeats the same words and the same actions. I have no power to alter what he says or what he does. But when you are here, things change. And outside the dream, it is likewise. The Nindalf has already changed. There are ruins where there should be nothing. And like the Nindalf, I can now create change. Is this not so? The beginning was unalterable, but the ending can be changed!"

Gimli's expression is one of guarded approval. "You are starting to see. At least, you are starting to see in part. But do you understand?"

"Do I understand?" Faramir echoes, a mirthless laugh catching in his throat. He waves his hand at the darkness around him. "Regarding this place? No! I do not understand! But regarding the ability to effect change… The change is in the Nindalf, and I am the recipient of a dream that changes only in the end. If I understand that aright, then I must not linger on the outskirts. I must place myself within the Nindalf so that I may alter the end."

"You cannot look for help from any who enter this place," Gimli warns.

"So you have told me," Faramir says. "Would it be too much to ask where help can be found?"

"You would know if you understood! All I ask now is that you not voice your fear. If you do, then there is no hope. Do not voice your fear."

"I do not even know what my fear is!" Faramir exclaims, weary of the mystery. "Nor do I know why I should refrain from voicing it!"

"Again, you would know if you understood," Gimli growls, shaking his head. "But you are running out of time in which to understand!"

"Then help me!" Faramir demands.

"Who are you?" Gimli returns heatedly.

Faramir spreads his arms helplessly. "What would you have me say?"

"The truth!"

Faramir sighs, shaking his head. "Then in truth, I do not know."

Silence.

After a moment, Gimli begins to nod. "At least you realize that."

When Faramir wakes, he is lying prone upon the carpets beneath the table of maps. In a stark testament to the past few days, this fails to surprise or concern him. Rather, his thoughts are consumed with the need to act. The dream has unlocked at least one of its secrets: something can change. Something needs to change. What that something is and what form the change will be, Faramir cannot say. But his instincts scream for action, and he learned long ago to hearken to his instincts.

There are still several hours left of night, but Faramir cannot wait for morning. He shrugs into his heavy cloak and leaves the King's tent, startling the sentries outside. Recovering quickly, they move to follow, but he waves them back, his curt manner brooking no disobedience. Beregond probably instructed them to accompany him should he leave the tent, but Faramir is the Steward. While the King is gone—and until Beregond has cause to believe otherwise—the Steward is in command.

The night is dark with only a few watch fires lit, but Faramir was a Ranger too long to be bothered by shadows. He moves quickly, avoiding obstacles as they appear until at last he spies a tent lit from within. He knows who is still awake, and with his destination in sight, he hastens his pace, absently returning the hails of surprised men before ducking into Mablung's tent.

To say Mablung is shocked by his sudden entrance would be an understatement. Constantly attuned to his surroundings, Mablung looks up the moment Faramir pushes the tent flaps aside, and his mouth drops open.

"There is a change of plan," Faramir announces without preamble. "Send for Beregond. The disposition of this camp must be altered."

Mablung nods in startled obedience and slips outside briefly. Following a low murmur of voices, Mablung returns, pulling the tent flaps closed behind him as he shivers from the cold. "Damrod left a few minutes ago to fetch supplies from the far side of camp. I have sent runners after him, and they will instruct him to fetch Beregond as he returns."

Faramir gives Mablung a sharp look. "Your runners need not chase Damrod. You could have sent them directly to Beregond."

"True," Mablung agrees, meeting Faramir's look with an even stare. "But you could have sent your own guards to fetch Beregond, Lord Steward. I know not why you delayed until you reached my tent, but I thought it prudent to continue the delay. If it is not too bold, may I ask what change you intend and why? Have you received new tidings?"

Shrewd as ever, Mablung manages a question that is both direct and discreet. His inquiry after "new tidings" covers both tidings from Aragorn in the Nindalf as well as tidings from…other sources. In light of Mablung's actions—particularly the delay in sending for Beregond—Faramir chooses a direct approach. "Yes, I received new tidings," he says, "and it forces several decisions. As requested, you and your men will escort the messengers into the Nindalf. But a company of Rangers will not be enough. I must journey into the Nindalf with you."

To Mablung's credit, his only outward reaction is a slight widening of the eyes. "We welcome your company." He pauses, and his gaze shifts toward the tent flaps. "What aid do you require in arranging the camp for departure? We must act swiftly if we wish to leave in the morning."

"The rest of the camp will not be moving into the fens. Only I and those Rangers you select will depart. The remainder of our encampment will move away from the Nindalf."

Now Mablung's eyes narrow. "Forgive my impertinence, Lord Faramir, but the King—"

"As I said, I have received new tidings," Faramir interrupts. He needs not Mablung's warning; he knows his actions trespass on the King's orders. But grief has taught Faramir not to send another in his stead when answering a dream.

Mablung shifts uneasily. "The Rangers trust your judgment and your foresight. But we also trust the King."

Setting aside all lingering doubts, Faramir steps forward and puts a hand on Mablung's shoulder. "As do I," Faramir assures quietly. "But my dreams persist. I know not why this foresight has come to me and not to the King. Possibly my familiarity with the fens breeds the warning, I cannot say. But I can say that I am needed. And as Steward, my responsibility is to both Gondor and to the King. I cannot ignore that. If you will not accompany me, I will go alone. But I will go, regardless."

For a long moment, Mablung says nothing. His eyes search Faramir's face, and at length, he seems to come to a decision. With a slow nod, he claps a hand on Faramir's shoulder, and they stand not as Steward and Captain but as Rangers of Ithilien. "My men and I will follow."

Faramir grips Mablung's shoulder tightly in silent thanks. A weight lifts from his own shoulders, and though questions persist, Faramir feels again the sure confidence of commanding the Rangers. With Mablung at his back, they can prevail.

But the battle is not yet won, for he must still convince Beregond. And seemingly cued by his thoughts, noises rise outside. The tent flaps part, and Damrod enters bearing a small stack of maps. Behind him comes a haggard Beregond. Something about his disheveled appearance suggests a lack of sleep rather than an abrupt waking. Pity stabs at Faramir's heart. What he is about to ask will have many consequences, and Beregond will bear a goodly number of them. But they are running out of time and choices. Stepping away from Mablung, Faramir lets fall his hand and addresses Beregond: "Captain, I have been stricken by the malady attacking this camp."

Mablung adopts a neutral expression. Damrod blinks. Beregond stares. "My lord," the latter ventures slowly, "are you certain?"

"As certain as you need me to be," Faramir answers. "I relinquish command of the encampment to the White Company, but if you heed my counsel, you will move this encampment several miles away from the fens. Distance might aid the ill."

Beregond's eyes narrow. "Sound counsel. The White Company will see it done. But it seems strange to hear sound counsel coming from the lips of one so afflicted. If I may say, Lord Steward, you seem no different now than you did hours ago when I took my leave for the evening. If anything, I would deem you better, for you are filled with purpose. Do I err?"

Either command has made Beregond bold or he has spent too much time with Mablung. Deciding to remove at least one potential culprit, Faramir turns to Damrod and Mablung. "Leave us. I will call for you soon."

Silently, the two Rangers fetch their cloaks and slip outside. Alone with the captain of the White Company, Faramir takes a deep breath and turns back to Beregond. "What were the King's words to you ere he left? At what point were you to assume command?"

Beregond's jaw tightens. "I was to watch you for signs that your judgment faltered. I was to watch for a time when you could no longer be trusted with your own safety or the safety of those in your charge."

Faramir nods. "I wish to follow the King into the Nindalf, and I wish to take little thought for my own safety. Do I satisfy your requirements?"

Growing suspicion in Beregond's face reveals Faramir has not compromised his judgment enough. "Should we guard your movements, Lord Steward? Or can you vouchsafe your good conduct when we move the encampment away from the fens?"

"I will probably fight any attempts to remove me from the Nindalf," Faramir says, his eyes never leaving Beregond's. "And I do not wish to leave the King without forces on the border of the Nindalf that he may draw upon at need. Therefore, I propose that Mablung and a small group of Rangers remain here. I will tarry with them, for Mablung has already agreed to see to my welfare. You and Damrod will concern yourself with the main encampment and lead it to safer ground."

Beregond is silent for a long moment. "With all due respect, Lord Steward," he says at length, "Mablung was not charged with your welfare. That responsibility fell to me."

"But this encampment must be moved," Faramir reasons. "And if I openly resist leaving, we will lose the confidence of the men. The disappearances have already given rise to rumors and unease; the strange illness has made matters worse. You were charged with my safety, yes, but now that you hold command, you are also charged with the safety of all assembled here. You cannot afford to let fear sweep the camp, and thus you cannot move me against my will."

It is a cruel appeal to duty. In another situation, Faramir would never consider such a tactic. In fact, this entire approach chafes hard against his honor. It smacks of deception, though he has told no falsehood outright. But he needs to force Beregond's hand, so he ignores the scruples of his conscience and watches frustration play over Beregond's face.

"If I ask Mablung to give me his word of honor that he will not allow you to enter the Nindalf, what will he say?" Beregond challenges.

Faramir smiles grimly. "He will not give you the answer you desire."

"My lord, do you know what you ask of me?"

"Yes," Faramir answers softly. "I ask for your trust. I ask for the same trust given me by my Rangers when I went against my father's orders and granted two hobbits safe passage through Ithilien. And also I ask for your courage. I ask for the same courage that caused you to desert your post and save me from an early funeral pyre in Rath Dínen."

If anything, this second appeal is even harsher than the first, and Beregond's pained expression speaks of turmoil. But then something in Beregond's face shifts. A stubborn resolve lights his eyes. "The White Company is beholden to the Prince of Ithilien, my lord," Beregond says, "but the Rangers are beholden to Gondor. Should it not be their charge to see to the welfare of the encampment?"

Faramir is certain of it now: Beregond has spent far too much time around Mablung. "The Rangers know the Nindalf best, and in this, duty should give way to prudence. The Rangers must tarry and the White Company must depart."

"Are all the Rangers staying?"

"No. Mablung will choose those who are to remain here. The rest will depart with the main camp."

"Under Damrod's command?"

"Yes."

Beregond nods and steps back. "Then a portion of the White Company will fulfill our duty to you even as Damrod's Rangers fulfill their duty to Gondor. Grant Damrod command over the encampment, and let him see to its welfare. I will remain here with a small detachment. If illness takes you into the swamp, the Rangers will be free to follow, and there will yet be men on the outskirts of the Nindalf should the King need them."

Faramir smiles slowly. It is a mirthless smile, for their gambit is too desperate for mirth. Nevertheless, he is both humbled and relieved. Relieved that Mablung and Beregond will support him in this. Humbled that Mablung and Beregond trust him enough to follow what may or may not be foresight. If he is wrong, he can only hope his position as Steward will absolve his two captains of blame. But he does not think he is wrong. Not anymore. Already, he feels the power to change.

"So be it," he tells Beregond, and the other man returns the mirthless smile. "Damrod will lead the camp away from the Nindalf. You will stay on the outskirts of the fens and await word. Go now, and begin the necessary arrangements. And if you would, ask Mablung and Damrod to return."

"My thanks, Lord Steward," Beregond says quietly, and he bows before moving for the tent flaps.

"One more thing, Captain," Faramir calls. "As you organize the companies for departure, set aside oil, flint, and steel."

"Oil, flint, and steel?" Beregond echoes, frowning.

"Yes," Faramir says. "As much as you can spare." He turns his gaze to the lanterns flickering in the tent. Fire may not be the answer, but if it is part of the answer, he can ill afford to be without it. "Keep some for your own company, but prepare the rest against the threat of water and distribute all you can to Mablung's company."

"As you say, my lord," Beregond says. "Might I inquire as to the purpose?"

"If I knew it, I would tell you."

It is not the answer Beregond wants, but Faramir has little sympathy. He does not yet have the answers he wants. Barely listening as Beregond murmurs an acknowledgment, Faramir keeps his focus on the lanterns lighting the tent. He feels he should know something more by now. That there is some obvious piece he is missing. But when Mablung and Damrod return to the tent, he quickly turns to more practical matters. For the moment, his questions will have to wait.

"Lie still. Do not move!"

Shock makes him gasp loudly, but this time, shock is tempered by a surge of relief. Faramir returned to his own tent after speaking with Mablung and Damrod, certain the dream would come again during the night. He clearly remembers dousing all lights and wrapping himself in blankets before allowing his mind to drift. None were around to see his fall into the dream.

"Hush! If you voice your fear, they will kill you!"

Faramir pushes himself upright but makes no response, waiting out the dream's beginning.

"There is time. You can still confront your fear, but you must do so in silence."

He wonders if Legolas will continue to claim there is time even after it is too late. Gimli seems to think there is little time remaining.

"They come! They must not see you with me. You must face them alone!"

The elf is gone, and Faramir is alone. It is not a significant change. Faramir decides he might as well be alone when Gimli enters the dream, for the dwarf's cryptic hints only manage to confound and confuse. Perhaps all this will change when his company enters the Nindalf. The thought brings some hope, but it also reminds Faramir that to dream in the Nindalf means to dream in the company of his men. He has not yet determined how—or if—he can avoid this.

"Legolas cannot help you."

"So you have told me," Faramir sighs. "Next you will tell me the same is true for any who enter this place. None of them can help me." He pauses. "Is that because they are in need of help? Can I help them?"

The darkness lifts. Stepping forth from the gloom, Gimli pulls at his beard and looks around at the shadows. "That remains to be seen."

It seems no one is able to answer a question directly. "You have spoken concerning those who enter this place," Faramir says, changing tactics. "What of those who do not enter this place? Can they help me?"

"Yes," Gimli says slowly, and his eyes narrow. "There is one who can."

Hope stirs in Faramir's heart. He eagerly waits for Gimli to continue, but the dwarf says no more. "Would it be too much to request a name?" Faramir finally asks.

"You will not accept it if it comes from me," Gimli answers. "You must discover this on your own, and until you do, you must not voice your fear. Do not voice your fear!"

"But there is someone who can help me," Faramir presses, grasping after this new hope.

"In a sense, yes."

Hope spirals away. "In a sense?"

"He can only help when he returns, and he can only return when you understand."

"How can I understand when none will aid that understanding?" Faramir demands. "All you offer are hints and riddles! At one point, you even told me I could not help myself, so—"

"No!" Gimli interrupts sharply. "I said you could not help yourself as you are! But still you do not understand, and there is little time left to understand! Thus I ask, who are you?"

Faramir hisses, bringing his hands to his face as he struggles to fathom the question. "The Steward," he finally says. "I am the Steward."

There is silence for a long moment. Then Gimli speaks again. "What is your stewardship?"

An answer immediately springs to mind: Gondor. But Faramir says nothing, wary of making a misstep. Instead, he asks a question of his own. "What do you believe my stewardship to be?"

Something glitters in Gimli's eyes, as stars in a darkening sky. "Like the name you seek, you must come to that answer on your own. But if that is a choice you are willing to make, perhaps he will return. Perhaps you will be sufficient after all."

Faramir's brow furrows. "What choice must I…"

But he trails off, for the dream fades around him. Suddenly awake, he finds himself tangled in his blankets. He stares at the roof of his own tent, and with a deep sigh, he wonders if he will ever discern answers.

The stench hits first. It always does. Even after spending several days on the borders of the festering swamp, the Nindalf's reek shocks all who brave its muddy waters. There seems to be a threshold on the edge of the fens beyond which the smell is overwhelming. Knowing this from past experience, Faramir tries not to breathe for the first few minutes.

Gagging sounds from behind reveal who has traversed the Nindalf before and who has not. Faramir offers the latter group a silent apology. He would spare them if he could, but as fate has chosen him, it has also chosen his men. An unfair means of choosing, perhaps, but Faramir has never had much success in thwarting fate. Lengthening his stride, he quickens the march. The men's senses will eventually adjust to the rancid air, but until then, a distracting speed is the best Faramir can offer them.

They are a young group. Faramir suspects Mablung would have preferred more experienced men, but he was hampered by a need for men who would not protest Faramir's presence. Gondor's law states that when the King is abroad or imperiled, the Steward is to safeguard both the realm and himself. Mablung himself referred to that law ere they set out, but Faramir reasoned there is no sure evidence of danger to the King. If his dreams are any guide, Legolas is the one in danger. But Faramir's actions still run afoul of the law's intent, if not its specific wording. Thus Mablung was forced to choose younger men who would not openly question Faramir's actions.

Thankfully, the Rangers were Faramir's only real obstacle to the morning's departure. Beregond went to great lengths in persuading the remaining White Company guards that Faramir retreated with the main camp at sunrise. Faramir decides to both commend the man and watch him more closely in the future. He makes the same decision about Damrod, for the Ranger managed to convince the main camp that Faramir remained behind in Beregond's company. With those two groups in blissful ignorance, only Aragorn's messengers had the means to voice a legal protest, and as for them…

Faramir smiles grimly. The poor messengers were in no position to gainsay a group of armed Rangers.

For the better part of an hour, they make steady progress. The morning sun rises through the mists like a veiled lantern. The air is heavy with no hint of a breeze. The water lapping their legs is frigid and choked with slime. The speed of the march keeps them warm for the first hour, but after that, the pace slows. Frozen feet begin to stumble, and watching the messengers closely, Faramir decides the path they are following—or rather, trying to follow—has disappeared.

Eventually, the messengers stop altogether, their faces uncertain. Faramir signals for the Rangers to halt, and he gives the messengers space to converse quietly. A few minutes later, the messengers resume walking only to stop again almost immediately. Faramir wishes he could be surprised. There are no permanent paths in the Nindalf, and whatever trail the King took yesterday has been swallowed by murky waters. The messengers have been good guides up until now, but it was a fool's dream to believe they could track Aragorn for long.

Mablung shifts beside him, eyes on the messengers. "Last night, they assured me they could find the King's company," he murmurs.

"Things change in the Nindalf," Faramir answers, his voice equally low. "You know this as well as any."

"True," Mablung concedes, "but several of these men have served for years as forward scouts and trackers. There should be signs of a large group's passage, yet it looks as though none have entered this place."

Faramir stiffens, the dream's words rolling through his mind. "Legolas cannot help us," he whispers, turning to stare at the mists. "Nor can any who enter this place."

"Lord Faramir?"

Faramir shakes his head. "We must trust to our own judgment," he says, striding forward.

Hearing his approach, the messengers look up. Faramir reads both an apology and unease in their faces. "We are sorry, Lord Steward," one murmurs. "We were certain of the trail, but—"

"What direction did you take yesterday?" Faramir interrupts.

"Our path twisted and turned. We followed the elves as they sought better ground. But for the most part, we pressed north."

Faramir nods and orients himself by the dim glow of the sun. "We shall do likewise. We have no elves to guide us, but for many years, Rangers braved these fens using our own wits and senses. Come," he gestures, raising his voice so the rest of the company might hear. "We go north. I will lead."

The men follow. Whether through hard-won loyalty or a moment's madness, they fall in without question or protest. Even Mablung says no word. The captain simply takes up a position immediately behind Faramir as he leads them north in as straight a line as he can manage. The way is treacherous, and there are long stretches of marsh that force him to turn aside and find new paths. At any moment, he expects to plunge into waters well over his head, but though there are many stumbles and many slogs where slime laps thighs and waist, he somehow manages to always place his feet.

The pale sun climbs higher, but it does not burn away the mists. If anything, the mists thicken. After a time, Faramir cannot see the men at the rear of his company. Were he anywhere else, he would pause to signal for a tighter formation, but the Nindalf does not allow for such things. To follow in another's steps is the safest way to travel. Faramir must trust the men to stay close to those directly in front of them, and he must trust the mists to grow no worse.

Much to his surprise, his trust is rewarded. Verbal checks ensure his men are following closely, and the mists become constant, neither lifting nor deepening. Both hopeful and wary, Faramir presses forward, keeping a close watch on the sun lest he lead them in circles. They continue in this vein for perhaps another hour or so, and then Faramir feels a…change.

He stops.

For a moment, he cannot say why. He cannot say what has changed. Behind him, the men stop, and he hears questions from the back of the group. But he has no answers for them. No answers until—

A cool breeze touches his cheek.

He turns his head, almost as though to flinch away from the breeze. Then it is gone. The swamp is still again.

Yet there is a change other than the breeze. The smell is different here. Heavier. Thicker. As though the source of all the Nindalf's festering odors is near at hand.

The breeze comes again, stronger this time. It tugs at his hair, and Faramir hears the herald's banner stir. He remembers the previous night when Aragorn's banners lifted in a breeze no others could feel, and his eyes snap to the tall marsh reeds around him.

They stand undisturbed without a whisper of movement. Even the waters are calm.

Mablung steps up next to him, silently questioning.

"The wind," Faramir murmurs. "Look at what the wind touches and what it does not."

After a confused silence, Mablung gasps. "What sorcery is this?" the Ranger hisses. "What does it mean?"

"As to your first question, I cannot say. As to your second, it means we are close," Faramir says. "Come."

They start forward again, slower now. The group bunches together more than is safe when traveling in the fens. Their courage is beginning to falter, and Faramir has no words to hearten their spirits. Whatever they face is near. His instincts tell him so, and for all his frustration with his strange dreams, he does not yet doubt his instincts.

Something turns underfoot.

At first, Faramir dismisses it as a rock or a clumping of marsh grass. But the shape is strange, and he pauses, sweeping his boot beneath the murky water until he finds the object again. Reaching down, his hand grasps a sword hilt. A thrill of fear courses through Faramir. With reluctance, he draws the sword from the water, and the men nearest him cry out in alarm.

Andúril is easy to recognize.

"Lord Steward—" Mablung begins, but Faramir sweeps his arm to the side, silencing him. Still holding Andúril, Faramir scrapes his feet at the mud beneath the water and hits a surface that does not yield to his pressure. It has the feel of stone. A road, perhaps.

Faramir's jaw clenches.

"Divide the men into search parties," he tells Mablung. "The groups must be large, and they must stay together. Scour this area for aught that may tell us why the King's sword was abandoned in the mud. Number the companies, and call to them regularly so that none wander too far."

"What do you intend to do, my lord?" Mablung asks.

There is a hint of challenge in Mablung's voice, for they can no longer pretend the King is safe. But Faramir is not about to turn back. "You and I will head a group together, and we will continue north," he answers. "This direction has brought us Andúril. Perhaps it will bring us other tokens."

Conflict wars in Mablung's eyes. Faramir keeps his face impassive, but inwardly, he feels himself torn. It is unfair to ask Mablung to choose between foresight and law. Between Steward and Gondor. Yet Mablung was made for difficult choices, and the moment of indecision is brief. He nods sharply and turns to the men, ordering them to gather and then dividing them into various companies.

Before they set out, Mablung insists upon one stipulation: If Faramir is to lead a party north, another party must precede him. It is a request Faramir willingly grants. He would have asked the same had their positions been reversed. But Faramir has a stipulation of his own: the forward company cannot venture too far ahead. It must keep pace with his own group, for the dreams have come to Faramir alone. The danger lurking in the Nindalf is something he must face, and he will send no other in his stead.

Tense and wary, the Rangers spread out. They move slowly, feeling about with their feet and plunging staff and sword beneath the water. They soon discover other weapons abandoned in the swamp. Swords. Spears. Shields. Bows. Arrows. A silver-hafted hunting knife that Faramir wishes he did not recognize. He binds the elven blade next to his own sword, hoping he will be able to return it. Further on, they find banners. Packs. Water skins. Pieces to a deepening mystery that hints at a tragedy but withholds the most important clues.

Mablung tenses, and Faramir looks forward. Through the mist, he sees members of the advance group approaching.

"You must come, Lord Steward!" one Ranger says, his voice rushed and strained. "You must see what we have found!"

Faramir shares an uneasy look with Mablung. Rangers do not frighten easily, and the men of the advance group were chosen in part for their courage. "Show me," he commands.

Countless possibilities swarm his mind, but he is unprepared for what awaits. In the midst of the bog rises a patch of firm ground no wider than thirty paces but quite long, stretching away until it is lost to mists on either side. Possibly it is the same ground where Aragorn chose to camp the previous night, for the grasses on this island are flattened and bent. Then Faramir's eyes are drawn to huddled figures upon the ground. They sit with their legs drawn close to their chests, their arms wrapped tightly about them, and their heads buried behind their knees, shivering violently. They seem not to notice the Rangers' approach, and Faramir stumbles with recognition.

Elves.

"Summon the others," Faramir tells Mablung, hastening forward. The ground rises unexpectedly beneath his feet and he trips, falling to his knees before the foremost elf. Behind him, he hears Mablung ordering horn blasts, but Faramir's attention is focused on the trembling elf. He is a scout named Faelim, a bright-eyed youth as elves reckon age with a smile as wide as the Anduin. But there is no sign of that smile now and no sign that Faelim is aware of the Rangers. "Faelim," Faramir whispers, lifting a hesitant hand to the elf's shoulder. "Faelim!"

Nothing. No response. It is as though Faelim cannot hear him. Fearing he will do more harm than good but needing to know what has happened, Faramir gently tips Faelim's head up. Faelim does not resist the movement, but neither does he react.

"Faelim!" Faramir tries again, tapping the elf's cheek. Again he meets with failure. Faelim's dark hair falls away from his face, revealing eyes clenched tightly shut. Never before has Faramir seen this in an elf. Even in sleep, they reach out to the world around them, ever aware. But Faelim is pulling away, and when Faramir releases the elf, he curls back into his huddled ball.

"Lord Steward!" someone shouts.

Shaken, Faramir rises and wonders what more he might find. He regrets his question when a figures staggers forth from the mist, reeling amidst the gathered Rangers.

"Legolas?" Faramir cries, grasping the elf by the arms. "Legolas, what—" He hisses as Legolas seizes his shoulders with a grip tight enough to bruise.

"Who…?" Legolas demands, but he stops as a hard shudder wracks his body. The elf's legs give out and Faramir braces himself, catching Legolas as he falls forward. Guiding them both to the ground, Faramir kneels beside his friend and notices something about Legolas's eyes. Elven eyes do not focus as mortal eyes do, always seeming to look either too near or too far. But Legolas's eyes are beyond even that. It is as though he cannot see Faramir. As though he can see nothing close at hand. As though his eyes are drawn so far away that all else is a blur.

"Mablung!" Faramir barks, and Mablung is immediately at his side. "Choose three men from among the Rangers who know these fens well. Send them back with all haste to report on what we have found."

"What have we found?" Mablung asks, lowering his voice.

Faramir levels a dark look at the man. "Signs of battle and elven survivors. Tell Beregond he is to hold his position until tomorrow morning. If he has not received more tidings from us by then, he is to retreat to the main camp and send word to the Queen."

Reluctantly, Mablung murmurs an acknowledgement and moves away. Faramir puts the man from his mind and turns back to Legolas, who has yet to loosen his painful grip on Faramir's shoulders. Faramir wraps his own hands about Legolas's wrists, an idea coming to mind. Legolas seems to be reacting to touch; perhaps that can be put to use. With effort, Faramir pulls the elf's left hand off his shoulder and down his jerkin to the right breast, where the seal of Ithilien has been worked into the tough leather. Legolas himself helped design the pattern, and hoping it will be recognized, Faramir forces elven fingers to trace the sigil.

At first, Legolas fights him. The fingers of his right hand dig so deeply into Faramir's shoulder that Faramir nearly cries out. But then something in the elf's face changes. His hands relax. His breath quickens. "Faramir?" he whispers, blinking rapidly.

"Yes," Faramir says with quiet intensity.

"Faramir?" Legolas whispers again. His eyes lose some of their far-seeing look. "Faramir, say this is no dream!"

A shiver courses through Faramir, and he gives the only assurance he can: "I am here."

"Thank the Valar," Legolas hisses. His eyes close, and his head bows. "I brought them this far. I kept them together. But I could do no more. They hear nothing beyond their own thoughts!"

"What happened here?" Faramir asks, struggling to keep his voice low and calm. "Where is Aragorn?"

"It pressed inward," Legolas says. His fingers once again trace Ithilien's seal, as though seeking to confirm Faramir's presence. "It pressed inward, so I looked outward. We all did. But it was too strong! I was forced back! In! Down!"

Faramir looks around at the other elves and notes the Rangers gathering in a loose circle. With a jerk of his head, he signals a desire for privacy, and the others withdraw. Turning back to Legolas, Faramir places a supportive hand on the back of the elf's neck. "You did not stay down," he whispers. "You are here and you are speaking to me. How is this possible? How did you escape what befell the other elves?"

"It was too much," Legolas murmurs, shuddering. "Too much! I could not stop them! I could not help them!"

"What could you not stop?" Faramir asks, and it takes all his will to keep his voice steady.

"Ai Elbereth," Legolas moans, and he tips forward, shaking grievously. "I had no choice! It alone was strong enough to pull me back, and now I see nothing else! I hear nothing else!"

"What?" Faramir demands. "What do you hear?"

"The Sea!" Legolas cries through chattering teeth. "Only the Sea!

"Lie still! Do not move!"

Torn from deep concentration, Faramir jerks sharply and stumbles over an elven scout. The elf takes no notice. Mablung does. "My lord?" he questions.

Faramir whips his head around. Legolas stands beside him, alert and hale as though no ill has befallen him. Faramir looks at Mablung, but Mablung's gaze never strays from Faramir. "I thought I heard something," Faramir manages, his mind spinning. "Mayhap the breeze is playing tricks."

"Of that we can be certain," Mablung says grimly, looking at the mists. The ghostly fog hangs silent and still despite the wind teasing their cloaks. "I have never seen the like!"

"Hush! If you voice your fear, they will kill you!"

Faramir glances back at Legolas. He has spent the last few hours struggling to glean answers, but he has met with failure on all fronts. Perhaps this is why. Foresight notwithstanding, perhaps his mind has deserted him. Deliberately turning his back on what cannot be real, Faramir give his attention to Mablung and asks, "Where is Legolas?"

"Where you left him," Mablung says. "The men watching him say he seems no better. He has not spoken since you forced him to eat."

Wind stirs Faramir's hair, and he shivers. "I will speak with him again. Perhaps he has had time enough to recover."

"We will have to escort him and the other elves out of the Nindalf," Mablung warns. "And it would be foolish to divide our own force in order to provide that escort, my lord. I counsel that we all depart, and having left, we will have to revisit the issue of who can return to the swamps."

Mablung looks directly at Faramir as he says this, and Faramir finds he has no reply. Behind him, he hears, "There is time. You can still confront your fear, but you must do so in silence."

The voice seems as real as Mablung. As real as the Nindalf. As real as the mystery that stole their King. Swallowing a sudden lump in his throat, Faramir simply nods and takes his leave. He once wondered what would happen if he walked away from Legolas during the dream. Now seems an appropriate time to learn.

The dream follows.

It is a departure from the established routine, but it is a departure that lends Faramir no comfort. It has the feel of inevitability. As though he cannot escape, no matter what he tries. As though madness is now a foregone conclusion. "You are not here," Faramir accuses as he walks, his voice low. "You are not Legolas!"

The dream Legolas watches the swamp, bright eyes searching for danger.

Faramir finds Legolas—the Legolas of waking life—just as Mablung indicated. Several Rangers keep a watchful guard as well as a respectful distance, and where firm ground gives way to bog, Legolas stares south with vacant eyes, murmuring a quiet song beneath his breath. When they gathered for lunch, Legolas was almost lucid. He was aware enough to eat, at least. But whenever Faramir questioned him about Aragorn or the events of the previous night, Legolas would shiver and pull away. His gaze would turn south, and he would whisper that he had no choice. That he had to look outward before he was locked inward. Eventually, he ceased speaking altogether. Studying him now, Faramir decides Mablung and the men are right: Legolas is not better. If anything, he is worse.

Glancing over his shoulder, Faramir notes that the Legolas from his dream is still with him, tense and focused on something within the mists. Faramir sighs. It does not appear that either Legolas will be of much help to him. Still, he must try.

"Leave us," Faramir says to the Rangers. "I will stay with him."

The men nod and drift away. "We will be near at hand if you have need of us, Lord Steward," one says.

"They come!" Legolas hisses behind Faramir, his words oddly timed against the men's departure. "They must not see you with me. You must face them alone!"

The mists close behind both the Rangers and the dream Legolas, leaving Faramir with only one elf for company. He wishes he could view this as an improvement, but both versions of Legolas seem equally indifferent to his presence.

"Legolas cannot help you."

"That much is painfully obvious," Faramir murmurs. "He cannot even help himself."

"He chose not to. Rather, he chose to help his people. To an extent, he even succeeded."

Faramir stares into the swamp. "Succeeded?" he asks incredulously, his voice rising. "Look upon him!"

"Lord Steward?"

Faramir glances back into the mists and spies a faint form coming toward him. "Peace," he tells the figure. "All is well."

The form pauses as though uncertain, but then it bows and retreats. Faramir waits a moment more before again addressing the swamp. "Look upon him!" he hisses. "What success is this?"

"As much success as he could muster," comes the answer. "More, in fact, than he should have been able to." From the mists, Gimli steps forward, but the water is still and silent in his wake. "Now he pays the price for that success."

Faramir takes a calming breath. "What happened here?" he asks.

His question refers to Aragorn and the missing men, but the dwarf turns to Legolas. "He embraced that which he fears."

While not the answer he wants, Faramir is ready for an explanation of any kind. "The divide?" he asks softly. "Legolas spoke of it yesterday morning. I did not understand much, but it seemed a terrible burden to bear. Is Legolas…" Faramir trails off, uncertain of how to phrase his next question. He needs to know if Legolas has succumbed to madness, but since madness is something he fears, he does not know if he can name it. He does not know—

"Legolas is not mad," Gimli says, mooting Faramir's internal debate. "Lost, perhaps, but deliberately so. He was assailed by something he was unprepared to face, and alone of his company, he was able to resist. It was an impossible choice, for he knew the risks in opening his mind and heart to the Sea. But it was a choice he made, nonetheless. The call of the Sea deafened him to everything, including his attackers, and it is difficult to turn back from it. Even as we speak, he struggles for balance. He is lost but determined. Resolved but unfocused. His mind is torn asunder by a division he was never meant to endure, yet he has never been more whole than he is now."

"What caused this? What attacked him?"

"Something that gave him very little time in which to make a choice," Gimli answers, his dark eyes returning to Faramir.

Faramir's brow furrows. "This is not the first time you have spoken of choice."

"I have always spoken of choice," Gimli says. "But you have not always understood. Even now, you do not understand. And until you understand, he cannot return!"

Ignoring the familiar words, Faramir mulls over the concept of choice. "Legolas chose the Sea, but that is not all he chose," he says slowly. "He also chose his people. He chose to sacrifice himself to the Sea so that he might fight his attackers." Faramir turns to Gimli. "Is my choice also twofold? Do you wish me to choose more than my people and my King?"

"It is not a matter of what I wish!" Gimli growls. "It is a matter of what you need!"

"I need to understand!" Faramir returns heatedly. "If there is indeed little time left, help me!"

"None who enter this place can help you!"

Faramir swears and turns away. He is vaguely aware that the Rangers are drawing near again, and he hastily schools his thoughts. "Earlier, you said help could come if I understood," he murmurs. "And you spoke of one who must return. Is he the one to help me? But if none who enter this place can help me, how will that help be realized?"

"Because he returns not to this place. Rather, he returns to you."

"To me?" Faramir echoes, blinking.

"Only if you understand what that means. And thus I ask: who are you?"

The idea of choice beckons to Faramir. "I am what I choose to be," he answers.

"And what is your choice?"

Faramir rakes his hands through his hair. "Sufficient," he says.

Gimli shakes his head. "Whole, you are sufficient. But you have chosen to be less than whole."

"Would you have me be as Legolas?" Faramir demands, once again struggling to keep his voice low. He turns to the elf, gesturing at eyes too distant to see anything near at hand. "You said he is now more whole than he has ever been. Is this what you consider sufficient?"

There is no answer. When Faramir looks back toward the water, Gimli is gone.

Faramir orders a sleeping draught for Legolas. The other elves cannot be forced to eat or drink, but the smell of herbs rouses Legolas enough for him to choke down the tincture they force. Faramir hopes Legolas will find peace in dreams, but at the very least, the Rangers will not have to worry about him wandering south in pursuit of his beloved Sea.

For the remainder of the afternoon, they continue to search the swamps. The results are grim. They find more weapons and packs but nothing that answers the most important question: Where is the King?

As though attempting to match the gloom in their hearts, daylight fades, and Faramir directs the Rangers to gather the search parties together. While they wait for all to assemble, a grim Mablung pulls him aside. "Do you intend for us to remain in the Nindalf tonight?"

Faramir presses his lips together. Such was the plan when they first set out, but Aragorn's disappearance and the elves' condition complicate matters. "We may not find this place again easily," he says, weighing the options, "and we must know what happened here."

"If we remain, we may gain firsthand knowledge. Are we prepared for that?" Mablung asks.

It is a fair question, and Faramir wishes he had an answer. But none here have answers. None, that is, except— "Let us try again to speak to Legolas. The draught should be wearing off now, and perhaps rest will find him better prepared to give us tidings."

"If we tarry much longer, Lord Steward, the decision will be made for us," Mablung warns. "It took us several hours to come this far."

"Our departure will be swifter than our entry," Faramir says. "We are certain of our direction in leaving."

Mablung looks unconvinced but says nothing more. The conversation feels unfinished, but Faramir has nothing more to say, either. With a quiet sigh, he turns and moves toward the only member of the company who looks relaxed. Mablung follows in a tense silence.

Kneeling beside Legolas, Faramir draws away the blankets in which they cocooned the elf. "Legolas?" he calls quietly. "Legolas?"

Legolas's head lolls toward Faramir, and Faramir frowns. The elf's eyes are closed.

"Legolas?" he calls again, giving the elf's shoulder a gentle shake. "Legolas!"

Legolas's brow creases. "Faramir?" he murmurs.

"Yes, Legolas," Faramir says intently. "Wake! We need your aid!"

When discussing whether or not they should drug Legolas, Mablung voiced the theory that Legolas held to his wits long enough for help to arrive. Once his elves were safe, he relinquished his charges to the care of the Rangers and let himself drift away. The theory seems to be bearing fruit, for at the mention of being needed, Legolas stirs. He groans, pushing at Faramir's hand, and a moment later, his eyes flutter open.

A rush of hope surges through Faramir.

The eyes are focused. They are still not focused as elven eyes should be, but there is clarity to that gaze that was missing earlier. And when Faramir extends a hand to help him up, Legolas reaches back.

"Where are we?" the elf asks.

Hope falls hard. Hard enough that he pauses in pulling Legolas up. By contrast, Legolas does not pause and rises smoothly to his feet, though he certainly notes Faramir's hesitation. Through narrowed eyes, he takes in their surroundings with obvious confusion. When his gaze comes to rest upon the huddled elven scouts, Legolas stiffens.

"Ai Elbereth," he breathes. "Aragorn… Faramir, is Aragorn— No. No, he is gone. And my scouts…" He trails off, his eyes wide and unseeing.

"You remember, my lord?" Mablung ventures.

A shudder washes through Legolas. "Yes. No. Parts." He looks as though he wishes to say more, but he stops and licks his lips. "You drugged me," he says, turning to Faramir with an accusing glare.

"I did," Faramir says evenly. "It seems to have helped."

Legolas stares at Faramir for a long moment before looking away. "You are not wrong," he murmurs. "The Sea was too loud for me to sleep, and I was too weary to heed any other voice."

"You hear it still," Faramir notes.

"I hear it always. It is louder than it should be, but now that I have rested, I can be of more aid to you. It is…easier to ignore," Legolas says, his words slowing and his eyes turning south.

Faramir takes Legolas by the arm, drawing his attention. "What happened here? Where is Aragorn?"

Through his hold on the elf's arm, Faramir feels Legolas shiver. "They came at night," he begins, his voice strained. "I know not what they were. The feel was both familiar and unfamiliar, as though I recognized the type but not the kind. The men did not sense it as I did, but Aragorn knew something was amiss. He posted more watches and asked for my counsel." Legolas shivers again, his gaze turning inward. "The mists were unnatural. That much I could tell him, but I could not say why. And then something…something forced itself through. Something drove me back. Drove all the elves back. Drove us within ourselves and then sought to follow. Like the Houseless Ones. The torches…the torches went out. Or perhaps I ceased to see them, I do not know. But there was no light. Only whispers. Whispers and words too faint to hear. And at the last, I thought I heard…bells."

Faramir blinks. "Bells?"

"Bells," Legolas repeats, looking puzzled.

Faramir shakes his head, keenly aware of Mablung's growing concern. "What of Aragorn? What happened to him?"

Elven eyes close, and Legolas's face grows taut. "I think he left. Yes. I heard his orders. He led men away to meet our foe. To draw the enemy from the elves, for we could do nothing. He went toward the bells, and—" Legolas breaks off with a hiss, his fists clenching at his sides.

"And?" Faramir presses.

"I do not know," Legolas whispers. "My scouts fell. I fell with them until I sought the Sea, but by then, it was too late. Too late for the men. What happened to them, I cannot say. The elves were scattered, but I know not how or why. None would hear me. I gathered all I could find. All the elves. There were no others. I called and called, but only the Sea answered."

"You were only attacked once?" Mablung asks.

"Yes," Legolas says, "though the enemy remained throughout the night. Beneath the swell of the Sea, I felt a regard. A presence. But it watched and listened only. It did not seek to drive me inward again. It had what it came from."

Faramir tightens his grip on Legolas's arm. "When were you first attacked?"

"The torches were lit," Legolas says slowly, "but we had not yet set the night watches."

"Late evening," Mablung concludes. "Probably just as the messengers reached us. Or perhaps earlier, given these mists." He looks to the west where the sun is a faint shimmer in the murk. "Even if we left now, we would not escape the Nindalf until well after nightfall."

Legolas turns on Faramir with a sharp look. "Do you propose to leave?"

Despite his own desire to remain, Faramir bristles at the elf's tone. "Do you propose to stay and subject your company to another attack?"

Legolas's eyes harden in anger, but he makes no answer. Faramir sighs and releases the other's arm, turning to study the surrounding mists. They have found no place as defensible as this island. The King's company had more men, but the Rangers are better equipped with lanterns and torches. Moreover, the Rangers are more alert to the presence of an enemy in the swamps. But they do not know who or what the enemy is, and they do not know if they can combat it. The elves will be of no help, and Faramir wonders if Legolas can withstand a second attack. Prudence demands a retreat. Prudence demands they accept their losses and return later with greater numbers and greater knowledge.

Faramir decides to ignore prudence.

"We remain," he says. Mablung shifts uneasily, but Faramir turns back to Legolas. "I cannot guarantee your safety," he warns, "or the safety of your scouts."

"We came here at the behest of the King." Legolas glances toward the huddled elves, and his eyes flicker with something akin to grief. "We knew we walked with danger, even if we did not know the danger itself."

Faramir nods. Reaching down, he unties the laces binding the silver-hafted knife to his belt. "Then I believe I should return this to you," he says, extending the weapon to Legolas.

Legolas's eyes widen, and he glances to his own belt. "I do not remember drawing my weapon."

"Your bow and quiver were also found," Mablung says, nodding toward the pile of gathered weapons and packs. "I can fetch them if you wish, my lord."

Legolas turns to look but says nothing. He has still not taken the blade from Faramir, and Faramir wonders if rest was enough to quell the Sea-longing. "Legolas?" he prompts.

"Keep the knife," Legolas says softly. "If I drew the blade, it did me little good. Perhaps it will serve you better. Perhaps the elves were attacked first because our weapons can harm these attackers."

Mablung casts a doubtful look at the shivering scouts. "With respect, my lord, it could be that elves are more susceptible to our attackers' sorcery."

"But the elves were not susceptible on the edge of the swamp," Faramir muses, folding his arms. "None of them fell prey to the illness suffered by the men. And I cannot believe there is no link between that affliction and the attack here."

"Then perhaps the elves were not the target, then or now," Legolas says. "We were not among those lured into the swamp, and once Aragorn's company was taken, we were left alone."

"But how does this aid us?" Mablung wonders, frowning. "We have many questions and many concerns, but no answers and no assurances. We do not know what attacked last night last night, we do not know what role the elves might or might not play, and we do not know how to combat whatever it is we face!"

The last is spat forth in a frustrated whisper, but Faramir still glances around to see if any others overheard. There is worry enough without adding to it. "Repeat for us the signs preceding the attack, Legolas," Faramir says, his voice low.

"Mist," Legolas says, rubbing his brow. "The mist came first. Not this mist," he adds with a wave of his hand at their surroundings. "A thicker mist. Fouler. There was a smell… I cannot describe it. After that, I felt myself driven back. Driven in. Driven away from all around me." The elf straightens. "No," he says. "No, the torches went out first. And it was no trick of my eyes. It was as though the mist wrapped itself about the flames."

An idea niggles the back of Faramir's mind. Turning his eyes to the gathering Rangers, he sees a few torches already lit to ward off the growing gloom. His eyes stray to the huddled elves, his thoughts churning up a traitorous possibility.

"Mayhap our enemy fears fire," Mablung says in response to Legolas.

It is only part of the solution, but a part is better than naught. "Issue orders to light no more torches," Faramir says. "And hold all lanterns in readiness. Do not strike fire until commanded to do so."

"If our enemy fears fire—"

"Our enemy is able to extinguish fire," Faramir says, watching the mist play about the flickering torches. "But the enemy did so before they attack. If we wait to light the lanterns until the attack itself, perhaps we will catch our foe unawares. Perhaps we can draw it beyond the circle of our defenses and unveil fire in its midst." Faramir pauses, not wishing to say more but unable to say less. "Legolas, do you think you can wake your scouts?"

The elf blinks. "For what purpose? We were of little aid to Aragorn."

"Aragorn did not anticipate an attack. Or at least, not an attack of the kind you describe. Though he had time enough to draw the attack away from the elves, the King and his men did not know what they faced."

"Nor do we, Lord Steward," Mablung points out.

"True, but we know more than they did and thus we may be able to discern a means of defeating our foe. If we can draw the enemy into an attack and if we can control the first strike of that attack…" Faramir trails off as light dawns in Legolas's face.

"You wish to use us as bait. You wish to repeat the events of last night in which the enemy struck the elves first."

Mablung stiffens. Unflinching, Faramir meets Legolas's dark gaze, weathering the sudden chill in the elf's voice. "Can you wake your scouts?"

Legolas looks to the elves, his eyes narrow. His lips move, but he says nothing. At least, nothing Faramir can hear, though he fancies there is a whisper of song. At length, Legolas turns back, shaking his head. "They will not rouse. Not here. They have been pushed too far. Either we or our enemy must leave these fens. Until then, my kinsmen cannot return to the waking world."

"You woke," Faramir notes.

Legolas sighs. "Do you remember our speech together yesterday morning? Do you remember when I spoke of a divide? That was what roused me. As I was driven inward, it pulled me outward. But my people are too ignorant to be saved in like fashion, nor will I force this divide upon them. Once stirred, the Sea-longing cannot be undone."

Wind rises, and Faramir shivers. Legolas's words stir something in his mind. Something in his dreams. But he cannot quite—

"I will be your lure," Legolas says, interrupting Faramir's thoughts. "I have woken, and though the Sea is yet loud in my ears, I can face this enemy. When he pushes me into myself, I will draw him after me. Mayhap that will also draw him into your trap."

There are too many uncertainties. Too many things they do not know or understand. The King's life may hang upon what they do next. But they are running out of time, and there are few options left. "So be it," Faramir says, extending a hand. Legolas takes it, his own hand wrapping about Faramir's forearm. "Varda be with us," Faramir whispers.

"The stars do not shine through these mists," Legolas counters grimly.

"But they do shine, even if we cannot see them." Faramir releases Legolas's arm and steps back, turning to Mablung. "Spread the company in a wide circle around this central point. Legolas will remain here and seek to draw the enemy inward. And relay my orders concerning the torches. No more are to be lit until I give the signal."

After that, there is little to be said. Mablung hastens away, and the orders are both given and carried out with a minimum of questions. Faramir does not know whether to credit the men for unwavering loyalty or fault them for blind obedience. But while Faramir does not have full confidence in his own judgment, his men have decided in favor of it. Or perhaps they have decided in favor of Mablung's judgment, for Mablung would not have given the order had he felt it came from a man caught in the throes of madness. Whatever the case, oil and lanterns are soon distributed throughout the company and the Rangers spread around the elves. Then begins what should be the most difficult phase: waiting.

But to Faramir, waiting is like an old friend. Almost he imagines he is huddled in Mordor's shadows, watching and counting as yet another Southron army marches north. In this familiarity, Faramir finds comfort. His mind settles. Sharpens. Hones itself upon his goal. He gathers all of his frustration, fear, and uncertainty, and he pits them against the swirling mists, seeking to part the growing dark of evening.

A hand suddenly closes about his left wrist.

He glances at Legolas, for he has resolved to stand beside the elf. His friend is risking much, and Faramir will not allow him to risk it alone.

"Look," Legolas whispers, his words scarce to be heard. He is taut as a newly strung bow, and more than anything, he resembles the Legolas of Faramir's dreams. "Look!"

Faramir looks, straining his eyes in the darkness. But what few torches they have are too dim to pierce the gathering gloom. Or perhaps… Faramir's eyes widen. Perhaps the gloom is too dark to be pierced. Perhaps it is growing. Perhaps—

"They come," Legolas hisses.

Faramir's own breath catches in his throat. The words echo their way through countless dreams, and he sends an urgent look toward Mablung. The man nods, and despite the creeping mists, Faramir feels a surge of relief. Mablung hears the elf. This is no dream.

This is no dream!

The realization strikes as night engulfs the Nindalf, swift and merciless. So swiftly does darkness fall that some of the men cry out in alarm, and Faramir steps forward, his foot knocking against a lantern on the ground. "Hold!" he cries. "Stand fast! Await my word!"

Wind shrieks through the mists, its touch as cold as ice, burning against his face. Beside him, Legolas's breath comes in harried gulps. Faramir grits his teeth, tethered to the other by the elf's bruising grasp. He can see nothing, but he feels the fear and desperation of his men.

"Legolas—"

"Not yet," the elf hisses, and his grip tightens. "There is time."

Faramir inhales sharply as the dream flares to life around him. On the outer edge of the Rangers' protective circle, a torch fails. A second torch sputters and fizzles. Then another dies. And another.

"Legolas—"

"Hush!" Legolas's hand is a crushing vice on Faramir's wrist, and the elf sinks down to one knee. Faramir draws his sword and kneels with him. On the edge of sight, practically obscured by mist, Mablung watches closely. He is ready to give the signal if Faramir cannot. "Soon," Legolas hisses, closing his eyes. "The enemy wonders at my escape. They hesitate. But they come. They come!"

And then they are here.

Cold. Hissing. Dark. Dank. Rot. Legolas falls, his voice stricken as he cries out in a strange tongue. Something wet and slithering brushes over Faramir's skin. The night fills with moaning voices, and around the island, waters churn and boil. The men are shouting. Faramir's lungs are frozen. It is difficult to breathe, and he feels as though he is drowning.

The air is wet. Heavy. He cannot stand. Legolas no longer holds his wrist, and Faramir lurches to one side, desperate to find someone. Anyone. "Light the torches!" he manages to cry, but amidst the howling, he does not know if any will hear him. "Light the torches!"

Something metal clangs against his knee. He swings his sword about, but his movements are slow. His arms drag, and his hand cannot grip the weapon. It flies from his grasp, and he falls forward.

Metal hits his knee again, but now he recognizes it. A lantern! A dwarven lantern! With fumbling hands, he reaches into his belt pouch and draws forth flint and steel. With a hissed a prayer to Varda, he strikes the metal. Sparks fly. The mists pause. It is not much, but it is enough.

The oil catches.

Something shrieks, shrill and deafening. Another man would have wilted before it, but Faramir knows a Nazgûl's scream. He staggers to his feet, lantern held aloft, and to his right, another lantern catches. Then there is a third. A fourth. A fifth. Around the island, lanterns and torches bob, separated by mist and shadows and…

Silhouettes. Dark forms. Ghastly figures hunched and broken, with fingers as long and slender as the marsh reeds. Caught in the midst of the growing light, the figures scatter, swirling away with the mists. Faramir leaps after them, drawing Legolas's knife. One of the shadows whirls about, and the mists around him writhe with noxious fumes. Faramir strikes, the elven blade hissing as it buries itself in…

Faramir stumbles back, pulling the knife free. Tangled, knotted grasses drip from the weapon, coated by a black ichor that bubbles and hisses on the long white blade. Faramir's lantern flickers, but it is still bright enough to illuminate a face. A gray face. Wrinkled, sagging skin. A yawning maw. A hungry gaze. Eyes blacker than the night, but in their depths, a fell light burns. A fell light burns with hatred and…recognition?

Recognition also sparks in Faramir, though he cannot grasp the meaning. But the terrible eyes stir something in him. Something deep. Something dark. Something burning… Faramir shakes his head sharply, realizing the creature he faces gives more heed to the lantern than to anything else. Faramir advances, holding the lantern high, and the figure retreats into the reeds surrounding the island. Shadows rise. Mists flood the space between them. The creature becomes an outline only.

Then it begins to sink.

Near the water's edge, Faramir stops, uncertain of what he is seeing. He raises the lantern higher, and by its flickering light, he spies other shadows in the shallow fens. The swamp boils and churns as the shadows sink lower and lower. The stench is overwhelming, and Faramir fights to stand his ground. A groan can be heard from beneath the swelling waves, and behind that groan, there seems to be the sound of…bells?

Then a Ranger cries out.

A Ranger cries out from the midst of the waters.

The creatures are not the only ones sinking.

Faramir surges forward, brandishing both lantern and knife. Voices cry to him from all around. Water sprays upward on all sides, and something behind Faramir hisses.

He swings around, and once more, he feels a dark stirring within. Something beneath the water catches his ankle. He staggers backward, and the lantern flies from his grasp, plunging the fens into shadow. Something twines about his arms. He jerks free and sees lights bobbing toward him. But the muddy swamp is treacherous, and in his haste, he slips. He is stumbling…

Falling…

Sinking…

Waters close over his head.

Author's Warning: This chapter is the reason for the story's rating. Some of the descriptions are very direct, and some images deal with the remains of those who didn't make it out alive. If this is something you would prefer not to read about but would still like to follow the story, drop me a line and I can give you a bare-bones description of this chapter.

"Lie still. Do not move!"

Faramir surges upright, sending a fountain of muddy water in all directions. Staggering to his feet, he shakes his head and fights to slow his frantic breaths. Before, he was sinking. Now…now he dreams?

He feels for his sword but finds an empty scabbard. Beside him, Legolas's tense form watches the shadows. They are alone. They have always been alone in the dream. But is this still a dream? Or is this like the last time? Do dreams and waking life converge?

He cannot take the chance. Dropping to one knee, he feels beneath him, searching the silt beneath the swamp's murky depths. "They went below," he murmurs, still feeling the need to gasp for air. "The enemy lies below! Like the Dead Marshes, only—"

"Hush! If you voice your fear, they will kill you!"

"I saw Rangers in their grasp!" Faramir insists, tearing at reeds and grasses. "There must be a way to follow! Perhaps Aragorn—"

"There is time. You can still confront your fear, but you must do so in silence."

Faramir stops and stares at Legolas. "Is that where you go? Do you vanish beneath?"

"They come!"

The elf turns, water churning around him, and eerie familiarity drives Faramir back to his feet. "Take me with you!" he orders, seizing Legolas by the arm. "Show me how to follow!"

"They must not see you with me," Legolas answers, his face harried. His eyes flick toward Faramir, and in those depths, a dark flame burns. Startled, Faramir's hold loosens, and the elf pulls away. "You must face them alone!"

Then he is gone.

Faramir takes a long, shuddering breath. The answers are here. They must be! But he is running out of time—

"Legolas cannot help you."

"How do I follow him?" Faramir demands, wheeling about and searching the darkness for Gimli. "Can you show me what I seek?"

The murk shifts, and Gimli steps forward. "None who enter this place can help you."

"That is no answer!" Faramir snaps.

"I have no answers to your questions—"

"So you have said!" Fear and desperation make Faramir terse, but he needs the dream to reveal its secrets. He needs to know what stirred within him during the attack. He needs to know if he sleeps or if he—"There is little time remaining," Faramir says, breaking off his thoughts. "In previous dreams, you have offered guidance and wisdom. Will you do so now?"

A pause. "For what do you seek?"

"I seek my King! I seek the men who are lost—"

"Yet how can you help them if you cannot even help yourself?" Gimli challenges.

Faramir stares at Gimli for a long moment, the myriad hints of various dreams swirling through his thoughts. A pattern begins to emerge. Some of the pieces come together. "You said before that I was less than what I must be," he says. "That I am less than whole. Then am I…divided?"

"Yes."

"As Legolas was divided," Faramir continues slowly. "Yet even bridging that divide, he was unable to thwart the attack. Or is he yet divided? In giving his mind to the Sea, did he lose more of himself?"

Something sparks in Gimli's eyes. "He returned to you, did he not? He stood with you during the attack. He would have had neither the ability nor the courage to do so if he had been less than whole."

"You said also that I fear the whole," Faramir murmurs. "That there is something in the whole I do not understand. But will understanding be enough? Or is it even now too late?" His jaw tightens. "The men went beneath the waters… Are they—"

"There is still time," Gimli says. "Time for you and time for them. But not much."

Faramir nods. At least he may yet hope. "What were those creatures? Never before have I seen the like, but I felt—"

"As I said before, I have no answers to your questions," Gimli interrupts. "Not yet. Soon. And then perhaps he will return. Perhaps you will also be whole."

"But what divides me? What is it—"

"Who are you?"

There is a new intensity behind this question. A hopeful air that has not existed before. But Faramir still does not understand what the dwarf wants as an answer. "Divided," he finally says.

Gimli says nothing, but his eyes are expectant. The mists seem to thin, and behind Gimli, something flickers. Something waits. Someone waits. Voices call him. Familiar voices. Demanding voices.

"Who—"

"Did you learn nothing of my name?" Gimli says softly, his shoulders slumping. The voices grow louder. The mists thin. "Did you learn nothing of that which stands behind a dwarf?"

"Faramir!"

Faramir gives a heaving gasp, struggling for air. He finds himself lying on his side, a hand pounding his back, and he curls around his stomach, coughing and hacking. A twisting in his gut is the only warning he has before he is violently ill and vomits up what feels like half the swamp. Wrappings his arms around his chest, he shakes grievously and continues to cough and retch.

"Faramir! Faramir, can you hear me?"

Whoever is hitting his back pauses, and his face is tipped upward. A dwarven lantern shines in his eyes. "Mablung?" he manages, his voice cracked and faint.

"Thank the Valar," comes the answer.

Something is drawn up over his shoulders, and his trembling fingers clutch a damp cloak, grateful for any semblance of warmth. His chest aches, and his frozen limbs want him to do nothing more than huddle as a shivering ball beneath the cloak. He ignores them both. "Help me up," he gasps.

There is a pause. "Lord Steward—"

"Help me up," he repeats, levering an elbow beneath himself.

A quiet oath reveals Mablung's thoughts on the matter, but an arm slides beneath Faramir and he is raised to a sitting position. "Far enough for now, my lord," Mablung tells him.

Faramir nods his agreement, still clutching the cloak around his shoulders. He looks about and discovers he is in the center of a group of concerned Rangers. He gives them a nod of acknowledgment before Mablung waves them back. Faramir is grateful both for the lack of scrutiny and for a clear view—as clear as the night will grant, at least—of his surroundings. He is back on the island, and the swamp is still. No hint of movement mars the surrounding waters. Nor is there much movement on the island; fear wraps cold fingers around Faramir's heart as he numbers the men. "The company—"

"Few remain," Mablung answers darkly. "The rest…are gone. I know not where or how. There is no trace of them or our attackers. We thought you were gone, also, when you fell beneath the waters. We would have missed you entirely had not Anborn's torch glinted off Legolas's knife."

Faramir shudders under the force of several wracking coughs, but he manages one question: "The elves?"

"Still here and still unchanged." Mablung suddenly grimaces. "Unchanged save one. Lord Legolas…"

Faramir straightens, wishing his stomach would stop knotting. "What of him?"

"He is as the others now," Mablung sighs. "Except that he murmurs to himself and shies away from our touch. His mind is restless, as though he fights something within."

"Of what does he murmur?"

A pause. "The Sea."

Faramir closes his eyes. "Of course." Water catches in the back of his throat and he begins to cough again, bowing over his writhing stomach. When the fit passes, he raises his head and meets Mablung's concerned face. "Are any of the remaining men injured?"

"No. Also, I have kept the company together. It did not seem prudent to pursue the enemy."

"How can one pursue what one cannot follow?" Faramir agrees bitterly. A coughing spasm strikes once more, and he clutches at his chest, willing his lungs to expand and his stomach to calm. Mablung's hand on his shoulder is a faint comfort at best, but he will take whatever comfort he can find. The most recent dream has left him unsettled.

"Lord Faramir…"

Mablung's quiet words are barely heard over the last of Faramir's coughs, but he catches the hesitant fear in the other's voice. Looking up, he suppresses the tickle in his throat and meets Mablung's eyes steadily. "The King lives, Captain. He lives, as do those we have lost. There is yet time. Were it not so, my dreams would not have led us into the swamp after them."

Mablung nods slowly. "Then I will continue to hope," he says, his voice no louder than a whisper.

"As will I," Faramir says and extends a hand. "Help me to my feet."

The remains of their camp are bleak, and Faramir's heart sinks as he walks among the elves and men. Just as Mablung reported, there is no change in the former with the exception of Legolas, who indeed seems troubled in spirit. Attempts to rouse him meet with failure, and eventually Faramir moves away, sensing only Legolas can fight his inner battle. As for the men… Faramir searches their faces, speaks quietly with each, assures them of his wellbeing, and does his best to rally flagging spirits. But it is a losing battle. Around them, mists coil and drift as though waiting. The island is a ship of lights in a sea of murk. But the lights will not protect them for long, and as though guessing his thoughts, Mablung leads him to a small collection of unlit torches and lamps. "These we have saved. If we are attacked a second time, perhaps we can do as we did before and light them after all others go out."

"Without an elf to draw the enemy into our midst, I doubt such a tactic will work a second time," Faramir answers. "This foe can pick us off one at a time from the edges. And whatever threat the elves posed to them, that threat has passed."

"Perhaps. But perhaps one among us poses an equal threat."

Faramir gives Mablung a sharp look.

"Though it crippled Legolas ere it came for us," Mablung explains, his eyes narrow, "our enemy recoiled in the midst of the attack. We were losing ground until then. But when one of our foes confronted you, Lord Steward, it stopped. The attack stopped. Then, as one, the creatures retreated into the water. And they did not take you with them." He pauses, his face darkening. "You were left behind, Lord Steward. Left to die in the swamp as the elves were left behind. The enemy fears you."

Faramir clearly hears the unspoken plea for an explanation; he would answer that plea if he could save that he has no explanation. Their foe recognized whatever it was that stirred in Faramir. Recognized and recoiled from it. But Faramir cannot say what that means, nor can he put words to express what he felt in himself. It was familiar. Unpleasantly so. Scattered memories, faint as if from a dream, come to him. Oil. Smoke. Flames. A broken voice. A desperate plea.

A father's last words…

He shivers and looks to the elves. He finds himself drawn back to Legolas, and he moves to kneel beside his friend. He lays a gentle hand on the elf's head, murmuring quiet words. Legolas shudders in response but does not answer. Faramir runs his hands down the elf's arms and presses against his ribs and back, looking for hidden wounds. There are none. The beat of the heart is steady and strong, albeit a bit fast for Faramir's liking, and his abdomen is neither hard nor distended. "Our enemy cared not for elven strength or prowess in battle," Faramir murmurs. "Even after enduring not one but two attacks, Legolas is whole in all save mind."

"Then what threat did the elves pose, my lord?" Mablung asks. "And how may we use it? For if we are attacked again this night—"

"We will be," Faramir says. He has not elven senses, but something lurks within the mist. Something watches and waits. But it is hungry, and it will not wait long. He glances around at the men. Their eyes are turned him, seeking guidance. In their hearts, he perceives the seed of resolve, and the inklings of a dangerous plan enters his mind. "Mablung, have we lanterns and torches enough to give one to each man?"

"If we douse most of those now lit, yes. Think you that you can draw the creatures into our midst as the elves did?"

"As for that, I cannot say. And without knowing why the enemy fears the elves, I am reluctant to try. But if we cannot draw these foes into our trap, perhaps we can be drawn into theirs."

Mablung stares at him. "Lord Steward?"

Faramir grips Legolas's shoulder. "Áni apsenë," he murmurs, not knowing if he intends the words for the elf or for his men. Perhaps both. But he has little choice in what he must ask, and the men have little choice if there is to be any chance of saving themselves or the King. Standing, he holds his arm aloft and waves his men in closely. "Our mission has not changed," he tells them as the Rangers bunch around him. "We still seek the King. And it has been given me to know that this mission is not yet beyond our reach. But our enemy lingers and will attack again."

He pauses to let his eyes sweep the assembled Rangers. Again, he weighs their hearts and finds resolve still. It will be enough. It has to be enough.

"We cannot defeat this enemy here," he continues. "We learned that earlier this evening. Yet we cannot leave, for what hope have we of finding this place again? And what hope have we that so few in number can provide safe escort for the elves? Nay. We must seek a different way. A dangerous way, for I will not deceive you. But we have seen that fire can confound this enemy. Therefore, if the enemy fears fire in our midst, how much more will this enemy fear fire in its own lair?"

A ripple of unease sweeps the men, but Faramir strides forward, his voice louder. "Tie a lantern to your belts! Lash a torch to your scabbards! Secret away oil and flint and steel, enough so that even in the dank and the rot you may strike a flame. We give ourselves to the jaws of an unknown foe, but we do not go willingly and we not go without a fight. Let them struggle to take us! Let them rue the day they sought to entrap the Rangers of Ithilien! And let them know our wrath when the trap closes and they find themselves caught in their own snare!"

As he speaks, Faramir feels the ebb and flow of emotions around him: Hesitation. Hope. And in the end, conviction. The men are willing to follow his lead. They huddle together, distributing oil and lanterns. Dousing torches. He stands back and feels his own skin of oil beneath his tunic. The enemy waits still, and he feels its regard. Something deep within him flares up in defense, but Faramir quickly silences it. He cannot voice his fear. He understands that now. He must be taken with his men. He cannot be left behind again, and as such, the enemy cannot recognize whatever threat he poses. He is still uncertain of what exactly is expected of him, but this strange burning within is part of it. Moreover, he has an inkling of its origin.

"We are ready," Mablung says.

And they are. They are as ready as men can be, at least, and Faramir is grateful. He feels the mists thickening and coiling. The enemy's regard is stronger than ever, and it will not be long now. Again, he quashes the familiar something that rose within him at the enemy's touch. The enemy searches for it, seeking it out as it sought out the elves. But Faramir holds himself in silence. It will find nothing.

The night deepens. The men stand together in a loose circle. They have positioned themselves away from the elves as a token gesture of both protection and regret. The best they can offer their allies is an attempt to keep the enemy away from them. After that, they must trust that they will succeed or that another party will find and rescue the elves. Desperate hopes for desperate times, and with a soft sigh, Faramir notes that such hopes and times are strangers to none of them.

Torches flicker fitfully. Water laps against the shore. A faint breeze teases Faramir's cloak. Sensing something in that breeze, he looks to the reeds and grasses growing on the island. They stand motionless. At his side, Mablung follows his gaze. They share a look and a nod.

The lights go out.

The enemy's second attack is far more sudden than the first. Perhaps Legolas's earlier awareness had somewhat to do with it, but before any can sound an alarm, every torch and lantern goes dark. The air turns frigid. The wind grows stronger. Waves begin washing onto the island.

"Stand fast! Stand together!" Faramir cries, drawing strength from the Rangers at his back. "Await my signal!"

The ground trembles. Water splashes over Faramir's boot. The waters are rising. Or rippling. In the darkness, he cannot tell. But it is not wholly dark. There is a shimmer to the mists. A faint, pale glow, and in that glow, it feels as though something is…opening. The wind strengthens. It is colder than ever, whipping around Faramir's arms—

That is no wind!

The realization strikes too late. Before he can act, his arms are pinned. He cannot move them. His legs are pinned, also, and something constricts so tightly around his chest that he cannot draw breath to shout. He hears strugglings around him. The scrape of leather. The ring of steel. The clang of iron. Gasps and grunts and hisses and cries for help. But the wind is a rushing, roaring creature, and every man stands alone. Faramir struggles to find Mablung. To find anyone else. Within him, a warm flame begs leave to burn, and Faramir ruthlessly shoves it back. He cannot afford to be killed for the threat he poses, and he cannot allow the attack to wane. The enemy must succeed. They must be taken to the others!

Something forces its way into Faramir's mouth. His nose. His ears. Crawling across his face and seeking out any crevice. Any opening. He gags and fights, whipping his head back and forth. Slimy tendrils tighten over his eyes, and his head it jerked back. His nose and mouth fill with the taste of the swamp. He struggles to breathe. To cough. To scream! He struggles with all of his impotent strength, but he is choking. Weakening. He retches, the foul contents of his stomach burning upward through his throat. They are stopped by the icy swamp moving deeper and deeper into his body.

His stomach twists. His lungs scream. He bucks against his captor, desperate for air. But the swamp is relentless. Sinuous vines snake about his arms. Legs. Hips. Exploring, twisting, constricting. He feels icy water in his ears. In his hair. Over his head. Darkness deepens. The fens open wide to receive him.

And muffled through the water, the reeds, and the buzzing in his head, he fancies he hears the ringing of bells…

Awareness does not come gently.

Faramir wrenches his eyes open with a strangled gasp. Chest heaving, he stumbles to his feet. He can still feel the clinging vines, and he rubs his arms hard, scrubbing at imagined filth and duckweed. A hacking cough sends him back to his knees, and his stomach threatens a repeat of its earlier performance. A particularly violent sneeze sparks a rolling headache that begins behind his eyes and spreads to envelop his temples and brow. Fighting desperately for control of his body, Faramir forces a shuddering breath and looks around.

The dream. He knows it with a certainty he can neither deny nor explain. It is the dream and not waking life.

But Legolas is nowhere to be seen.

Slowly, wary of this new development, he pushes himself back to his feet. He checks his scabbard, but that remains unchanged. There is still no sword. Clenching his fists, he turns a slow circle, watchful and waiting.

"There is no more time."

Faramir whips about, startled despite his precautions. The shadows lift and Gimli strides forward, his face drawn. "The whole of the dream has changed," Faramir says. "Do you wish for me to change as well?"

Gimli studies him. "Do you know what that means?"

"I know you wish me to be someone I am not."

Anger flashes in Gimli's eyes. "And still you do not understand!"

"I understand that you see me as divided and that, whomever you are, you have chosen a form with strong ties to his heritage. But what can heritage gain me in the battle against this foe?"

"The same victory that heritage won for itself! Do you think it not strange that only now do these creatures arise?"

Faramir cards his hands through his hair and opts for the direct approach. "I am not my father! Whatever stirs in me—"

"Whatever stirs in you is yours if you will but lay claim to it!" Gimli snaps. "But for the past two years, you have refused it, knowing from what heritage it stems!" He pauses, eyes flashing, and then, "Did you know that denouncing one's family is among the most grievous offenses that can be committed in dwarven society?"

"Yes," Faramir says slowly. "I was aware of that."

"There is no formal law or code against such an act," Gimli continues, almost as if he did not hear Faramir, "but the dwarf who does such becomes an outcast and a pariah among his people. Most offenders eventually choose a life of exile."

"In Gondor, it is frowned upon for a man to break with his heritage," Faramir says, "but our culture is not as strict in these matters as is the dwarves'."

"Perhaps it should be. What is a son but the sum of his parents?"

Anger nips at Faramir's mind. "I would think that a son could eventually become his own man."

Gimli's smile is hard and unforgiving. "There are rocks that change when given sufficient time or pressure or heat. Rocks that are separate and distinct from the foundation that made them. But there are still properties within the rocks that cannot be denied. Properties that hearken back to that foundation."

"Men are not rocks," Faramir says shortly.

"No," Gimli agrees, "they are not. Men are flesh, and as such, the changes they undergo are sharp. Harsh. Painful. But that which binds them to their foundation is stronger. Tighter. Deeper." The dwarf's eyes glint. "Centuries from now, scholars will look back on these years and proclaim your father to be the last of the Ruling Stewards. Those scholars will be wrong. For a short time, you were also a Ruling Steward, Lord Faramir. Be so again. Be whole again. You live a partial life, fearing the flames that both empowered and destroyed your family. But you cannot be Denethor's son if you deny the part of yourself that is Denethor." Gimli steps forward, the shadows thrumming with tension, and behind him, Faramir suddenly sees Legolas, the elven eyes shining in the darkness. And in that moment, Faramir sees him as he is in the dream: a choice. A choice to live in a self divided or to live both as Faramir and as Denethor's son. A choice Faramir has denied ever since the night when flames engulfed Rath Dínen. And now, at long last, Faramir understands.

"Who are you?" Gimli demands one final time.

Flames fill him. He recoils, fear rising hard and fast in the face of terrible memories. But behind the flames, he sees Minas Tirith. The crown. Elven eyes. The White Lady. Lost, all of it, if he does not choose—

And Faramir wakes…

He gags.

The taste in his mouth is foul, and he spends his first waking moments coughing and heaving. His lungs spasm, and it is difficult to draw a full breath. But at length, the paroxysms subside enough for Faramir to lift his head and look around.

He finds himself on the floor in the middle of a dank chamber. He has no need for his eyes to adjust to darkness, for the chamber is filled with a cold, flickering light. Slime coats the stone walls, and water drips from the ceiling. Roots twist and twine throughout the room, weaving in and around piles of…gold? Faramir rolls to one side and pushes himself to his knees. Yes, gold. Mounds of it. Coins. Goblets. Jewelry. Treasure enough for even a dragon's lusts, the polished metal gleams in the fitful light of a single candle. It sits ensconced in a high recess on one wall, barely visible.

Something draws a deep breath behind Faramir.

He freezes, and his right hand instinctively feels for his sword. He finds only an empty scabbard. Worse: The torch he lashed to that scabbard is also gone. But even as realization darkens hope, he turns his head to look and finds hope anew. The Rangers are here.

Partially hidden by a mountain of treasure, Faramir spies Mablung first. He spends a few precious moments watching the other's chest rise and fall with steady breaths. Then he moves to the captain, and as he does so, he numbers the other men sprawled in the twisting labyrinth of vines and gold. His findings coax a smile from his weary lips—all the Rangers who survived the first attack are yet with him. They have not been separated, and for the moment, they are alone. It will be enough. He gives Mablung's shoulder a shake.

Mablung does not respond.

Faramir shakes him again, hard this time. But Mablung's head rolls listlessly; his eyes do not even flicker. Faramir taps his cheeks. Whispers his name. Orders him to be up and about.

Nothing.

He moves to another man and repeats the process. Then to another. And another. But the results are the same. Grimly, Faramir recalls the words of the dream: None who enter this place can help him.

Realizing he will be unable to wake his men, he searches them instead. They all still have oil, flint, and steel, but beyond these things, they are unarmed. No weapons. No torches. No lanterns. Crouching beside one young Ranger, Faramir looks to the candle high in its shadowed hollow. His enemy fears fire, but a single candle is apparently no threat to them.

Still, fire is fire. Faramir takes the oils skins from his men, tying them to his belt. Then he retrieves the candle. As his hand closes around the candle's base—golden, like all else in the chamber—a shudder ripples through the room. Faramir whips about, candle held high, and his breath catches as a yawning hole opens behind the vines on the far side of the room. He shifts his weight to the balls of his feet and waits.

Nothing happens.

Faramir approaches the newly created tunnel slowly. Hanging roots and tendrils seem to wither and shrink before him as the candle moves closer. But Faramir spares them only a moment's attention as his gaze is drawn to the ground at the entrance of this dark passage.

Bones.

Recent bones. Not the bleached remnants of skeletons from Minas Morgul, but raw, bloodied remains still tangled in rent robes and tunics. He recognizes the rough fabric and cloaks of travelers. Merchants. Craftsmen. He shifts into a crouch and eases forward, one eye on the bones and one eye on the passageway. Torn sinews and ligaments speak of a violent death, but that is not what makes the scene horrifying. Faramir has frightened predators away from kills before, and he knows the signs of one animal feeding upon another. He finds evidence of that here.

A hiss and a groan freeze him in his tracks. Further down the dark passage, something shifts. He raises the candle for both better light and defense, but its tiny flame is feeble. There are mists in the tunnel, and he cannot see far ahead. He needs a larger flame. Something that will threaten.

Blood on the ground glistens darkly. Faramir glances down and thinks of the oil skins hanging from his belt. He closes his eyes, sickened by the knowledge of what he must do. But his stewardship is to the living. With a whispered apology, he tears apart one rent tunic, liberally douses it in oil, and wraps it around the end of a femur. He repeats the process several times over, his jaw tight and his mind carefully blank. When the grisly deed is done, he shoves the bones beneath his belt. Smelling of oil, blood, and rot, he takes the lone candle and starts down the passage.

Before long, the passage separates into several different tunnels, each one flowing away into a misty night. Faramir picks the foulest smelling tunnel and follows the odor. He has an idea that this scent will lead him to a gathering place. Creeping down the damp, cold passages, his mind is focused upon the details of the moment. He can afford no mistake. No misstep. He stops often to listen and look for signs that he is watched, but every time, he finds himself alone. It grates on the nerves, and his breath quickens.

The passage begins to widen. The roots are spaced further apart, though the air is wetter. Water runs freely down the walls, and Faramir's feet begin to sink in the mud and silt. Moving with greater care, he picks his way forward and cups a hand around the candle's tiny flame.

Voices sound somewhere ahead of him. Not men's voices. These voices are softer. Breathier, as of wind whistling through reeds. He can dimly make out words, but no language he has ever studied comes close to what he hears now. Twisting, snaking vowels skitter through his head, as gnarled and crooked as the paths of the Nindalf itself. Faramir presses himself close to the dripping walls of the passageway, shields the candle as he moves, and prays he will go unnoticed.

Mists coil around him, but they are not as dark as they once were. It is lighter now. Somewhere ahead of Faramir is another candle. Probably another chamber. His feet slow even more, and he lowers the candle so it is nearer the ends of his terrible, makeshift torches.

Something turns underfoot.

Faramir stops quickly. The water pooling on the floor is too dark. Too thick. He swallows and advances, knowing what he will find. And though he wishes it were not so, he soon discovers another collection of gnawed bones. This group is much smaller and more recent than the first. The tunics entwined around the bones are made of finer weave, and upon one, the White Tree of Gondor hangs as limp and dead as the trees of the fens.

He moves past the bones. There is no way to determine to whom they belong. What flesh remains is too mangled to identify. But beyond the bones, as the walls spread further apart, Faramir comes across another body. A living body. One that draws breath and one whose brow is furrowed and troubled, as though he seeks escape but cannot find it.

Aragorn.

Faramir nearly sobs with relief. He is now at the opening of a second chamber, vast and shrouded. The enemy lies somewhere before him, hidden by misty veils. But Aragorn lives. Moreover, Aragorn is struggling to wake; Faramir's heart soars! But when he shakes the King's shoulder, all he elicits is a sigh.

None who enter this place can help him.

Yet Aragorn lives. It is reason enough to hope.

Something sparks in the back of his mind. It is not the first time Faramir has felt such a spark in the last two years, but it is the first time he is consciously aware of his response: push the fire away. Silence it. Darken it. With effort, he does not. He lets it build. Lets its fill his thoughts. It is a slow burn now, but his mind is lighter because of it. Able to see further. Deeper. Clearer.

But this fire brings a darkness. A shadow. A terrible scream and a chill so cold it burns as much as the flames.

Within the chamber, the enemy groans.

A breeze brushes his cheek. The temperature plummets. Faramir eases one bone from beneath his belt and holds the candle close to his chest. There are shapes in the mist. They float toward him, testing and teasing. Both anger and confusion ripple through the chamber. He was not expected to wake, and the enemy is cautious. The breeze pulls at his hair. Something else pulls at his mind. A subtle lure. A seductive call. A whisper that drew travelers and soldiers into the fens, trapping them in waking dreams. He feels the connection. Knows it. Understands it. And with an ease that surprises him, he severs it. It withers before the dark flames in his mind. The enemy drops back a step. Faramir takes the opportunity to move away from Aragorn.

"Release us!" he commands.

The enemy confers. The strange, liquid language twists around him. Faramir turns a slow circle. Breathy voices fall silent. The figures draw closer.

"Release us!" Faramir demands again.

The mists thicken.

He raises the bone-torch to the candle. Fire wakes. Hot and bright, it banishes the darkness, forcing it back. A terrible shriek fills the chamber, and Faramir tosses the candle aside. He lights a second torch and throws it beside Aragorn before lighting a third. A fourth. The mists unravel. His enemies recoil.

Faramir pauses to seize an oil skin, ripping the stopper away by his teeth, and flinging the contents all around. He does it again and again. The chamber shudders. Hateful eyes bore into his. He moves to light yet another torch, but something seizes his hand. His arm. Twines around his shoulder, bruising and straining. The torch is wrenched from his grasp, but it lands in a pool of lantern oil.

The chamber erupts in flame.

A shrill, piercing scream tears his thoughts asunder. His head is seized and twisted sharply, his arms bound. The room shudders and shakes, plants and water falling from the ceiling. But Faramir sees only the face in front of him. Gray skin. Black eyes. Twisted. Disfigured. Murderous.

Tendrils flood his nostrils. His jaw is wrenched open, and a snaking vine forces its way down his throat. Fast. Merciless. Seeking to maim and kill. But flames now lick at Faramir's boots. At his jerkin. His tunic. He is a living torch both in body and in mind, for there is nothing to stop the memories now. He forces these memories onto his enemy. Joined, they share burning thoughts and screams of death.

The creature shrieks. Withers. Wrenches away, desperate to escape. But fey within the the flames, Faramir seizes him. Pulls him back to the pyre he once remembered only in his darkest dreams. Pulls him back to the shadowed fever that took him there. Forces him to burn. To writhe. To atone for all the nightmares and all the missing and all the bones within the passages.

Something crashes down behind them. In front of them. All around them. Voices shout. There are many writhing forms. Many in the mists. But Faramir holds tight to his own enemy as all the world blackens beneath flame. Smoke fills the air. He chokes and coughs. His lungs and throat are his own again. His fingers weaken. Others paw at his hands, yanking and forcing.

"Faramir!"

Faramir holds tighter. Faster. Stronger. Bright light blinds his eyes, warring with the red promise of flame. He hears more shouts. More screams. Water sweeps his feet away, and he falls, still clutching the writhing enemy.

"Faramir!"

He is wrenched away. His lungs fill with smoke. Mist. Darkness. Fire beckons. A face fills his view, framed by falling water. The flames fade. Dwindle. Faramir feels himself follow.

"Faramir!"

The flames die out, taking Faramir with them.

Áni apsenë – Forgive me

This time, awareness comes in fits and starts.

Faramir drifts in a sea of voices. Hands poke and prod him, and he shrugs away, seeking the comfort of darkness. But the darkness burns, filled with fire. The hands finally let him rest. The flames do not. Faramir retreats from them, seeking out the deeper shadows, but a voice follows. A voice that will not leave him alone. A voice that demands he sink no further into the sheltering dark. Faramir reluctantly agrees, and the voice asks no more of him.

He is vaguely aware of movement. Commotion. Frigid water. Warm cloaks. Horses. At one point, he thinks he sees sunlight twinkling off a gleaming tower. But then dark flames reclaim him, and weary, he lets them.

Blankets. Smoke. A sweet, lingering scent. Warmth on his brow. Gentle hands that turn him as he coughs, every movement agony to a swollen throat and weakened lungs. He tosses restlessly, and he is soothed as an infant. A familiar voices hums a wordless lullaby, and when Faramir drifts back into shadow, the night is no longer dark but gray. The flames smolder, quiet and dormant.

A dreamless sleep takes him.

When he wakes, it is to birdsong and a fresh spring breeze blowing through open windows. He is nestled beneath clean sheets and thick blankets. Linen bandages are wrapped about his arms, smelling faintly of lavender, and a fire burns in a broad hearth. He raises himself up on his elbows, but the movement is costly. Something jars loose in his lungs, and he is lost to a violent coughing fit. He gasps for air, unable to stop the spasms, and someone rolls him to his side, rubbing his back and whispering quiet words of encouragement.

"Lie still," the voice says as the fit subsides. "Do not move."

The words freeze him. His chest seizes, and in growing horror, he looks up into worried elven eyes. The dream? It cannot be! It cannot—

"Faramir?"

He recoils quickly, but the movement triggers another coughing fit. There is a shout beside him. Others draw near. He is pulled upward. Supported. Held in place as coughs wrack his shaking form. Another voice calls him. The same voice that commanded he fall no further into darkness.

"Faramir! Faramir, quiet your thoughts! Listen to me! Faramir!"

"Aragorn?" he gasps, still coughing.

"Yes." The voice is calmer now. The danger has passed. "I am here. You are safe. We are all safe!"

At the doorway, he hears Legolas speaking to another. In the corridor beyond them, others wait. There are too many people. Too many! Faramir pulls in a shuddering breath, his coughs dying away. Aragorn says something, and footsteps retreat. Trembling, waiting for his dream to strike at any moment, Faramir raises his head and looks around.

"Where—"

"The Houses of Healing," Aragorn says. "We arrived in haste shortly after the noon hour. It is now evening."

Faramir blinks, the explanation making no sense. "The Nindalf—"

"Restricted to all travelers for now."

For some reason, that surprises a sharp, mirthless laugh out of Faramir, but his lungs are not ready for such exertions. Again, he finds himself caught in a round of painful, convulsive coughs, and again he is aware of supporting hands and voices. When at last he can look up, he discovers that Legolas now holds him while Aragorn grinds herbs in a bowl.

"What happened?" Faramir asks weakly.

"You tried to inhale swamp water," Aragorn answers.

Faramir shakes his head. "No. No, I meant—"

"In a moment," Aragorn says. "We will tell you all we know, which is little enough. But first you must breathe deeply over this."

He pours steaming water into the bowl and then holds it beneath Faramir's face. Legolas continues to rub his back, and Faramir does as directed. Inhaling as deeply as he can, he feels some of the tightness in his lungs ease. He coughs twice, but the sharp pain is dulled now. For a long moment, they sit together in silence. When the waters of the bowl begin to cool, Aragorn removes it and Legolas guides Faramir back down onto the bed. The mattress dips as Aragorn sits beside him, and Legolas retreats to a nearby chair.

"What do you remember?" Aragorn asks.

Faramir hesitates, the dream's warning still sounding in his mind. But it is a faint warning, and he is certain of his earlier impression: The danger is passed. Steeling himself, he begins to relate what happened after the King's company departed into the swamp. He tells of receiving the messengers. He gives a fuller accounting of his dreams. He takes responsibility for convincing Beregond, Damrod, and Mablung to change the order of the camp. He speaks of uncovering Andúril beneath the water, and he describes the island where he found the elves.

His eyes dart to Legolas, and he pauses. But though the elf's face is strained, his eyes are resolute. He nods for Faramir to continue. With halting words, Faramir speaks of Legolas. Of a desperate gamble. Of the elf drawing the enemy into their midst and of the terrible creatures they fought. He does not share many details of his last dream, but he speaks openly of the fire he set in the dank chambers. Of the memories it stirred. Of the bones he used. Finally, he reaches the end of his knowledge, and he looks to Aragorn.

Aragorn looks to Legolas.

"In Dale, they are known as Mewlips," the elf says.

The word is only vaguely familiar. "Mewlips?"

"Creatures of the fens. We drove them from the eastern bounds of Greenwood centuries ago, but they live still in various parts of the north. I was unaware that any had found a home so far south." Legolas shakes his head. "I should have recognized them, but they were on us so quickly! And I have not faced them for many lives of men."

Faramir rolls the word over in his mind, but it stirs no lore. "I may have heard of them once…"

"Little is known of them," Legolas says. "They lust after gold and meat. The former they will steal from any passing traveler. The latter they desire from the flesh of men. There are tales of them luring the men of Dale and Lake-town, whispering to unguarded minds and open dreams."

"That is what was happening to the sick," Faramir murmurs. "That is why they sought to enter the swamps."

"So we believe," Aragorn says.

Faramir frowns. "But if the elves have faced them before—"

"We were too few in number," Legolas explains. "The elves can guard their minds in ways men cannot, and thus we are poor prey for the Mewlips. But they learned to turn our strength against us, forcing us to ward our minds so strongly that even we cannot escape. If there are many elves, we can overcome this. But with so few..." Legolas sighs. "Still, our fate was far better than the fate of the lost merchants and travelers."

"Or the fate of any taken by these creatures," Aragorn says darkly.

A haunted look flickers over the King's face, and Faramir's own memories betray him. He feels again the swamp closing around him. Over him. Within him. A foul taste fills his mouth, and his throat aches. Swallowing with difficulty, he asks, "How many of our own company failed to escape?"

Aragorn's gaze becomes firm. "Thanks to your efforts, we saved most. Remember that." He pauses. "But four were lost to us. We could not recover them, and their bodies lie somewhere in the swamp."

Faramir closes his eyes. He cannot seem to keep his thoughts in order. "What happened?" he whispers. "In the end, how did we escape?"

"I woke," he hears Aragorn say. "I had struggled long to wake, but it was with me as Legolas describes: my own mind warded against me. But the danger turned away, and I was able to open my eyes. The other men were also waking, and we discovered you in the midst of flames. Our enemy was withdrawing. Or say rather, our enemy was trying to withdraw. But you were holding them. The swamp opened up around us, and water rushed in. Perhaps the Mewlips sought to douse the flames, but the oil continued to burn atop the water. And the water kept coming. We had to break your hold on the enemy, or you would have stayed in the depths and drowned."

Faramir rubs a hand over his face and opens his eyes. "The afflicted men in the camp—"

"They are recovering. The elves also. They woke when the waters opened. With their help, the rest of us were able to reach shore. We started back, and Beregond met us along the way with supplies. It seems you are not the only one given to creative interpretation of the rules." Aragorn gives Faramir a hard look, but his eyes twinkle. The mirth disappears, though, as he continues. "You are the only one to suffer lasting harm. You are feverish, and you suffered burns to your arms. I do not like the sound of your lungs, either, and that concerns me most. I fear you may be abed for many days." Aragorn studies Faramir closely. "There is also a…shadow over your heart. I sought to coax you from it, but it was too deeply entwined." He searches Faramir's face. "Perhaps it is needful."

"Perhaps," Faramir murmurs, looking away.

Silence falls. Eventually, Faramir feels Aragorn's hand grip his shoulder. "Rest. We have sent for Éowyn, and I expect her to arrive tomorrow morning."

Faramir nods, and Aragorn stands, squeezing his shoulder before moving away. Legolas moves back to the bedside, and he takes Faramir by the hand, gripping tightly. "The reason we brought so many water skins with us was so that we would not need to drink—or inhale—the waters of the Nindalf," Legolas tells him.

Faramir manages a weak smile before sobering. "And what of those who drink the water of the Sea?"

An unreadable look passes over Legolas's face, and his gaze becomes distant. "They will always thirst for more," he sighs. "One day, they will thirst too much." His lips flatten into a firm line. "But that day is not yet come." He releases Faramir's hand and stands. "As Aragorn says, sleep! We will speak more tomorrow."

Faramir is left alone. His mind grasps after elusive answers, for there is much yet unexplained. But the demands of his aching body prove the stronger. With the shadows lengthening outside, Faramir gives in to the desire for sleep and sinks into a dreamless slumber.

But it is only dreamless for a time.

He knows he dreams. He knows what he dreams. But there is no Nindalf. No swamp. Only gray, swirling mists, weak and harmless. There is no power behind them.

"The threat is gone."

Faramir turns at the sound of Gimli's voice and watches as the dwarf steps forward from the darkness. "Why me?" he asks.

Gimli cants his head to one side.

"Why me?" Faramir repeats when the dwarf does not answer. "Why me and not Aragorn? Or Legolas? Or—"

"The elves had neither the numbers nor the knowledge to combat the mewlips," Gimli interrupts. "They were not prepared for them, and their power now is not as their power once was."

"Then why not Aragorn?" Faramir presses.

"Aragorn was not touched as by darkness as you. He fought against the Enemy's shadow for many years, but he did not succumb to the Black Breath as you did."

Faramir shakes his head. "I do not understand. And you have not made understanding easy!"

"Foresight needs a receptive mind, but in receiving foresight, your mind was laid open to the lure of your enemies. Thus, their whisperings became entangled in your thoughts, and the Mewlips could listen to your dreams. I dared not speak openly. They were already suspicious. From both your parents, you inherited the ability to ward your mind. They recognized that, and they watched you closely." The other sighs. "Too late we saw the danger from afar. We could not reach you before you were already within their reach. Dreams were our only recourse."

"Are they still your only recourse?" Faramir asks. "Or can you speak more openly now?"

"As openly as I usually do," comes the answer, and there is humor behind the words. "Why you and not Aragorn? Because of what the Mewlips fear. They have lived in these fens for many generations. Far more generations than even Legolas suspects. But until recently, they kept their presence hidden, for they feared Sauron's regard."

Faramir frowns. "Are they not the kinds of creatures he would wish to employ?"

"They do not like fire, as you observed," Gimli says. "And they could not endure the burn of the Great Eye. Moreover, Sauron had little to offer them. Their only wish was to feed and to be left alone with the hoards of their victims. They would take a traveler now and then, but for the most part, they slept. When at last they sensed Sauron was gone, they began to assert their power."

"What drove them back?" Faramir asks, dreading the answer.

Gimli gives him a long look. "One cannot come away from darkness unscathed. Both you and your father walked the very embers of Sauron's flames. But in escaping from those flames, you divided yourself. When you were called back from the influence of the Black Breath, you walled a part of yourself away. You sought to escape the touch of the Enemy, and in so doing, you also escaped much that was associated with those dark times. You walled away the part of yourself that came from your father. You walled away the flames that have driven your family. When you reclaimed those flames, you were able to draw upon the perception of a Ruling Steward. The Enemy's darkness forced the Mewlips from your mind, and your perception enabled you to follow. You were able to pierce the enemy's mind and remind him that fire comes not only from the Great Eye."

"Then...it was not the torch that drove the enemy back?"

"Does understanding still elude you?" But this time, Gimli is amused rather than frustrated. "The torch gave the fire physical form. It was needed. But it was only part of the answer. The fire in of the Enemy was also needed. You, Faramir, were the only one capable of both waking from the Mewlips' hold and returning their attack through means both seen and unseen."

Faramir rubs his temples. Though he sleeps, he feels he is too tired for this conversation. "What of the future?" he asks. "Can we prevent future attacks?"

"I would not worry overmuch about that for now. Set a watch for future years, but only a few of the Mewlips escaped." Gimli's eyes darken. "I underestimated your drive and determination. I did not expect you to take the battle so far, though perhaps I should have. In that, you and your father are very similar."

"You speaks as though know me well," Faramir says, searching the other's face. "You have always done so in these dreams. But you are not Gimli. And you are no dwarf."

"True. But you knew that already."

"Then why? Why appear as Gimli?"

"Because I could not appear openly and because you needed to find the answers yourself. This was a time when you had to do your own teaching and learning. The flames would not come unless you opened your heart to the things you had shut away. To the lessons and abilities Denethor gave you as his son. For that to be accomplished, I needed to appear as an equal. As someone who would challenge but not overwhelm, and as someone who would share the same struggle. Who would indicate the right direction."

Faramir stares at what appears to be Gimli. "Who are you?"

"A proud teacher of a most capable student." A familiar smile quirks the face. "You sought for the meaning behind my name, but did you never think to name me with something more meaningful? Something that speaks, perhaps, of dreams. Of Olórin?"

Faramir stiffens, and suddenly it is not Gimli who stands before him. The beard is longer. Whiter. The eyes glimmer, peering out at Faramir from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and a kindly laugh echoes through the shadows.

"Though you suffered for it, you have proven a very apt wizard's pupil. A sufficient son indeed, and a cherished one. Do not fear the fires of your birthright. Your father loved you, Faramir. He remembered it before the end."

Faramir starts awake, blinking in the darkness. He immediately begins coughing, and a cool hand cups his cheek, fingers running through his hair as he fights to breathe.

"Hush. Hush, I am here now."

He turns to look, and moonlight shimmers upon a river of flaxen gold. "Éowyn," he whispers, reaching for her. Her lips brush his brow, and he breathes in her warmth. Her scent. "Éowyn," he murmurs again.

"Yes. My apologies for waking you. I was changing the bandages on your arms."

He registers the scent of lavender, and he is glad her ministrations woke him. He is glad she is here. Her presence makes the swamp's memories faint. "They said you would not arrive until morning," he whispers.

She pulls back, eyes gleaming. "Gondor estimates travel by the standards of slow horses and cautious riders."

Faramir smiles. "You will have to teach them differently."

"I intend to. And you and I will have words later," she says firmly. "There is much about your adventure the King and Legolas would not share with me, but what little I gleaned did not make for a pleasant tale." Her gaze sharpens. "I do not want to be frightened for your sake again."

Faramir sighs and holds her hand to his cheek, hearing the fear in her voice. "I do not know that I will always have a say in the matter."

"Why not?"

He fights off a chuckle, knowing it will only prompt a coughing spasm. "Would you have me command the fates?"

"Yes," she tells him shortly. "The fates are as nothing when compared to the taming of a wild maiden of the Riddermark."

"Not so tame," Faramir teases, and she silences him with a kiss.

"It is late for talk," she whispers against his lips. "Sleep. I will be here when you wake."

He laces his fingers through hers. She draws back just enough to see his eyes, and her brow furrows.

"Éowyn?"

"You are different."

He swallows. "I—"

She shakes her head. "No matter. The difference will make you strong. The King says it teaches wisdom. I also learned that lesson once. We will learn it again together."

Faramir nods slowly, and she begins to stroke his hair. His eyes drift shut of their own accord, but he fights to stay awake. He forces his eyes open, still wary of flames and of dreams.

"Sleep," she tells him. "There is no threat here. Close your eyes."

The burn within his heart ebbs. Stars and moon give the night a gentle glow. Far away, as though through distant mists, he hears her promise taken up by a wandering pilgrim.

Rest. I will guard your dreams this night.

Whole and at peace, Faramir sleeps.