She knew she was dying.

It would be soon, she thought – very soon. She hated to leave her boys this way; she hated to leave the father of her children. Of her firstborn child, she corrected herself silently, though her youngest knew not his true sire. That…that must change. Her brother could take him, but…no, he would still be too close to the scandal. Curse the old Steward for – no. She would not curse the Dead, especially not when his machinations had bought her five years with a loving, beautiful little child she could not have borne otherwise.

“Meluiel, my writing tablet, please.”

“Of course, milady. Shall you dictate to me?”

“No, Meluiel. This must come from my own hand.” She received the tablet on her small lap-desk, pushing herself up in bed, and steeling herself to write. “See I am not disturbed, Meluiel.”

“Of course, milady.” Her servants would have to be provided for, she thought dimly, and then refocused on her task.

To the trusted and full-worthy Captain Targon of Gondor, birthed of Arnor, she began, writing in Quenya so as few as possible would understand. She did not wish to be spied upon.

In the days of my father-in-love Ecthelion II of Gondor, you came here with your kinsman Thorongil, who was Captain alongside my husband, a post you now hold for him. He may not have confided the reason he absented himself from the service of the Stewards, so now I commit it to writing at last. I am dying. What have I to lose by it? But my son, my Faramir, has everything to lose – for what Steward would look kindly upon a baseborn son, a Northerner’s get, and to know his own father orchestrated the circumstances? I write to Thorongil to tell him, as well, and I only hope the letter will reach him – but in case it does not…

She continued to write, confessing how she, under Ecthelion’s commands, had drugged her husband and her heart-brother, and had coerced one to get upon her the child that the other would not, while convincing her husband that the child was, indeed, his – from a night he could not remember. It had gone against the grain of her morality, and yet – and yet, a Prince of the North had been born, and Heir to Isildur, for she had divined what Denethor had only guessed. She only hoped that with her death, he would be returned to his father, and his people…

Writing the letter to Thorongil, she entreated him to forgive her.

If you cannot forgive me, otornya, or forgive Atar Ecthelion, then I understand, she wrote, again in Quenya. But, Thorongil, Faramir is your son – not my husband’s. He must return to you. Please, do not forsake him in his need – he is but a child. Please, for any love you ever bore me, as sister-kin, do right by him.

When she had finished the letters, she sealed and addressed them, and sent them with messenger birds – one to Captain Targon, and the other winging its way toward the North, wherever her heart’s brother might be. She prayed the Valar would speed them on their way…

***

Gilraen was with him when the letter finally found him. Aragorn slit it open, his eyes taking in the lines of flawless Quenya; he sat down, eyes wide. “Naneth…it is from Finduilas,” he said quietly.

“Denethor’s wife?” The Lady of the Dunedain turned a puzzled look upon her son. “Why does Denethor’s wife write to you now?”

“Because…” Aragorn exhaled slowly, passing her the letter. “I sired one of her sons.”

Gilraen went very still, and outside, listening ears pricked up. Ivorwen swept inside. 

“You would betray Arwen, daerion muin? The Lord Elrond would not be pleased, and nor would the lady herself, I daresay.”

Aragorn shook his head, as Gilraen passed her mother the letter. The women exchanged glances.

“If Ecthelion were not already dead,” Gilraen began quietly, fiercely. Aragorn held up a hand.

“There is a child to think of. My child. You are a Daernaneth now, Naneth. Will you not think of him before waging war on his daeradar’s memory?”

Gilraen smiled wanly. “Me, a Daernaneth. Who would have thought it?” She shook her head slowly. “Very well. You will bring the boy here?” 

“Finduilas mentioned she wrote to Uncle Targon. I imagine he will escort my son – but we must be ready.”

“That we must.” Ivorwen leaned on her staff, pressing a kiss to her grandson’s brow. “Thank you, daerion muin, for giving me the gift of your son before I die. I do not plan on it for a while yet – the boy will need me,” she added wryly. “He will need all of us.” 

He would, Gilraen reflected as her mother left them alone. For this was a woman’s struggle, amongst their folk; while their menfolk wandered the Wilds, guarded the Shire, and occasionally returned home to live for a time, they remained sequestered in their scattered villages, bringing forth and raising the Hope of the Dunedain, their children – training with sword, bow and sling to keep their families safe. Faramir, then, was the next embodiment of that hope. 

The Prince of the North must return. Bereft of his naneth he might be, but he had her. He had Ivorwen, and he would have a number of aunts and cousins to see him through. The women of the Dunedain would never forsake a child, any child. If Master Elrond tried to take this one from her – she would fight.

Dead.

Nana was dead. It was his fault, Fara knew. He'd heard Father say it, he'd heard Brom say it, over these past two weeks, even when Brom apologised right after, looking upset. Upset with himself, or upset with Fara - the Steward's second son didn't know. That's all he was - even at the tender age of five, he knew that much. The spare, the unnecessary one who'd made Nana ill with his birthing, and driven away Brom's hero, Captain Thorongil.

It was always Captain Thorongil this and Captain Thorongil that. Except when Father was present, because Father didn't like to hear about Captain Thorongil for some reason. So Fara had taken to wandering, dressed in clothes he'd oh-so-cleverly borrowed from a stable lad's wardrobe and torn down to his size. It made him look like a street urchin, but he didn't mind.
Maybe he'd be better off as a street urchin than the second son of the Steward of Gondor.

Maybe he should leave, like Captain Thorongil had done. That was what brave heroes did, like Grandfather and Captain Thorongil. They left. By ship or by grave, it was an old saying, and Captain Thorongil had gone to be with the ships.

So, his mind made up, Fara found himself a haversack. He stuffed Mithvor inside, because he couldn't leave without the cat Nana had made for him. He crept down to the kitchen, quieter than mice - mice squeaked and Fara didn't make a single noise. He found the apple barrel. One would have to do, bread from the low shelf, and a nip into the dairy provided a bit of cheese. He grabbed an old waterskin and filled it at the pump outside, and then he was on his way. 

Fara knew his way through the lower Circles. Wandering through the streets, where no one gave him a second look, he made his way toward the great gates, hoping to slip away unnoticed, and then...well, and then something. He'd get to Uncle Imrahil, or something. Maybe he could nip out in a waggon headed for Uncle Imrahil's lands. He was so intent on finding one that he didn't realise he was being followed, after all. No waggons outfitted with the swanship sigil of Dol Amroth seemed to be at market, and he resigned himself to walking. If he could find it, that is. He made it out of the great gates in the crowd, ignored by every pair of eyes save one.

He walked, and he walked, until his feet ached, and he tumbled down underneath a tree, in the shade of Mount Mindolluin. "It hurts, Mithvor," he confided in his cat, looking into the button eyes. Mithvor seemed sympathetic enough, and he hugged the cat tightly.

"Well, young master, perhaps you ought not to have walked so far alone," said a voice out of the shadows. 

Fara gasped. "Oh...please, don't hurt me," he said.

"If I'd wanted to hurt you, lad, you'd have been drowning in your own blood ere you reached the Gates," came the ominous voice. Faramir gulped.

"Who are you?" he managed to stammer out, and to his surprise, the man who stepped forward smiled at him, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. He looked remarkably like Father, Faramir thought, except he wore a grey-green cloak over his Gondorian uniform, pinned with a silver star. Father, even in uniform, never did that. 

"My name is Captain Targon. I am a kinsman of Captain Thorongil," he said. "And you are Lady Finduilas' son, are you not?"

Fara eyed the Captain warily, focusing on the grey-green cloak he wore, rather on the sharp eyes that seemed to see right through him. "Yes," he said, more to the man’s star than to him.

"Captain Thorongil was a very good friend of your naneth," Targon said. "She was almost a sister to him, while he dwelt in Gondor. He was very upset to hear of her passing, but he was concerned for her sons." 

"Brom is all right," Fara said dubiously. He was ten, after all. "He's big, he'll be in academy soon. Father still loves him."

Targon's gaze sharpened. "The Lord Steward does not love you, Faramir?"

"I killed Nana," Fara said simply. "He wants me gone."

"Captain Thorongil's kin would be happy to take you, for you are his near-sister's son," Targon said quietly. "I am his uncle, and I assure you that you would be welcome." He didn’t look old enough to be Captain Thorongil’s uncle, Faramir thought. If Captain Thorongil was Father’s age, and Brom had said he was, then this man couldn’t be much older than that. But that was a mystery for later.

"How do I know Captain Thorongil wants me and not Brom?" Faramir asked suspiciously. "Everyone likes Brom better. Brom loved Captain Thorongil."

"The Lord Steward's son would be welcome, too, though I imagine Denethor would not permit it so easily," Targon said drily.

Faramir rocked back on his heels, looking at Mithvor and not at Targon, for several moments. Finally, he looked up. "You said I am Lady Finduilas' son, and Brom is the Lord Steward's son."

Cursed clever of him, Targon thought ruefully. "You have your father's keen wit," was all he said aloud, and Faramir stared at him.

"I'm not Brom's real brother?" he asked.

"You are his brother, for you have the same mother," Targon allowed. "But Lord Denethor is, by all accounts, not your father."

He wondered what he had expected. Perhaps for the child's world to tumble down around him, for Faramir to cry that no, it could not be true, his beloved Naneth could not have begotten him by another. But instead, this wise-eyed child regarded him as though he were an interesting puzzle whose pieces finally fit into place.
Finally, Faramir spoke. "Captain Thorongil is my ada? That's why he wants me and not Brom?"

Targon nodded. "Yes. He is. I will not tell you why, that is his choice, and if he chooses to wait until you are older, then you must wait."

Faramir considered that, and sighed. "Nana and Mithrandir said that a lot."

Targon mentally rolled his eyes. Of course that interfering Wizard had been involved with the boy. "Of course. Well, my waggon is just up ahead, and we have a long journey ahead of us. If," he added, "you accept your ada's invitation." 

Faramir smiled bravely. "Oh, yes. But...can we come back to visit Brom sometime?" He would miss his brother more than anyone else in Gondor.

"I think that could be arranged, after you get to know your ada better," Targon said. He scooped Faramir up and carried him to the waggon, sighing as he realised the little boy weighed nearly nothing. Lifting Faramir up beside him on the driver's seat, he clicked his tongue to the horse and they were off. They would stop soon at a roadside inn where he and Faramir could have a proper bath, a meal, and he could change the lad's clothes for something other than rags. He'd been following Faramir ever since Finduilas' death, and had been making arrangements for this day - he knew new clothes would have to be provided.

When they got to the inn, Targon put up the waggon himself, securing their goods and carrying Faramir inside. No one looked twice at Targon, who claimed (perfectly truthfully) that he was bringing his nephew home after a long visit in Minas Tirith, and they were in need of a good supper, a bath, and breakfast in the morning. A silver penny and a handful of copper farthings saw to their room and board. There were no stairs to climb, for their room was on the ground floor, and Faramir, weary and foot-sore already, was glad of it.

Targon noted that the tub was large enough for both himself and Faramir, and helped the boy into the tub with him. Faramir blinked in surprise. "Father never wanted to share my bath," he said.

"It is the way things are done, in the North. Does that worry you?" Targon asked, and he helped Faramir wash as he bathed. Faramir shook his head.

"Just different," he said. "I guess Rangers bathe together in the river. Brom's going to be a Ranger."

"If you wish it, so will you, some day," Targon said, beginning to wash Faramir's hair. "A Ranger of the North."

"I can be like Brom?" Faramir brightened.

"You can be like Brom...and your Ada," Targon said. Faramir's smile was answer enough. 

When they got out of the bath, Targon dressed and slipped a clean night tunic over Faramir's head. Faramir wriggled a little. "This isn't mine," he protested. 

Targon smiled faintly. "It is now, little one. Bedtime." 

There was just the one bed, but that suited Targon just fine; Faramir snuggled up to him for warmth, and he pressed a light kiss to the boy's hair. "Sleep well, nephew," he murmured. 

"Goodnight, uncle," Faramir said around a yawn, and within minutes he was asleep. Targon followed him into slumber. 

The next morning, Targon woke early, ere the grey light of false dawn breached the horizon. It was a pounding on the door of their room that woke him, and he could tell Faramir had woken, too, the small arms twined round him tightening with fear.

"Open this door! Open in the name of the Steward!" 

Targon gently loosed Faramir from his grip, and pressed a finger to his lips. The child nodded anxiously, curling up in a ball under the covers as Targon wrapped a robe around his shoulders. He answered the door with a tolerant smile. "Ah, a farewelling party," he said ingenuously. "How may I help you, my fine gentlemen? I did not think you would miss me already."

The men had been part of his company, and paused, realising just who the Steward had sent them after. "Sir," one of the soldiers, called Mallor, said anxiously. "Sir, the Lord Steward's son has gone missing."

"He has?" Targon's brow furrowed. "I had not heard that. I am sure my lord Denethor must be frantic, but I assure you, Mallor, I have not seen the Lord Steward's son anywhere."

"Well..." Mallor faltered. Truthfully, the Lord Steward had seemed less concerned with Faramir's disappearance, and the fact that somehow, he was convinced one of the Northern sellsword captains had stolen his son. Mallor just hadn't realised said captain was Targon. "Far be it from me to doubt you, m'lord Captain, but the innkeeper did see you in company with a child..."

"My nephew, Faran," Targon said smoothly. "Faran, come here." 

Faramir slipped out of bed and padded over to his Ada's uncle. Thin enough that his ribs were beginning to show, clad only in a sleep tunic with his hair plastered to his cheeks, he looked younger than his five years, and not very much like one might expect the Lord of the Citadel's child to look. "I want sleep, uncle," he said, affecting a tone very like a whine. "Please?"

Mallor looked at the waif before him. The child was of obvious Númenórean descent, but he heard tell from Targon that the scions of Númenor bred even truer in the North than in Gondor. He was much too thin and small to be a nobly born heir, or even spare, Mallor decided. "How old is the lad, sir?"

"Four," Targon lied easily. He did look younger than five, especially right then.

"Then he is not the Lord Steward's boy, sir. I am sorry to have bothered you," Mallor said humbly. "But you understand, sir, I had to do my duty to our Lord."

"Your Lord, Mallor," Targon replied. "I am returning home with Faran. He has taken ill here, and the Northern air of his home will suit him better. I hereby resign my commission to Gondor, and I hope that I have served her well."

"I will tell the Lord Steward, sir," Mallor said. "Thank you. For everything. I hope your boy gets well soon."
Once the soldiers had left the inn, Targon hugged Faramir tightly. "There now, nephew, I have you safe," he promised. "No one shall ever take you back to Gondor against your will. Ever."

Faramir nodded. "Uncle? Is my name Faran now?"

Targon's eyes glinted with humour. "Well. Your Ada has many names. Let us say you have acquired a new one - but you do not need to adopt it for everyday use if you do not wish it."

"I will wait and ask Ada," Faramir decided. "Father named me Faramir, so maybe Ada will like Faran better."
Targon settled Faramir back in bed as the grey light promising Anor's rays filtered into the room. Instead of going back to sleep, the boy lay on his side and watched Targon sort through the pack he'd brought inside. There were four sets of tunics and leggings inside that were all far too small to be Targon's, and made of deerskin leather. Four pairs of soft leather shoes followed, and the lad crept out of bed, coming to Targon's side for a closer look. "Those won't fit you, uncle," he observed.

"No, they won't," Targon agreed with a faint smile.

"Who are they for?" 

Targon raised an eyebrow. "For such a clever lad, you can be woefully dense at times," he said drily. "Who do you think they are for, nephew?"

"Do you have little boys at home?" 

Targon snorted wryly. "I do not. My sons are about Lord Boromir's age," he said drily. "These would not fit them, either."

"They're not for me," Faramir said slowly, tone laced with doubt. He risked a glance at Targon. "Are they?"
"Do you see any other lad around here your size, in need of Northern attire?" Targon chuckled. Faramir's eyes were round as saucers.

"I've never had anything like these," he said, fingering the leather. Brom would laugh, he was sure - at home they wore cloth, not leather, and to wear so much leather would seem barbaric to his brother. A leather jerkin over one's tunic or some leather armour ought to be enough.

"They are more durable, living as we do in the Wild," Targon explained. Faramir nodded; he could see that. 

"I like them. Can I try them?" 

Targon smiled indulgently and helped his nephew into the tunic and leggings, showing him how to lace up the shoes. "There you are. What do you think, little one?"

Faramir beamed. "I like them," he said again, and Targon looked at Faramir, pleased by what he saw. A true Ranger-child, this one; he was sure the little one would take well to the North. There was a light rap at the door, and Targon went to answer it; it was the innkeeper, Bregor.

“If you please, Captain, you may take breakfast in the common room with your boy, or I can have it brought to you; whichever you would like.”

“If you would bring a simple meal to us, of your courtesy, I would be much obliged, Master Bregor,” Targon replied. “I am sorry for the disruption; my nephew and I will be leaving after we have eaten.” The other Man bowed, and withdrew, returning with a tray; tea, milk, porridge, lightly toasted bread, and rashers of bacon! It would be a long time before either of them had bacon again, once they were home, he thought – and the toast was not even burnt, but drizzled with honey. He would have expected no better than scorched crusts after the trouble his men had caused! But he thanked Bregor, and once the innkeeper had gone, called Faramir to the small table to enjoy the meal. 

Faramir ate voraciously, and twice Targon had to caution him to slow down – he had obviously not eaten properly since Finduilas died, at least, and wolfing his food would just make him ill. Still, it was good to see Faramir had a healthy appetite now. He just hoped no ill would befall them as they journeyed up the Road... 

They set out upon their journey, travelling the great North-South Road in company with other waggons. It would be harder, Targon thought, for Denethor to find them in the midst of a company of travellers than if they were alone. Most of the waggons were unremarkable, simple carts, really, and turned aside at this place or that. But others had sigils proclaiming the lords they belonged to, or that their owners served, and as they came to the end of their day at last, Faramir spotted one bearing the swanship on blue that signaled Dol Amroth. He blinked in surprise. What business would his grandsire's people have, travelling North, away from Minas Tirith? 

Surprising Faramir again, Targon hailed the other waggon, and it drew up alongside theirs. The driver halted the horses, and they stopped to camp together for the night. The driver greeted Targon with a firm arm-clasp, and turned to look at Faramir, then Targon. Pairs of sea-grey eyes met and widened.

“Orodben! Cousin, what do you here?” Targon asked, breaking the silence between Orodben and Faramir. He had been surprised to see one of his family, if only by marriage, so far from home.

“Visiting my kin is a crime?” Orodben laughed. “What do you think you are doing with my Prince’s grandson?” he asked, as they built a cook-fire. “Do not try to tell me it is not he. I have heard the news, Cousin. It has travelled swiftly from the City to Belfalas.”

“He is rather more than your Prince’s grandson,” Targon said drily. Faramir continued to stare. Orodben, or Lord Orodben as he had been introduced to him, was a second cousin of his grandfather, Prince Adrahil. But he did not live in Dol Amroth that much – he lived somewhere far away, and came to Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith to trade goods from…the somewhere else. Faramir had never been permitted to ask.

“Faran, do not stare at your cousin, it is impolite,” Targon said. Faramir sat up straight, accepted the rebuke with a meek nod, and whispering an apology, turned his attention to the pot of stew Orodben was stirring. He wrapped his arms around Mithvor and watched the dancing flames. 

“I am sorry, Uncle Targon.”

“Faran? Uncle? I sense there is a long tale to tell,” Orodben said. Targon nodded, but first he turned to Faramir. 

“Lord Orodben is married to Aragorn’s – that is, Thorongil’s – cousin Meril,” he explained. 

“That makes him Ada’s cousin too,” Faramir said, and Orodben’s mouth fell open. Ada?

“You had better sit down, I think, Cousin,” Targon said. “This is, indeed, a long tale.”

It was a tale, in fact, that lasted long past supper’s being eaten – Faramir was tucked up in the waggon to sleep by the time Targon had finished, since Orodben kept interjecting with questions. The other Man looked ruefully at Targon. “Forgive me, Cousin, but it is such a difficult tale to believe…”

“Yet it is so, for the Lady Finduilas would not have reason to tell falsehoods as she lay dying,” Targon countered. Orodben nodded.

“Aye, it must be so at that.” He looked back toward his waggon where the child slept. So young, he thought. The little one was much too young to have any ulterior motives of his own. No, the Isildurchil Dithen was innocent of any crime.

While Faramir slept, Orodben and Targon carefully moved all Targon’s goods to Orodben’s waggon, adding Targon’s horses to Orodben’s to help pull the load. The now empty waggon was abandoned by the roadside, carefully made up to appear set upon by bandits. Faramir’s old clothes were left behind, stained with the blood of the rabbit Orodben had used in the stew.

Denethor, they knew, would expect Targon to set a course for Dol Amroth. But under cover of night, sleeping by day, they continued up the Road for a fortnight. They followed the course of the Ered Nimrais, to enter Rohan and find what lay beyond.

Edoras!

It was to be hoped the Belain would incline Theoden King’s heart toward a fair welcome.

Creators' Notes (optional): I disclaim any text that you recognise as Tolkien’s, from “The King of the Golden Hall.” I also disclaim descriptions from “Stirrings of Shadow”, my late Atto Fiondil’s story of Aragorn’s time amongst the Rohirrim, which I have adopted as part of my headcanon concerning Rohan and the Rohirrim. He gave me the right to play in his ‘verse; this story is done partially in tribute to him, and with love to his memory.

”Earntungol” is the Rohirric rendering of “Thorongil”, according to my Atto Fiondil’s fic Stirrings of Shadow. Cyneheard is the Rohirric name chosen by Aragorn’s maternal uncle Beren, and Baldric is as near to a Rohirric rendering of “Targon” as I could come. In my headcanon, Aragorn rode with two of his youngest uncles – one from each side of the family – on his travels South. Beren married a woman of Rohan, and Targon alone accompanied Aragorn to Ecthelion’s court.

Summary: Faramir and his companions reach Edoras, and are escorted into the hall of Theoden King.

Eventide of the fifteenth day saw them draw near to the gates of the great City of the Horse-Lords. Faramir’s eyes widened as the golden-red sunset glowed like fire above the great Golden Hall, and he snuggled into Targon’s chest, staring up at the marvelous sight. Targon put him to bed, though he had risen mere hours before, and said it would be best if they approached Edoras in the morning.

The morning was bright and clear about them, and birds were singing, when they came to the stream. It ran down swiftly into the plain, and beyond the feet of the hills turned across their path in a wide bend, flowing away east to feed the Entwash far off in its reed-choked beds. The land was green: in the wet meads and along the grassy borders of the stream grew many willow-trees. Already in this southern land they were blushing red at their fingertips, feeling the approach of spring. Over the stream there was a ford between low banks much trampled by the passage of horses. The waggon passed over and came upon a wide rutted track leading toward the uplands.

They passed the barrows of Théoden’s sires, blanketed in white evermind; following the winding way up the green shoulders of the hills, they came at last to Edoras, where many men clad in bright mail stayed their progress.
“Stay, strangers here unknown!” they cried in Rohirric, and Targon laughed, stepping forward into the light. 
“Am I then a stranger to you, Aldor of Aldburg, Aelfgifu’s brother?” he demanded. “New-come you must be to Edoras, if you would look upon kin so. I am known to the Rohirrim; Baldric I was called, who rode with your father’s éored thirty years past, with my kinsmen Earntungol and Cyneheard.” 

Aldor bowed. “Cyneheard I well recall, for it was I who placed my sister’s hand in his,” he acknowledged. “I remember you, lord, and Earntungol. I pray you will forgive an old man – thirty years is long to wait before a sight of one’s near-cousins. Who then are these?”

“I am Lord Orodben, kin to Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth,” Orodben said, in flawless Rohirric. Aldor’s eyebrows rose slightly. 

“A pleasure, I am sure, my lord. And the boy?”

“Faran son of Earntungol,” Faramir spoke for himself. “We wish to speak to Théoden King. Please.”
Aldor smiled slightly. “Remain here. Baldor will convey your words to the King.”

The younger Rider departed, and the body of warriors dispersed, except for Aldor, at the aging man’s word.
“Faran son of Earntungol, heh?” Aldor looked keenly at the child. “Then he is not Faramir, son of Denethor, I guess, although he matches the description the Lord Steward sent.”

“What would Théoden King do if I was?” Faramir asked, frowning.

“The Lord Steward wishes Lord Faramir, if or when he is found, to be summarily brought before the Steward’s Chair along with his captors, to undergo judgement,” Aldor said.

“But what would Théoden King do?” Faramir insisted.

“I guess you had better ask him that yourself, Master Faran,” Aldor said drily. Baldor returned mere moments later, and bowed to the Northern lords. 

“Théoden King will see you now. You must leave your weapons with Aldor,” he added. Targon and Orodben had expected that, and dutifully left their swords behind.

Faramir sucked his lip anxiously when the men weren’t looking, padding at Targon’s heels. Baldor led them across a portico, where there were pillars made of mighty trees hewn in the upland forests and carved with interlacing figures gilded and painted. The doors also were of wood, carven in the likeness of many beasts and birds with jeweled eyes and golden claws. Although the doors were closed, they were not barred and Baldor pushed one of them open enough for the men and child to enter before closing it behind them again.

Inside, it seemed dark at first and Faramir had only an impression of a vast space filled with people milling about. Gradually his eyes adjusted and he saw before him a long and wide hall with mighty pillars richly carved upholding its roof. Bright sunlight fell in shafts from the eastern windows high under the eaves. The floor was paved with stones of many hues. Tapestries adorned the walls and banners hung from the beams. Even on this warm day a clear wood fire burned on the long hearth in the midst of the hall. Beyond the hearth and facing north towards the doors was a dais with three steps and in the middle of the dais was a gilded chair, richly carved and painted. Above the throne hung a green banner with a running white horse — the sigil of the Rohirrim.

People stood between the pillars talking softly in small groups. Those nearest the doors had turned to see who had entered and were surprised to see those who appeared to be Stanlendings, but were allowed little time for speculation for at that moment an old man bearing a wood staff stepped in front of the dais and banged upon the floor three times.

"Westu, Théoden, hál!" he cried and the crowd echoed him even as the king of the Mark entered from the east side of the dais, followed by a noble lady and lord – Targon whispered to Faramir that these were the King’s youngest sister, Princess Théodwyn, and her husband, Lord Éomund. Between them walked the Crown Prince, Théodred Aetheling, who was just Boromir’s age, and the prince seated himself on a bench near his father’s throne, between his aunt and uncle. Faramir felt a pang of loneliness as he met the Aetheling’s eyes across the room. I miss Brom, he thought, and wondered if the prince would like him or not. He completely missed the last member of the royal party, so intent was he on Théodred.

Éomund rose, and moved to stand on the seated King’s left, cradling a naked sword with its hilt pointed toward Theoden. The court was called to order, and Faramir prepared himself to be bored, until a slim, feminine hand touched his shoulder.

“Wouldst thou like to sit with me, son of Mundburg?”

Faramir spun round, eyes wide. The woman who had spoken was tall, her grey eyes and dark hair, streaked with grey, speaking of her Southern heritage. She was gowned in dark green, laced with gold, and her hair was gathered in a netted snood studded with diamonds. “It would be my honour, little cousin. I am Morwen Cynige, Queen Mother of Rohan, once of Lossarnach.”

Faramir bit his lip. “Uncle, may I?”

Targon bowed to Morwen, then nodded to Faramir. “Far be it from me to refuse a Queen,” he said wryly. “Behave, now.” 

Slipping his hand into Queen Morwen’s, Faramir allowed her to lead him to Théodred’s bench. He found himself beside the Prince, sandwiched between the two leading ladies of Rohan – and so, Théoden’s court continued.

Creators' Notes (optional): In informal settings, Theoden will sometimes speak Sindarin with his family. This is because his mother is a woman of Gondor, and his father dwelt for many years in Gondor - in fact, Theoden was born there - so it has become a bit of a tradition to speak in Sindarin. (I didn't exactly write this with the Family Traditions prompt in mind - I'm not sure it counts lol!)

Summary: Faramir interacts with the royal family of Rohan, and begins to understand what ties his true father had to them.

The petitions of Théoden’s folk were heard before the court was cleared; only the royal family and their visitors were left. Targon and Orodben were summoned to stand before the king. "Westu, Théoden, hál!" Targon said. "Out of Mundburg I am come, Baldric of the North, who served your sire many years ago. May I make known to you my cousin, Lord Orodben of Dol Amroth, kinsman to the Lady of Gondor."

"Be welcome, Baldric of the North, once again," Théoden replied. "It has been long indeed since your folk have dwelt among us. Do you return to our service, as you served our father before?"

"Nay, lord king, though we would and that gladly if we had leave," Targon said earnestly. "We are merely travelling through Rohan."

"Travelling, heh - or flying from pursuit?" Théoden eyed the Arnorian keenly, and Targon laughed ruefully.

"Ah, I should have remembered how well my nephew Earntungol taught you, lord. We can be candid here, then, I trust."

"Of course," Théoden replied with a nod.

"Very well - you are correct; Lord Denethor wishes my arrest, for the kidnapping of his second-born son." Targon gestured to the bench, and Faramir carefully approached.

Théoden studied Faramir. "He has the look of the Lady Finduilas, and of Denethor - though that does not say much, for Earntungol could have been the Lord Steward's brother, when I saw them together in our youth." Théoden’s gaze pierced Faramir like a lance. "I do not see the haughtiness which marks Denethor in the lad."

"That would be because he is not Denethor's blood," Targon said. "He is my great-nephew." 

Théoden was not slow-witted by any means, and he quickly drew the correct conclusion. "Ecthelion's doing, I'd warrant."

"Indeed," Targon said drily. "So the lad must go to his father - not the man who would take a five-year-old to trial for the crime of being stolen away."

"If Denethor asks me, I never saw his son," Théoden said smoothly.

"Thank you, my lord," Targon said, and Théoden chuckled, giving the Dúnadan a nod. 

"It is no trouble; the son of Earntungol is always welcome in my hall, as are his kin." 

Faramir's stomach rumbled and Théoden smiled faintly. "Ah. Lads' stomachs are as reliable as timepieces. My family would consider it a great honour if you would join us for the noontide meal." 

The little boy blushed under the King's regard, but he nodded shyly, and so he allowed Targon and Orodben to escort him after the royal family to their private dining room.
He found himself seated between Théodwyn and Morwen, the latter deigning to share her trencher with him. He blinked, for he had been told sharing a trencher was a mark of great favour amongst the Rohirrim. 

"But, but you're the Queen," he protested. "I'm just...Faran."

"Well, 'just Faran'," Morwen said with a faint smile which did not reach her eyes. How long had this sweet little boy been downtrodden by his seeming sire? "I am 'just Morwen', and not even a Rohir by birth, but one of thy kin. We are cousins, thou and I, so wilt thou not favour me by sharing my trencher?" 

Unable to answer, Faramir nodded shyly and allowed himself to enjoy the simple meal. It wasn't at all what he thought a King's table would be like, the boy reflected. Denethor would have sneered. 

The trencher was laden with a stew mostly of vegetables, with some meat - he noticed to his surprise that Morwen gave him most of that. It was sopped up with crusty bread, and on the whole, Denethor would have considered it peasant fare. Nevertheless, it was wholesome and filling, and Faramir found himself almost forgetting his dining companion was the Queen Mother of all Rohan as she ate with him, talking softly about Lossarnach and their shared kin in Dol Amroth. She filled Faramir's tumbler with milk, rather than the well-watered wine he was used to at feasts, and it tasted sweet like honey to the small boy. Finduilas had made sure Faramir had milk to drink - Father, Lord Denethor, hadn't bothered with such trifles.

By the time the meal was over, Faramir was yawning. He had become accustomed to sleeping during the day; he had been given a good, filling meal, and found a 'safe' place for the first time since they had fled Minas Tirith. Morwen rose, gathering the boy in her arms, and carried him to a spare bedroom in the royal wing - it had once belonged to her eldest daughter, but now it was vacant. Morwen settled Faramir on the bed, covering him with a light blanket. "Rest, little cousin, and I shall watch over thee," she said softly. "There is naught to fear, child of Finduilas and Earntungol."

Faramir fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. As Faramir slept, he dreamed. He dreamed of a tall, dark-haired man in shining armour, with a star on his brow and a green stone on his breast. The man wielded a great sword, leading his allies into battle. He felt afraid, but strangely, the man seemed safe to Faramir, although Faramir knew he'd never seen such a man before.

The dream changed, and Faramir saw the halls of Meduseld. A young boy and girl, both older than he was now, were cornered by a man Faramir did not like. He was dark and frightening, and his face was etched into the child's memory. He saw images centering on this man, as the boy and girl grew older, chiefly him following the girl, looking at her, and the aging King, in ways Faramir knew were bad, very bad. Suddenly Faramir woke with a cry, and found the position of the Sun had changed. She was near setting, in fact, and Faramir found he was hungry yet again...hungry and very frightened indeed.

"Faran!" Morwen entered the room, a laden supper tray in her hands, and put it to one side. "Cousin, what ails thee?"

Shuddering as Morwen swept him into her arms, Faramir broke down and told her the whole dream from start to finish. Morwen rubbed his back, singing softly of Dol Amroth and the Sea. When Faramir was calm, she said gently, "I know not what these visions portend, little cousin, but I doubt not they mean something of import; if I were thee, I would tell the King my son what thou hast told me - but eat, first," she added, and Faramir, surprised, giggled a little, applying his attention to his supper obediently.

Morwen waited until Faramir was done eating, and then took him in for a bath. She undressed Faramir, and gave him a thorough scrubbing; the warm water was pleasant, and it was good to finally be properly clean again. Faramir felt uncertain about having Morwen bathe him, but not because he was shy; he was used to being washed by his Nana or servants. He just wasn't sure it was right for a Queen to do it, cousin or not. As she toweled him off, Morwen smiled. "I bathed all my own children, including my son," she said wryly. "I promise, little cousin, there is nothing improper about a Queen doing such things." 

Faramir tried to picture Théoden as a little boy being scrubbed by Morwen. He failed rather spectacularly; he couldn't picture his uncles, or Denethor, as small boys either. 

Before long, Faramir was dressed in a long, loose sleep tunic, and tucked into bed with a stuffed horse. Morwen informed the lad that the horse had once been Théoden’s, and named Nimroch - rather unimaginatively, as it was a white horse, save for its grey hooves. Faramir was too sleepy to wonder at the King's old toy being lent to him, and murmured his appreciation to the Queen before drifting off again.

He woke in the middle of the night to raised voices outside his window, hearing snatches of conversation, presumably from the night guardsmen. 
"...Steward of Gondor..." 

"Denethor's boy, I'm sure of it..." 

"...war with Gondor, if the boy's not returned..."

"...and old Baldric's head on a spike, I shouldn't wonder..."

Faramir found himself fully awake at that, feeling suddenly sick to his stomach. Baldric - Uncle Targon! He was in danger, if Faramir didn't go back!

Faramir bolted up from his bed, Nimroch still under one arm, and fairly flew through the door, stopping only long enough to close it quietly. He kept on, going as quickly as he could through the royal quarters, while attempting to be quiet. He had to go, he had to leave Meduseld and return to Gondor, to keep his uncle safe. It was the only way. Faramir made his way through most of the Golden Hall before he felt he was being followed, and slowed his steps. 

He was only three steps from the entrance to Meduseld when he heard a sleepy voice behind him.
"Where are you going?"

Faramir turned around, eyeing the prince warily. Théodred Aetheling looked much less impressive in the middle of the night, his sleep tunic sliding down one shoulder, his straw-coloured hair rumpled, and his blue-grey eyes half-closed. "Away," Faramir replied simply.

Théodred scowled. "No, you're not," he said stubbornly. Faramir scowled back.

"Am too."

"Not."

"Too."

"Away where?" Théodred asked, before he fell into arguing with the little Stanlending-who-claimed-to-be-a-Northerner.

"Mundburg."

Mundburg, or Minas Tirith, was a very long way, Théodred knew. He also knew that if the boy was really a Northerner, he wouldn't want to go there.

"Lord Denethor doesn't like Northerners."

"That's why I have to go," Faramir said simply. Théodred’s scowl deepened.

"You're not making any sense," he grumbled. "But you can't leave. I'm the prince and I say so."

"Well...well I'm the prince, too, and I say I'm going."

"Mundburg doesn't have princes."

"The North does," Faramir said. "Secret ones. Like me. Except...if I go back, I guess I won't be one."
“Will you not, little nephew?”

Faramir spun around to face Théoden King.

“Nephew, Adar?” Théodred asked, speaking the Sindarin tongue which Théoden favoured in family settings. 

“Thorongil was as a brother to me when he served my adar,” Théoden replied in the same language. “Should not the son of he whom I called gwador be reckoned my nephew and my near-kin? And are we not related, through my naneth? If not nephew and uncle, we are certainly cousins. So. What is the meaning of all this?”

Théodred bowed, acknowledging his father’s ruling. “Faramir wishes to return to Minas Tirith,” was all he said. 
Théoden fixed his gaze on Faramir, who trembled. 

What would Théoden say?

Summary: Théoden King converses alone with Faramir, and learns something surprising about the son of one of his councillors.

"My little nephew," Théoden said with great patience. "You do not understand what you do here. Running South will do no one any good - least of all you. Lord Denethor wishes to bring you, and your kinsmen, to judgement. I fail to see what judgement a Steward might visit upon a five year old child, especially one already so cruelly used." He shook his head. "No. Here you are, and here you will stay until it is time for you to move North again. My men will protect you from danger, brother-son, for so I name you. You will not be molested again within the borders of my realm, and may the Belain have mercy upon you when you leave Rohan. I will keep a watch, and listen for word of you."

Faramir gulped. "T-thank you, my Lord King," he said, "Uncle," he amended at Théoden’s insistence. "But there is danger here, too, or there will be. I saw it, and the Queen said my dream might mean something..."

Théodred scoffed, but Théoden held up a hand. "Back to bed with you, my son," he said firmly. "Faran, walk with me." Théodred bowed and departed; Faramir obediently followed the Lord of the Mark to his study. The sight of all the books on the shelves, written in Rohirric, Adûnaic, Westron, Sindarin and even one in Quenya surprised Faramir, for Denethor had often dismissed their northern neighbours as backward and illiterate. Théoden smiled.

"I was born in Gondor," he said, in response to the lad's unspoken question. “Adar made sure I was as learned as my brothers of Gondor, so that the people of the Mark would no longer be scorned by the Stanlendings as having an unlettered King. Master Gléomund would surely have objected to such a disparagement – my old tutor – but nonetheless, these are old prejudices I hope to overcome.” 
At Théoden’s invitation, Faramir sat on the settee, looking up at the King. Théoden seated himself beside the boy. 

"So. Suppose you tell me about this dream you had," Théoden prompted, and Faramir gulped, nodding. He began at the beginning, and Théoden thought that the dream-warrior sounded very like Isildur himself. He wondered at that, but as Faramir went into the dream-shift, Théoden found himself extremely troubled.

It sounded as though two children in his care would be preyed upon by some enemy - an enemy Théoden himself would fall prey to. When Faramir mentioned that he could not forget the face, it still frightened him, Théoden held up a hand.

"Here you are, my lad," Théoden said, rising and fetching a sheet of parchment and a drawing stick for the boy. "Draw him for me, if you are able." He did not expect much from such a small child, and indeed it was no wondrous work of art, but it was, clearly, a face. More than that, it was a familiar one, if slightly older than Théoden knew him to be.

"Grima son of Gálmód," he whispered. "Grima is going to betray me." Thegn Gálmód sat on his council, the Witan, and he trusted the man implicitly. He had given little thought to Gálmód's half-Dunlending son, though he knew the young man aspired to be captain of an éored one day. He took the drawing from Faramir. "You are absolutely sure this is the man," he said, and Faramir nodded, trembling at the mention of the name. "He's bad, Uncle Théoden. Lots bad," Faramir whispered. "He wants to kill you, and Théodred, and the others." He wasn't sure who those others might be, but he knew, as the words leapt unbidden from his mouth, that they were true.

"Did the dream tell you why?" Théoden asked. Faramir shook his head uncertainly, but suddenly he went still.

"Nan Curunir," he said. 

"The Wizard's Vale - Isengard!" Théoden closed his eyes tightly. "Something has gone badly wrong in Rohan," he said quietly. "I believe you, little nephew. I do. But I need more proof." 

Faramir nodded. It was silly to expect someone to believe a little boy like him because of a dream. "Mithrandir," he suggested. Théoden’s eyes glinted.

"Ah - if I would hunt a Wizard, I must ask a Wizard for assistance," Théoden said. "Well thought of, little Faran. And soon now, the hunt will commence. I need only locate Gandalf Greyhame. The easiest way to do that, I guess, would be to ask the Elves, if I dare."

"They will aid you, lord," Faramir said quietly. "Mithrandir wouldn't lie. The Elves are good."

"They are good, yes, but that is not to say they are tame, heh?" Théoden chuckled. "I will send to Dwimordene in the morning, then, and ask the favour of their Lady. Mayhap she will send us aid."

With that, he carried the lad back to bed, and tucked him in. "Sleep, little one," the King murmured. "Sleep - you are safe."