CO-AUTHORED BY RAKSHA

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

AUTHOR‘S NOTE  - Our thanks to nrink nrink, for emergency beta-ing

Chapter 13

SURPRISE

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop!” the King’s voice boomed down the length of the Hall. 

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

“Guards!” Aragorn roared.

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

“Faramir!” he hissed.

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

“I am alright, Aragorn,” he said softly but distinctly.  “Take him!”

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

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

Aragorn breathed heavily as he approached the trapped intruder.

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

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

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

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

The blue figure shook his head and assumed the fighting position.

“Drop them!” Aragorn told him for the last time.

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

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

“Does he have it?”

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

“Are you well, Faramir?” the King asked sharply.

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

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

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

Faramir sagged against the wall with relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eowyn opened her eyes to look at him.  “Where have you been?” she yawned. 

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

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

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

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

He gulped.  “It’s a long story,” he said.

She nodded impatiently.  “And?”

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

When he had ended his tale, she sat up, put her hands on Faramir’s shoulders, and kissed him long and fiercely. “Faron nîn. . .” Eowyn murmured.  “Faron thalion nîn.”

Eowyn only used that particular endearment when she was deeply moved.  Faramir’s heart swelled.  So did another part of his body.  He stretched his legs, then invoked the memory of Dame Ioreth approaching him in the Houses of Healing bearing one of her ghastly tisanes and a determined look on her kind and very weathered visage.  That was better.  There was no sense in beginning a dance he could not finish.  He felt rather guilty at even thinking of pleasure while his lady was unable to partake of it, burdened as she was with his child. 

“Thou art the bravest husband I could ever have!” Eowyn continued, in the familiar mode of Westron. 

"My dear, I am the only husband you could have" he pointed out.

She muttered something in Rohirric under her breath, hit him lightly on his arm with a balled fist, and stated "If I had five, six, ten husbands; and all were Kings of Gondor or Rohan, you would still be the bravest and the best."

He smiled appreciatively but it turned into a very wide yawn.  “As long as I do not have to battle them all for you today.  I am tired,” he said.

“Yes, you must sleep,” Eowyn agreed.

“I cannot,” he said with a hint of desperation.  “It will not come.  The King and I will meet in the late morning.  We mean to use the two stones to revive Eldarion.  That leaves me not many hours to sleep.  Yet I fear that Aragorn will take no rest; and he needs it far more than I do.”

Eowyn moved away from him but her eyes gleamed with mischief.  “Let Arwen look to Aragorn.  You are mine to attend.  Turn over and lie down,” she commanded.

Faramir arched his eyebrows in question but did as he was bid, stretching out on his belly.  Eowyn moved astride him, appreciating as always the supple grace of his body.  Though hurt by this night‘s cowardly attack, her lord was still most fair in face and form.   She had missed their joining these last few weeks.  And now the Healers had decreed there would be no more until she had recovered from the child’s birth. 

“Are you allowed to do this?”  Faramir mumbled through the pillows.  “Does it constitute bed rest?”

Eowyn bent down to whisper in his ear.  “I am still abed, am I not?”  She leaned down and licked his earlobe in a delightfully wanton manner.

Faramir groaned.

Eowyn proceeded to give her husband the most wonderful back rub he had ever known.   Her hands, which could wield a sword or train a stubborn colt, were strong yet so soft, Faramir noted sleepily.  She massaged his tight, knotted muscles and felt the tension flow out of his body as he finally relaxed.   By the time she rolled off his back, Faramir was snoring lightly.  Eowyn lay beside him, one arm protecting the bulge in her belly and the other pillowing her head on her husband‘s strong shoulder.

***

TBC - Faramir goes from frying pan to fire for Eldarion's sake in Chapter. 14.  Don’t expect the chapter to post before September 7; Labor Day is coming up in the USA.

MORE AUTHORS‘ NOTES - Hathol túr, the name of Aragorn’s new sword, is Sindarin for blade of victory or victory blade.  We helped the King name it, with some excellent advice from Berzerker prime of HASA...Faron means hunter in Sindarin; which makes it an appropriate nickname for Faramir.  Faron thalion nin means my brave (actually thalion = dauntless man or hero) hunter in Sindarin.  Ithildin, another talented Sindarin scholar at HASA, helped us figure that out.

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