Co-Authored by Raksha the Demon.

Authors’ Note: italics denote flashback.

Chapter Two

Journey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir raised his eyebrows.

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

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

“. . . armour and things!” Cirion finished excitedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did anybody ever say it would be?” Faramir asked.

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

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

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

Cirion fidgeted even more. He hated silence; it made him uncomfortable.

Faramir sighed. “What has brought this on?” he asked.

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

“My son,” Faramir repeated.

Cirion nodded.

Faramir folded his arms. “Are you not my son?” he asked.

“Yes but. . .” Cirion stopped.

Faramir waited.

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

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

Cirion pouted. “But. . .” he began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do not push it!” Faramir warned but he was smiling broadly now.

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

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

Cirion smiled broadly and nodded. “That sounds fair to me!” he agreed.

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

“So I can go to Mordor with you?” Cirion pushed.

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

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

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

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

Faramir stopped. “What now?” he asked patiently.

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

Faramir shook his head in disbelief. “Ciri, you are incorrigible!” he said.

They boy stopped and eyed him suspiciously. “Is that good?” he asked.

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