Boromir stood very still. The hand that held him slid on his tears and almost off his mouth. He bit, hard, and was rewarded with a small yelp, but the hand did not ease its grip.

"You fool! Keep quiet. I am trying to save you!"

Boromir stilled and almost fell, so amazed was he.

"Listen to me. I am Targon, cook's apprentice for the Third Company of the Citadel. I brought food to the dungeons yesterday and saw you there. I have been watching ever since. Please, may I take my hand from your mouth? Will you promise not to scream?"

Nodding his head, Boromir felt the hand loosen, then the arms fell and he was free. He turned quickly and saw, in the moonlight, a lad only a few years older than he, standing before him. "Do you have any food?" he begged.

"I am sorry, my Lord. I brought none," the boy berated himself. "I should have thought…"

"Nay," Boromir interrupted him. "Someone will be coming along shortly. The guard promised he would have the fire lit and food brought."

Targon choked as he tried to stifle his laughter. "He will not send for anything. They do not care about anyone. Except to make them suffer. They derive pleasure from making others suffer." He shuddered as he spoke.

"How did you get in here?"

"Through the secret door. Faramir showed me last year. I… I had made the boy cookies and then we played hide 'n seek. He was very good at it. He has truly been sent away?"

"Aye. To Dol Amroth." A sudden chill swept over him. "Amandil promised he would send him to our uncle. I am not so sure."

"Others are watching, too, my Lord. Others not under Amandil's thumb. But we must be careful. He has spies everywhere. He has sent many of our finest soldiers to Harad as slaves for their ships. At least, that is the rumour I have heard."

Boromir drew in his breath. "It cannot be. Do you suppose someone will have watched Faramir leave? Some ally, some friend?"

"I know he has been watched. And I know for sure that, if he was sent away, one of our people followed." He smiled grimly. "Amandil thinks he has beaten Gondor, but he has not." He looked around as the door rattled. "Someone comes." He disappeared behind the drapes.

Boromir sat quickly on the sill as he heard the sound of a key in the lock. The door swung open and light came through from the hall.

"Here is your fire. The Lord Steward has been gracious to you. You best be grateful," a man scowled as he walked into the room, carrying wood. He lit the fire, growled and left.

"And food!" Boromir called after him. "May I have some food?" He heard the guard laugh as the door slammed shut and locked.

A sigh escaped Boromir's lips as Targon stepped back into the room.

"That was a good thought, about the food, I mean. It will have the guard laughing for a while. You will not get food tonight, for he knows you want it. Though I am surprised about the fire. Why do you suppose Amandil gave it to you?"

"Because I did something he wanted very badly. And I think he needs me to keep the Council in check."

~*~

"Where am I?" Grimbold asked groggily. His heart beat fiercely. He tried to keep his eyes closed, for he was almost afraid to look. He was no longer in the garden; he could feel some sort of a bed beneath him. He best keep quiet; discover where he was before he spoke further.

"You are in the Houses of Healing and I am taking care of you."

He heard the woman's voice and was grateful to realize it was the same voice from the garden. She had seemed friendly. Better than a stranger, he smiled to think of her as a friend already.

"How comes it that you were wounded and no one gave you aid? It is not like our Captains to leave one of their own hurt without helping. But nothing has been the same these last weeks," she continued on, "not since Lord Amandil took the Rod. I do not understand it at all. And do not think that we, here in the Houses, do not hear what happens in the rest of the city. We do not sit and twiddle our thumbs all day as some think."

He tried to block her voice. At first, it had been pleasant, but as she rambled on, he began to wish for silence.

"Are you well? You look a little green. Perhaps I should call the healer?"

He shook his head, but had realized that nothing he did seemed to have any sway upon her. He felt her stand.

"I will bring the healer. You just stay here nice and quiet and I will be right back."

Grimbold smiled as he heard the door close. Then, concern flooded his heart. Any more interaction with Gondorians than he had already had would not be good. Every time he opened his mouth, he was afraid he would give himself away. He opened his eyes, trying to ascertain where he was and what condition he was in. He remembered the world swaying. He must have fainted. He looked down. He was not bound and that was a good thing. Trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed, he found they barely responded. He needed food. It was still daylight; he hoped it was the same day. Time seemed to be flying by with him getting nothing accomplished. He swore to himself. All could be dead by now. 'I must get out of here, find the others and leave this wretched place!'

The door opened and Grimbold quickly lay back down, closing his eyes.

"Please, Ioreth, leave us. I will take care of this soldier. You have other duties." The door closed. "You may open your eyes now; she is gone."

Grimbold heard the laughter in the man's voice and, smiling, opened his eyes. A fairly young man sat on the bed beside him. His face was kind, but Grimbold knew that did not mean he was loyal to the old regime.

"My name is Siriondil. I served under Lord Denethor, if that makes a difference," he said, his smile quirking slightly to the side of his mouth.

Grimbold sighed. "I am Grimbold, a soldier under Éomund of the Riddermark. I have heard of you from the lips of Arciryas. He valued you highly."

The healer's eyes filled with tears. "He was lost with Denethor?"

"Aye. I am sorry. You did not know?"

"I was away until this morning. I had heard of the loss of Denethor, but…" He sighed.