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.