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!"