They set out upon their journey, travelling the great North-South Road in company with other waggons. It would be harder, Targon thought, for Denethor to find them in the midst of a company of travellers than if they were alone. Most of the waggons were unremarkable, simple carts, really, and turned aside at this place or that. But others had sigils proclaiming the lords they belonged to, or that their owners served, and as they came to the end of their day at last, Faramir spotted one bearing the swanship on blue that signaled Dol Amroth. He blinked in surprise. What business would his grandsire's people have, travelling North, away from Minas Tirith? 

Surprising Faramir again, Targon hailed the other waggon, and it drew up alongside theirs. The driver halted the horses, and they stopped to camp together for the night. The driver greeted Targon with a firm arm-clasp, and turned to look at Faramir, then Targon. Pairs of sea-grey eyes met and widened.

“Orodben! Cousin, what do you here?” Targon asked, breaking the silence between Orodben and Faramir. He had been surprised to see one of his family, if only by marriage, so far from home.

“Visiting my kin is a crime?” Orodben laughed. “What do you think you are doing with my Prince’s grandson?” he asked, as they built a cook-fire. “Do not try to tell me it is not he. I have heard the news, Cousin. It has travelled swiftly from the City to Belfalas.”

“He is rather more than your Prince’s grandson,” Targon said drily. Faramir continued to stare. Orodben, or Lord Orodben as he had been introduced to him, was a second cousin of his grandfather, Prince Adrahil. But he did not live in Dol Amroth that much – he lived somewhere far away, and came to Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith to trade goods from…the somewhere else. Faramir had never been permitted to ask.

“Faran, do not stare at your cousin, it is impolite,” Targon said. Faramir sat up straight, accepted the rebuke with a meek nod, and whispering an apology, turned his attention to the pot of stew Orodben was stirring. He wrapped his arms around Mithvor and watched the dancing flames. 

“I am sorry, Uncle Targon.”

“Faran? Uncle? I sense there is a long tale to tell,” Orodben said. Targon nodded, but first he turned to Faramir. 

“Lord Orodben is married to Aragorn’s – that is, Thorongil’s – cousin Meril,” he explained. 

“That makes him Ada’s cousin too,” Faramir said, and Orodben’s mouth fell open. Ada?

“You had better sit down, I think, Cousin,” Targon said. “This is, indeed, a long tale.”

It was a tale, in fact, that lasted long past supper’s being eaten – Faramir was tucked up in the waggon to sleep by the time Targon had finished, since Orodben kept interjecting with questions. The other Man looked ruefully at Targon. “Forgive me, Cousin, but it is such a difficult tale to believe…”

“Yet it is so, for the Lady Finduilas would not have reason to tell falsehoods as she lay dying,” Targon countered. Orodben nodded.

“Aye, it must be so at that.” He looked back toward his waggon where the child slept. So young, he thought. The little one was much too young to have any ulterior motives of his own. No, the Isildurchil Dithen was innocent of any crime.

While Faramir slept, Orodben and Targon carefully moved all Targon’s goods to Orodben’s waggon, adding Targon’s horses to Orodben’s to help pull the load. The now empty waggon was abandoned by the roadside, carefully made up to appear set upon by bandits. Faramir’s old clothes were left behind, stained with the blood of the rabbit Orodben had used in the stew.

Denethor, they knew, would expect Targon to set a course for Dol Amroth. But under cover of night, sleeping by day, they continued up the Road for a fortnight. They followed the course of the Ered Nimrais, to enter Rohan and find what lay beyond.

Edoras!

It was to be hoped the Belain would incline Theoden King’s heart toward a fair welcome.