Targon gently loosed Faramir from his grip, and pressed a finger to his lips. The child nodded anxiously, curling up in a ball under the covers as Targon wrapped a robe around his shoulders. He answered the door with a tolerant smile. "Ah, a farewelling party," he said ingenuously. "How may I help you, my fine gentlemen? I did not think you would miss me already."

The men had been part of his company, and paused, realising just who the Steward had sent them after. "Sir," one of the soldiers, called Mallor, said anxiously. "Sir, the Lord Steward's son has gone missing."

"He has?" Targon's brow furrowed. "I had not heard that. I am sure my lord Denethor must be frantic, but I assure you, Mallor, I have not seen the Lord Steward's son anywhere."

"Well..." Mallor faltered. Truthfully, the Lord Steward had seemed less concerned with Faramir's disappearance, and the fact that somehow, he was convinced one of the Northern sellsword captains had stolen his son. Mallor just hadn't realised said captain was Targon. "Far be it from me to doubt you, m'lord Captain, but the innkeeper did see you in company with a child..."

"My nephew, Faran," Targon said smoothly. "Faran, come here." 

Faramir slipped out of bed and padded over to his Ada's uncle. Thin enough that his ribs were beginning to show, clad only in a sleep tunic with his hair plastered to his cheeks, he looked younger than his five years, and not very much like one might expect the Lord of the Citadel's child to look. "I want sleep, uncle," he said, affecting a tone very like a whine. "Please?"

Mallor looked at the waif before him. The child was of obvious Númenórean descent, but he heard tell from Targon that the scions of Númenor bred even truer in the North than in Gondor. He was much too thin and small to be a nobly born heir, or even spare, Mallor decided. "How old is the lad, sir?"

"Four," Targon lied easily. He did look younger than five, especially right then.

"Then he is not the Lord Steward's boy, sir. I am sorry to have bothered you," Mallor said humbly. "But you understand, sir, I had to do my duty to our Lord."

"Your Lord, Mallor," Targon replied. "I am returning home with Faran. He has taken ill here, and the Northern air of his home will suit him better. I hereby resign my commission to Gondor, and I hope that I have served her well."

"I will tell the Lord Steward, sir," Mallor said. "Thank you. For everything. I hope your boy gets well soon."
Once the soldiers had left the inn, Targon hugged Faramir tightly. "There now, nephew, I have you safe," he promised. "No one shall ever take you back to Gondor against your will. Ever."

Faramir nodded. "Uncle? Is my name Faran now?"

Targon's eyes glinted with humour. "Well. Your Ada has many names. Let us say you have acquired a new one - but you do not need to adopt it for everyday use if you do not wish it."

"I will wait and ask Ada," Faramir decided. "Father named me Faramir, so maybe Ada will like Faran better."
Targon settled Faramir back in bed as the grey light promising Anor's rays filtered into the room. Instead of going back to sleep, the boy lay on his side and watched Targon sort through the pack he'd brought inside. There were four sets of tunics and leggings inside that were all far too small to be Targon's, and made of deerskin leather. Four pairs of soft leather shoes followed, and the lad crept out of bed, coming to Targon's side for a closer look. "Those won't fit you, uncle," he observed.

"No, they won't," Targon agreed with a faint smile.

"Who are they for?" 

Targon raised an eyebrow. "For such a clever lad, you can be woefully dense at times," he said drily. "Who do you think they are for, nephew?"

"Do you have little boys at home?" 

Targon snorted wryly. "I do not. My sons are about Lord Boromir's age," he said drily. "These would not fit them, either."

"They're not for me," Faramir said slowly, tone laced with doubt. He risked a glance at Targon. "Are they?"
"Do you see any other lad around here your size, in need of Northern attire?" Targon chuckled. Faramir's eyes were round as saucers.

"I've never had anything like these," he said, fingering the leather. Brom would laugh, he was sure - at home they wore cloth, not leather, and to wear so much leather would seem barbaric to his brother. A leather jerkin over one's tunic or some leather armour ought to be enough.

"They are more durable, living as we do in the Wild," Targon explained. Faramir nodded; he could see that. 

"I like them. Can I try them?" 

Targon smiled indulgently and helped his nephew into the tunic and leggings, showing him how to lace up the shoes. "There you are. What do you think, little one?"

Faramir beamed. "I like them," he said again, and Targon looked at Faramir, pleased by what he saw. A true Ranger-child, this one; he was sure the little one would take well to the North. There was a light rap at the door, and Targon went to answer it; it was the innkeeper, Bregor.

“If you please, Captain, you may take breakfast in the common room with your boy, or I can have it brought to you; whichever you would like.”

“If you would bring a simple meal to us, of your courtesy, I would be much obliged, Master Bregor,” Targon replied. “I am sorry for the disruption; my nephew and I will be leaving after we have eaten.” The other Man bowed, and withdrew, returning with a tray; tea, milk, porridge, lightly toasted bread, and rashers of bacon! It would be a long time before either of them had bacon again, once they were home, he thought – and the toast was not even burnt, but drizzled with honey. He would have expected no better than scorched crusts after the trouble his men had caused! But he thanked Bregor, and once the innkeeper had gone, called Faramir to the small table to enjoy the meal. 

Faramir ate voraciously, and twice Targon had to caution him to slow down – he had obviously not eaten properly since Finduilas died, at least, and wolfing his food would just make him ill. Still, it was good to see Faramir had a healthy appetite now. He just hoped no ill would befall them as they journeyed up the Road...