Creators' Notes (optional): In informal settings, Theoden will sometimes speak Sindarin with his family. This is because his mother is a woman of Gondor, and his father dwelt for many years in Gondor - in fact, Theoden was born there - so it has become a bit of a tradition to speak in Sindarin. (I didn't exactly write this with the Family Traditions prompt in mind - I'm not sure it counts lol!)

Summary: Faramir interacts with the royal family of Rohan, and begins to understand what ties his true father had to them.

The petitions of Théoden’s folk were heard before the court was cleared; only the royal family and their visitors were left. Targon and Orodben were summoned to stand before the king. "Westu, Théoden, hál!" Targon said. "Out of Mundburg I am come, Baldric of the North, who served your sire many years ago. May I make known to you my cousin, Lord Orodben of Dol Amroth, kinsman to the Lady of Gondor."

"Be welcome, Baldric of the North, once again," Théoden replied. "It has been long indeed since your folk have dwelt among us. Do you return to our service, as you served our father before?"

"Nay, lord king, though we would and that gladly if we had leave," Targon said earnestly. "We are merely travelling through Rohan."

"Travelling, heh - or flying from pursuit?" Théoden eyed the Arnorian keenly, and Targon laughed ruefully.

"Ah, I should have remembered how well my nephew Earntungol taught you, lord. We can be candid here, then, I trust."

"Of course," Théoden replied with a nod.

"Very well - you are correct; Lord Denethor wishes my arrest, for the kidnapping of his second-born son." Targon gestured to the bench, and Faramir carefully approached.

Théoden studied Faramir. "He has the look of the Lady Finduilas, and of Denethor - though that does not say much, for Earntungol could have been the Lord Steward's brother, when I saw them together in our youth." Théoden’s gaze pierced Faramir like a lance. "I do not see the haughtiness which marks Denethor in the lad."

"That would be because he is not Denethor's blood," Targon said. "He is my great-nephew." 

Théoden was not slow-witted by any means, and he quickly drew the correct conclusion. "Ecthelion's doing, I'd warrant."

"Indeed," Targon said drily. "So the lad must go to his father - not the man who would take a five-year-old to trial for the crime of being stolen away."

"If Denethor asks me, I never saw his son," Théoden said smoothly.

"Thank you, my lord," Targon said, and Théoden chuckled, giving the Dúnadan a nod. 

"It is no trouble; the son of Earntungol is always welcome in my hall, as are his kin." 

Faramir's stomach rumbled and Théoden smiled faintly. "Ah. Lads' stomachs are as reliable as timepieces. My family would consider it a great honour if you would join us for the noontide meal." 

The little boy blushed under the King's regard, but he nodded shyly, and so he allowed Targon and Orodben to escort him after the royal family to their private dining room.
He found himself seated between Théodwyn and Morwen, the latter deigning to share her trencher with him. He blinked, for he had been told sharing a trencher was a mark of great favour amongst the Rohirrim. 

"But, but you're the Queen," he protested. "I'm just...Faran."

"Well, 'just Faran'," Morwen said with a faint smile which did not reach her eyes. How long had this sweet little boy been downtrodden by his seeming sire? "I am 'just Morwen', and not even a Rohir by birth, but one of thy kin. We are cousins, thou and I, so wilt thou not favour me by sharing my trencher?" 

Unable to answer, Faramir nodded shyly and allowed himself to enjoy the simple meal. It wasn't at all what he thought a King's table would be like, the boy reflected. Denethor would have sneered. 

The trencher was laden with a stew mostly of vegetables, with some meat - he noticed to his surprise that Morwen gave him most of that. It was sopped up with crusty bread, and on the whole, Denethor would have considered it peasant fare. Nevertheless, it was wholesome and filling, and Faramir found himself almost forgetting his dining companion was the Queen Mother of all Rohan as she ate with him, talking softly about Lossarnach and their shared kin in Dol Amroth. She filled Faramir's tumbler with milk, rather than the well-watered wine he was used to at feasts, and it tasted sweet like honey to the small boy. Finduilas had made sure Faramir had milk to drink - Father, Lord Denethor, hadn't bothered with such trifles.

By the time the meal was over, Faramir was yawning. He had become accustomed to sleeping during the day; he had been given a good, filling meal, and found a 'safe' place for the first time since they had fled Minas Tirith. Morwen rose, gathering the boy in her arms, and carried him to a spare bedroom in the royal wing - it had once belonged to her eldest daughter, but now it was vacant. Morwen settled Faramir on the bed, covering him with a light blanket. "Rest, little cousin, and I shall watch over thee," she said softly. "There is naught to fear, child of Finduilas and Earntungol."

Faramir fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. As Faramir slept, he dreamed. He dreamed of a tall, dark-haired man in shining armour, with a star on his brow and a green stone on his breast. The man wielded a great sword, leading his allies into battle. He felt afraid, but strangely, the man seemed safe to Faramir, although Faramir knew he'd never seen such a man before.

The dream changed, and Faramir saw the halls of Meduseld. A young boy and girl, both older than he was now, were cornered by a man Faramir did not like. He was dark and frightening, and his face was etched into the child's memory. He saw images centering on this man, as the boy and girl grew older, chiefly him following the girl, looking at her, and the aging King, in ways Faramir knew were bad, very bad. Suddenly Faramir woke with a cry, and found the position of the Sun had changed. She was near setting, in fact, and Faramir found he was hungry yet again...hungry and very frightened indeed.

"Faran!" Morwen entered the room, a laden supper tray in her hands, and put it to one side. "Cousin, what ails thee?"

Shuddering as Morwen swept him into her arms, Faramir broke down and told her the whole dream from start to finish. Morwen rubbed his back, singing softly of Dol Amroth and the Sea. When Faramir was calm, she said gently, "I know not what these visions portend, little cousin, but I doubt not they mean something of import; if I were thee, I would tell the King my son what thou hast told me - but eat, first," she added, and Faramir, surprised, giggled a little, applying his attention to his supper obediently.

Morwen waited until Faramir was done eating, and then took him in for a bath. She undressed Faramir, and gave him a thorough scrubbing; the warm water was pleasant, and it was good to finally be properly clean again. Faramir felt uncertain about having Morwen bathe him, but not because he was shy; he was used to being washed by his Nana or servants. He just wasn't sure it was right for a Queen to do it, cousin or not. As she toweled him off, Morwen smiled. "I bathed all my own children, including my son," she said wryly. "I promise, little cousin, there is nothing improper about a Queen doing such things." 

Faramir tried to picture Théoden as a little boy being scrubbed by Morwen. He failed rather spectacularly; he couldn't picture his uncles, or Denethor, as small boys either. 

Before long, Faramir was dressed in a long, loose sleep tunic, and tucked into bed with a stuffed horse. Morwen informed the lad that the horse had once been Théoden’s, and named Nimroch - rather unimaginatively, as it was a white horse, save for its grey hooves. Faramir was too sleepy to wonder at the King's old toy being lent to him, and murmured his appreciation to the Queen before drifting off again.

He woke in the middle of the night to raised voices outside his window, hearing snatches of conversation, presumably from the night guardsmen. 
"...Steward of Gondor..." 

"Denethor's boy, I'm sure of it..." 

"...war with Gondor, if the boy's not returned..."

"...and old Baldric's head on a spike, I shouldn't wonder..."

Faramir found himself fully awake at that, feeling suddenly sick to his stomach. Baldric - Uncle Targon! He was in danger, if Faramir didn't go back!

Faramir bolted up from his bed, Nimroch still under one arm, and fairly flew through the door, stopping only long enough to close it quietly. He kept on, going as quickly as he could through the royal quarters, while attempting to be quiet. He had to go, he had to leave Meduseld and return to Gondor, to keep his uncle safe. It was the only way. Faramir made his way through most of the Golden Hall before he felt he was being followed, and slowed his steps. 

He was only three steps from the entrance to Meduseld when he heard a sleepy voice behind him.
"Where are you going?"

Faramir turned around, eyeing the prince warily. Théodred Aetheling looked much less impressive in the middle of the night, his sleep tunic sliding down one shoulder, his straw-coloured hair rumpled, and his blue-grey eyes half-closed. "Away," Faramir replied simply.

Théodred scowled. "No, you're not," he said stubbornly. Faramir scowled back.

"Am too."

"Not."

"Too."

"Away where?" Théodred asked, before he fell into arguing with the little Stanlending-who-claimed-to-be-a-Northerner.

"Mundburg."

Mundburg, or Minas Tirith, was a very long way, Théodred knew. He also knew that if the boy was really a Northerner, he wouldn't want to go there.

"Lord Denethor doesn't like Northerners."

"That's why I have to go," Faramir said simply. Théodred’s scowl deepened.

"You're not making any sense," he grumbled. "But you can't leave. I'm the prince and I say so."

"Well...well I'm the prince, too, and I say I'm going."

"Mundburg doesn't have princes."

"The North does," Faramir said. "Secret ones. Like me. Except...if I go back, I guess I won't be one."
“Will you not, little nephew?”

Faramir spun around to face Théoden King.

“Nephew, Adar?” Théodred asked, speaking the Sindarin tongue which Théoden favoured in family settings. 

“Thorongil was as a brother to me when he served my adar,” Théoden replied in the same language. “Should not the son of he whom I called gwador be reckoned my nephew and my near-kin? And are we not related, through my naneth? If not nephew and uncle, we are certainly cousins. So. What is the meaning of all this?”

Théodred bowed, acknowledging his father’s ruling. “Faramir wishes to return to Minas Tirith,” was all he said. 
Théoden fixed his gaze on Faramir, who trembled. 

What would Théoden say?