Summary: Théoden King converses alone with Faramir, and learns something surprising about the son of one of his councillors.

"My little nephew," Théoden said with great patience. "You do not understand what you do here. Running South will do no one any good - least of all you. Lord Denethor wishes to bring you, and your kinsmen, to judgement. I fail to see what judgement a Steward might visit upon a five year old child, especially one already so cruelly used." He shook his head. "No. Here you are, and here you will stay until it is time for you to move North again. My men will protect you from danger, brother-son, for so I name you. You will not be molested again within the borders of my realm, and may the Belain have mercy upon you when you leave Rohan. I will keep a watch, and listen for word of you."

Faramir gulped. "T-thank you, my Lord King," he said, "Uncle," he amended at Théoden’s insistence. "But there is danger here, too, or there will be. I saw it, and the Queen said my dream might mean something..."

Théodred scoffed, but Théoden held up a hand. "Back to bed with you, my son," he said firmly. "Faran, walk with me." Théodred bowed and departed; Faramir obediently followed the Lord of the Mark to his study. The sight of all the books on the shelves, written in Rohirric, Adûnaic, Westron, Sindarin and even one in Quenya surprised Faramir, for Denethor had often dismissed their northern neighbours as backward and illiterate. Théoden smiled.

"I was born in Gondor," he said, in response to the lad's unspoken question. “Adar made sure I was as learned as my brothers of Gondor, so that the people of the Mark would no longer be scorned by the Stanlendings as having an unlettered King. Master Gléomund would surely have objected to such a disparagement – my old tutor – but nonetheless, these are old prejudices I hope to overcome.” 
At Théoden’s invitation, Faramir sat on the settee, looking up at the King. Théoden seated himself beside the boy. 

"So. Suppose you tell me about this dream you had," Théoden prompted, and Faramir gulped, nodding. He began at the beginning, and Théoden thought that the dream-warrior sounded very like Isildur himself. He wondered at that, but as Faramir went into the dream-shift, Théoden found himself extremely troubled.

It sounded as though two children in his care would be preyed upon by some enemy - an enemy Théoden himself would fall prey to. When Faramir mentioned that he could not forget the face, it still frightened him, Théoden held up a hand.

"Here you are, my lad," Théoden said, rising and fetching a sheet of parchment and a drawing stick for the boy. "Draw him for me, if you are able." He did not expect much from such a small child, and indeed it was no wondrous work of art, but it was, clearly, a face. More than that, it was a familiar one, if slightly older than Théoden knew him to be.

"Grima son of Gálmód," he whispered. "Grima is going to betray me." Thegn Gálmód sat on his council, the Witan, and he trusted the man implicitly. He had given little thought to Gálmód's half-Dunlending son, though he knew the young man aspired to be captain of an éored one day. He took the drawing from Faramir. "You are absolutely sure this is the man," he said, and Faramir nodded, trembling at the mention of the name. "He's bad, Uncle Théoden. Lots bad," Faramir whispered. "He wants to kill you, and Théodred, and the others." He wasn't sure who those others might be, but he knew, as the words leapt unbidden from his mouth, that they were true.

"Did the dream tell you why?" Théoden asked. Faramir shook his head uncertainly, but suddenly he went still.

"Nan Curunir," he said. 

"The Wizard's Vale - Isengard!" Théoden closed his eyes tightly. "Something has gone badly wrong in Rohan," he said quietly. "I believe you, little nephew. I do. But I need more proof." 

Faramir nodded. It was silly to expect someone to believe a little boy like him because of a dream. "Mithrandir," he suggested. Théoden’s eyes glinted.

"Ah - if I would hunt a Wizard, I must ask a Wizard for assistance," Théoden said. "Well thought of, little Faran. And soon now, the hunt will commence. I need only locate Gandalf Greyhame. The easiest way to do that, I guess, would be to ask the Elves, if I dare."

"They will aid you, lord," Faramir said quietly. "Mithrandir wouldn't lie. The Elves are good."

"They are good, yes, but that is not to say they are tame, heh?" Théoden chuckled. "I will send to Dwimordene in the morning, then, and ask the favour of their Lady. Mayhap she will send us aid."

With that, he carried the lad back to bed, and tucked him in. "Sleep, little one," the King murmured. "Sleep - you are safe."