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Chapter Text

Aragorn lay on his side, waiting for the pain to ease up as Elrond explored the site of the wound on his hip.

“It is healing well. It might heal faster if you would keep your weight off of it, Estel,” the elf-lord admonished, setting a new poultice over the incision. 

“That’s hardly fair,” the king protested, glaring sidelong up at his adoptive father from the bed. “I’m not able to lose the time you ask of me.”

“I am asking nothing of you, Estel,” he said sternly, raising an eyebrow as he worked. “Your body, though, is begging. The hip is one of the greater bones, it was not meant to break, and it will take much time to properly heal, even if you were treating it correctly. You’re merely prolonging your own pain.”

Aragorn, being a healer, was well aware, as most people would be. Seeing as it was his hip that was broken, he also had an extra layer of understanding that was reinforced by ever step he took.

“Some things are worth the pain,” Arwen said suddenly, speaking up for the first time since Elrond had arrived to check on Aragorn’s swollen injury. 

“You condone his behavior?” Elrond suppressed a bitter laugh.

“No, father, but I see its necessity. You give him too little credit.” The edge of a warning crept into her voice, and Aragorn glanced nervously up at Elrond, who shook his head.

“It has been in him since he was a boy. Where there are two paths, he will invariably choose the harder way, as if it is a delightful past-time to seek out pain.”

“You did not give him two paths,” she said sharply, voice growing cold. “He is king now, and so he must carry the pain of it. He cannot rest, and it was you who set him on this path. Do not admonish him for playing too well the role you gave him.”

“I shall make more of an effort to rest,” Aragorn said sheepishly, hoping to defuse the argument. “I shall call Imrahil back from Dol Amroth… again…”

Unfortunately, Arwen was not finished yet and motioned him to wait. “He does this for Faramir. So little help there is among the nobility of these people, a nobility our family has as much claim to be able to chastise as the royalty of this country, but you chose to leave Gondor and her people adrift when the line of kings broke. There is much blame that can be placed at our feet that stretches out through ages if you want to seek it.” She paused to let her words sink in.

Aragorn winced, feeling mildly ill.

“Or,” she continued, and everyone present knew she had already won. “You could set that blame aside and speak what you truly mean,” she said the words gently, her previous ire cooling into warmth and sorrow. “He cannot see your heart, father.”

Elrond sighed heavily and turned away to vigorously polish one of his instruments. “I worry for you, Estel. It grieves me to see you… wounded.” His voice quavered and he cleared his throat. 

Aragorn’s eyes darted from Arwen to Elrond and back, uncertain of how to proceed. 

It was clear to him that there were layers to the Elven-Lord’s words that he was missing out on. 

His mind raced almost as if he were in battle, seeking an opening, but here, looking for any connections that might reveal the hidden meaning in front of him. “It is… hard for you,” the king ventured at last, uncertain whether to sit up or remain still.

Elrond turned sharply, a look of shock on his face. “How-” The look cleared immediately as his eyes landed on Aragorn, and he composed his face back into its usual grim neutrality. “You don’t know,” he said flatly. “Yes, it is difficult for me.”

Aragorn could remain prone no longer and sat upright, immediately earning protests from his father and wife. “Then explain it. I want to know you better.”

Elrond’s face did not change as he lowered Aragorn back down and resumed binding the wound to keep it safe. He was silent for a long while, but just as Estel was beginning to think the Elf had nothing to say, he spoke again. “I fear my skills are not great enough.”

“...What?” Aragorn could not understand what had just been spoken. 

He saw Elrond tense, unprepared to explain the statement. 

Another silence passed between them, but this silence did not end, and before Aragorn knew what to say, he was alone with Arwen.

At last he sat up, glancing at her, hoping she would see his question.

“No,” Arwen agreed. “I don’t know what happened either.” She checked his work, though it was more for her own satisfaction than any sense that Elrond may have needed correction. Her hand trailed up past the bandages to the bare skin of his side and paused there as she bent down to kiss his forehead. “I’ll come to bed soon,” she promised. “I’m going to find him.”

He watched her from the bed and pulled himself into a reclining pose that had him half upright. 

She slipped shoes onto her delicate feet and tied her hair back with a ribbon, but as she turned toward the door, stopped abruptly and tilted her head. “We have a guest.” Arwen stepped lightly across the floor and into the antechamber, where Aragorn heard her open the door.

“My lady,” said a nervous voice, muffled by the distance and a wall. “I have an urgent missive for the king.”

“At this hour?” she asked. Her tone was only ever courteous, but Aragorn could read the displeasure from his wife. “The king is resting. I will take it for him.”

“Please, my lady, I know I must seem impertinent, but he must see it tonight,” the man sounded near panic.

“I will see what can be done,” she said in a masterfully evasive way. “Rest easy and go about your business.”

“Yes, my queen.”

He heard the door close after another moment, and the apartments fell silent. He shifted uneasily, half tempted to go after her.

“Stay in bed,” Arwen insisted, stepping gracefully past the door. “I wish I could say he was wrong, but see here, the seal of Harad.” She waved a folded piece of paper in the air, displaying the red wax like a wound on the ivory flesh of the missive. 

“Never a good sign,” he grumbled, shifting against the pillows.

She split it open with one finger, as simply as removing a seed from a pomegranate, tearing the head off the snake in a way that he could not be sure was unintentional. Her mouth tightened to a line and she shook her head. “If you did not need to read it, I’d simply burn it. They will not treat with me, and the request has insulted them. They are now insisting that peace talks be held in Harad as a sign of good faith.”

“Then I will simply write them back that they insult me with their refusal. You are a part of my very soul, Vanimelda.” He caught her hand, laying a kiss on her fingers, then wrist.

“No,” she said firmly, sitting on the edge of the bed, though she did not reclaim her hand. “We cannot stoop to their level. The people do not deserve the strain of our ire. Any attempt on our behalf to punish those in power will only fall on those crushed beneath the tyranny.” 

“If war resumes, it shall fall on them anyway. The country is near ready to split, and has been for many years,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I cannot split my interests to them. I am not their king, and my first priority must be to my people.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And yet I think you would regret such a hasty response.”

He fell silent, lips all but hiding in his beard as he tried not to show how bothered he was by her reasoning. 

She was correct of course.

He forced a breath through his teeth. “That means this will take me away from Minas Tirith.” 

“To Harad?” She scoffed at him and used his distraction to take his hand captive, freeing her own to cradle his fingers against her cheek. “My love, I cannot allow that. You are still badly injured, and we both know it could be an attempt on your life.”

“That would mean it falls to Faramir,” he protested and she nodded slowly, her vivid blue eyes boring into him.

“Have faith, husband,” she instructed. “He is more capable than anyone knows.”

He scrubbed his free hand across his forehead. “I cannot allow him to come to harm, either. It would break me. I must consider carefully.” 

Not for the first time, he wished Boromir had survived; the elder son of Denethor was a strong general and powerful leader, his tactical sense near unparalleled. Faramir was no less competent in his own ways, but he was accustomed to smaller tactics, the movement of singular patrols, and the coordination of secrets.

The more Aragorn considered it, though, the more it made sense to let Faramir handle the diplomatic mission to Harad. 

It might be best to fight subtlety with subtlety.

“I would still prefer to go myself,” he started, but Arwen leaned close, placing her hands on either side of his head so that their eyes were level.

“I forbid it,” she whispered, and he could only nod. She drew back, finally, and he found himself mildly disappointed. “That still leaves the matter of a response, and what stance to take with the delegation.”

“My stance is unchanged. So long as they maintain the practice of slavery, we shall conduct no trade, and permit no travel across the border. It is not peace, merely armistice.” He winced. “In such a case, they may attempt to hold Faramir hostage as leverage for diplomatic terms.”

Arwen nodded. “I expect so. Sufficient force may prevent such an act, but may provoke further violence.” With a heavy sigh, she slipped her shoes off. “I think I shall have to find my father in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, Vanimelda , I did not mean to keep you,” he said stroking her arm comfortingly.

“I am kept for good reason. I knew what it meant that I would be queen,” she said, catching the hand on her arm to briefly squeeze his fingers. 

“I must insist the negotiations happen on the border,” he decided.

“A fair compromise.”

“And I am going to correct them about you.” He set his jaw. 

There were many reasons he hated the ruling powers of Harad, the institution of slaver, the caste system, their treatment of women, and the shameless disparity between the very rich and the destitute, who made up most of the population, were but a few of those reasons. Adding insult to his wife only served to solidify his unwillingness to tolerate their behavior. He knew it was petty, but for sixty years he had fought for her hand- it was impossible not to love her first.

“Pen and paper, please, my love,” he said at last, having decided on his response.

Arwen stood from the edge of the bed and left the room for a moment, returning with the requested items and a cutting board. 

He smiled to thank her and began to write.

To the esteemed Chieftain Enhik Echhaya,

I have received your letter requesting a change in location for negotiations. I am willing to move the delegation, but only as far as the border.

I fully understand your reservations about diplomatic exchange with a woman, however, as she is my wife, she is a part of me. In refusing her, you have refused me. I will look past this insult as I see it is born of a difference in culture, and I shall send my Steward to represent me instead.

I look forward to your response,

Aragorn Telcontar, Wielder of the Flame of the West, High King of Gondor and Arnor.

Rarely did he use his full title on official documents; it was petty, but dealing with Harad such pettiness was almost necessary. 

He shook the paper a moment to dry the ink from the quill and passed it to Arwen, who read it and raised an eyebrow.

  “Your rebuke was well phrased. They shall find difficulty pressing you over this,” she observed.

“Not without seeming ungracious- it also gave me a reason to send a representative rather than appearing myself. I don’t want them knowing I am injured,” he said, shifting the cutting board off his lap.

“I’ll seal this and send a rider,” she said, slipping her shoes back on. “Sleep now, I’ll join you soon.”

He watched as she put out the lights and the room fell into a cool darkness that covered him like a blanket. His eyes felt heavy, but he had no desire to sleep alone, so he listened. He could hear her moving unhindered by the dark, the fabric of her dress whispering as it swept around her form, the shuff of her shoes over the stone floor and carpeting. 

At last Aragorn heard her close the door to the antechamber, and he could hear little else from her until the door to their apartments opened and closed again.

He lay, still half upright for a time until he could fight off sleep no longer and slowly eased himself down, into the pillows where his rebellious eyes fell shut.

He woke again, startling as the door to the apartments opened, hand landing on the elvish dagger he kept on his bedside table.

The door closed again, and then the door to the room opened. 

“It’s me,” Arwen said, her voice calming him immediately. “You can put down the knife.”

The door clicked shut and he relinquished his hold on the blade. 

“I missed you,” he mumbled, listening as she changed clothes and then slid into her side of the bed.

“Sleep,” she ordered, nestling her head against the back of his neck. “We are together now.”

His head moved in a sign of acknowledgement, but he struggled to relax, and when he was finally able to drift off, his fractured dreams showed him a snake, war, citadels crumbling under time, and sand awash with blood as Faramir cried for help. 

The snake overtook him, wrapping Aragorn in its coils, mouth yawning wider than a chasm, wider than the gaping mouth of a balrog.

He struck out, bathing himself in scarlet as the head tumbled away, but the coils tightened around him, pouring blood into his face and down his throat, burning his skin with unused venom.

Arwen screamed and he jolted awake covered in sweat, Elvish knife clutched desperately in his shaking hand, side pulsing with renewed pain, as if he had been in a vice, skin tingling, and eyes stinging.

Chapter Text

Faramir's desk was littered with papers, as it usually was, but he knew that some had arrived in the night- he usually left his desk in slightly better order than the disarray he'd found that morning. He sighed heavily as he realized the breakfast would have to wait until he'd caught up on the events of the previous night. He sat down and began to read, holding the most important information in his mind to fill in the happenings he had missed.

A rider was dispatched to Dol Amroth to summon Lord Imrahil back to Minas Tirith.

He winced. Apparently, he hadn't been keeping up sufficiently with the work.

The messenger from Harad had arrived with a reply to Lord Aragorn's request for peace-talks, and a messenger from Gondor had ridden out the same night.

He looked away from the paper, his stomach turning with worry. That did not bode well.

Lord Elrond was preparing to leave early that morning, and lastly, food had gone missing from the kitchens again, and the thief, (thieves, if his intuition was correct,) had left coins on the counter.

He made a mental note to have a stern word with Merry and Pippin.

He sat back in the chair to reorder his list of priorities. He would certainly need to see the king about the exchange with Harad, but Aragorn would not be awake for another hour, if he was following routine, and something about Lord Elrond's sudden announcement of departure bothered him.

It had come after the sovereigns has turned in for the night, and before they were set to awaken, as if he were trying to escape unnoticed, without breaching the rules of courtesy.

Mind made up, Faramir got to his feet.

Lord Lamedon's budget proposal could wait for a few days if it had to.

Faramir met Lord Elrond and his escort at the stables, barely before they set out.

Elrond did not seem pleased to see Faramir, and the look on his face made the Steward's knees shake. The expression softened as Faramir approached.

"My Lord," the Steward began courteously. "I see you are leaving sooner than you had expected to be. May I inquire if something is wrong? Is there anything you would like me to tell the king?" he asked, carefully framing the inquiry as nothing more than the dutiful attention of a devoted steward.

"Nothing at all," Elrond said brusquely, his tone frosty, so much so that Faramir's suspicion turned to certainty.

Neither person was fooled by the other.

"Mekin, aran nin, ala lenndë an ohta. Aragorn nahtian," Faramir managed, trying to pretend there was no tremor in his voice.

The Elvish escort froze, and Elrond scowled, motioning for them to leave.

For a tense moment, none of them moved, but at last began to file away.

"You are a very devoted Steward to your King," the Elven Lord said as the last elf was ut of sight, but Faramir could hear the menace in his voice. "Does he know this of you, Son of Denethor?"

Faramir flinched as if Elrond had slapped him. "La, aran nin, anat istie i nwalmao e atar man carie la."

Cold silence stretched out between them, only broken as Elrond took a sharp breath. "Ista nomëlca," he snapped, leading his horse back to the stables.

Translation notes:

"Please, my lord, do not leave because of strife. Aragorn will be hurt."

"No, my lord, but I know the pain of a father who cares not."

"Know your place."

Faramir dragged in a rattling breath and felt it knock about in his ribs as if he'd dropped something solid into his lungs in place of air. His stomach turned over, and his hands were shaking, all clear signs of panic. He tried to imagine Gandalf's voice.

"Panic is the enemy of the hero," he would say, rubbing Faramir's back when it had been safe to do so, helping the young boy to calm down after a particularly bad encounter with his father.

Faramir had not allowed himself the luxury of such contact in more than ten years, and Gandalf had not found out about the scars crossing his back.

Calmed at last, Faramir slipped away, near silent as he returned to his work in the office just down the hall from the throne room.

His hands were still shaking as he tried to double-check the math on Lamedon's requested budget, and he was in no mood to be indulgent with the upstart, and so with very little consideration, rejected it for its excesses, and lost himself in his work, all other needs forgotten.

A knock sounded at the door, and he finally pulled himself from the paper stack in front of him, neck popping as he changed position. "Come in," he called, wincing and putting a hand on his neck.

Aragorn let himself in, politely closing the door behind him as the Steward scrambled to his feet to bow

"My king," Faramir started, mind racing with near panic.

Could Aragorn have heard what happened with Elrond?

He focused on his breathing, keeping it slow, his body language purposefully relaxed. His attempt was worth any punitive measures it gathered, and he was prepared to take any punishment with dignity.

"Faramir," Aragorn said warmly, settling himself into an empty chair by the door. "There's no need for such formality; we're in private."

"Right," Faramir winced as he sat down again; it was a near-daily reminder. "My apologies."

"No, no, it's alright." The king sighed, shifting his weight. "The point is that you don't have to be so worried about it all the time."

The steward nodded, suppressing the urge to apologize again.

"I wanted to check in with you to make sure you're alright," Aragorn continued, and Faramir winced; this was just confirmation that he had not been keeping up with his work. "I am certain a report came to you of the exchange with Harad, yes?"

The steward closed his eyes and rubbed his hand across his face. He'd been so distraught after speaking to Elrond that he had entirely forgotten about the diplomatic letters. "I'm sorry," he said, shoulders sagging.

Ista nomëlca. The words rang in his ears all over again, fishing out old, bad memories from the dark recesses of his mind.

"I meant to see you about that earlier, but-" he hesitated. "I lost track of time."

It was no excuse, of course, and the king would have every right to be angry.

"That's fine. I am pleased to visit with you, and this is a good excuse," Aragorn said easily, apparently unbothered.

Faramir shifted again, finding that he was perched nervously on the edge of his chair.

The appearance of temperance was generally the herald of great storms.

He had to remind himself that Aragorn was not the sort of man to scheme cruel vengeance over petty grievances. He managed a smile, but judging by the look on his face, the king was beginning to pick up on Faramir's nervousness. "Thank you, Aragorn," he said, forcing himself to actually relax. "The report indicated we sent our response within hours of receiving the message from Harad. I take it the request for negotiations went poorly?"

Aragorn was silent for a long moment as he considered his steward closely.

Faramir wanted to shrink back into the chair and vanish.

"Yes," the king said at last, leaving his concerns unspoken. "As expected, they are not pleased to honor my queen as they might a king. They wanted to move the meeting place into Harad."

"A trap," Faramir said immediately, all of his ranger-instincts screaming that humoring their enemy's whims was a terrible idea.

"I shall only agree to move it as far as the border. No further," Aragorn said firmly, and the steward relaxed. "But I cannot go myself. Arwen has forbidden it."

"Ah," the knot in Faramir's back throbbed as he tensed again. "I would be honored to accept such an important mission."

"Assuming they accept our terms," Aragorn added. "If not, then the war will continue. I will make no compromise on this matter."

"That is most wise," Faramir agreed. "The very suggestion speaks of impertinence and bad faith."

"That's what I worry about. I suspect you are the best man for this job, and I shall have need of your subtlety and insight before this is done," the king mused. "I expect there will be some trick."

Faramir tried to make sense of the words that were reaching his ears. "Are you… certain?" he managed, fingers fumbling against each other as he unconsciously began to wring his hands.

Aragorn's chin tilted downward slightly and one eyebrow lifted- signs of displeasure if Faramir had ever seen them. "I have not known followers of Sauron to be honorable. The people of Harad are proud and wild, but they will follow their corrupt leaders if ordered, even if the act strips their ethics down to the quick." He paused, eyebrow lifting even further, instilling a sharp sense of dread into Faramir's chest. "Or did you mean something else? Are you questioning my judgment, Faramir?" he asked, setting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward.

The Steward swallowed hard, hands shaking where they sat, hidden behind the wood of his desk. "N-no, my lord, I just-" his eyes darted to the door, seeking an exit.

"Then you are doubting my faith in you?" Aragorn continued, his voice soft and gentle, rattling Faramir further; the steward could handle anger, but he could not comprehend the reaction he was receiving from the king, and so feared it.

He could only shake his head, hands gripping the edge of his desk.

"But you think it is misplaced?"

Faramir could not respond. He did think Aragorn's faith was misplaced. He could not conceive of himself as being ready for such a vital diplomatic mission. He was just a ranger captain, and now a ranger captain pretending to be a prince and steward, hoping for affection and rewards he knew he had not earned and did not deserve.

His eyes dropped to the floor.

"Faramir, look at me," Aragorn ordered, and Faramir flinched. "I know you," he said in a way that sent a shiver down the steward's spine, as if the king had set a secret and very personal knowledge in those words. "If you are worried that I shall see your flaws, let me assure you that I do. I am not blind, I am not deceived, and you are not a deceiver, and neither are those flaws the whole of you. Faramir, I see a man beyond the wounds of your past. Let them heal. Rise above, Faramir. You are a son of-" he hesitated. "A son of Numinor."

"A son of Denethor," he said tentatively. "I fear what weakness flows in my veins."

Aragorn nodded sagely. "And I, the heir of Isildur. I think we have both proven to be unchained by the ghosts of yesteryears."

Faramir did not look convinced.

"No madness is in you," the king insisted. "I know it."

A silence hung between them in the quiet study, and Faramir had to let the words cover him, setting a warmth and ease into him that was unfamiliar.

"Yes, Aragorn," he said, confidence restored, at least for the moment. "Thank you, my lord."

"Will you accept this task?" the king asked and Faramir nodded.

"I will."

"Good," Aragorn said, allowing a smile to peek through on his face. "This brings me to something else I heard today. My father tells me I have you to thank for persuading him to sta- Faramir?" He stood suddenly, taking a few long-legged steps around the desk to lean down, catching Faramir's chin and studying his face with all the intensity of a breaking storm in his eyes. "You've gone white, melon nin, what's wrong?"

"I- I- I thought he would be angry-"

"He was," Aragorn said easily, seeming to relax, presumably as he realized Faramir was alright. He remained standing for a second longer, lingering as though he preferred to remain in proximity before at last moving back to the chair to sit once more.

"I thought you would be angry-"

"I'm not," the king said firmly. "I am grateful on behalf of my wife… and myself, if I am being honest. We have little time left with him."

Faramir took a moment to consider before he responded. "I have stood by to see the eyes of a father I loved and aspired to make proud pass by me without lingering. I… do not wish anyone-" especially you "-to suffer the way I do. Did," he corrected himself, hoping Aragorn hadn't noticed the slip.

The king set his hand on the desk. "Those days are over," he insisted, gaining a tight smile from the man across from him.

Aragorn thought he had been referring to Denethor.

"Yes," Faramir agreed, tone thick.

Of course Aragorn had not noticed the true meaning of his error, but why did that sting so badly?

Silence reigned, unbroken by either side, and the desk kept them apart.

At last, Aragorn stood. "I've taken too much of your time," the king said, offering a wan smile. "I will let you get back to work, but please, remember to eat, melon nin," he said, turning toward the door.

Faramir scrambled to his feet. "It wasn't too much time," he said, words coming out in a rush. It wasn't long enough. "It was a pleasure to speak with you."

Aragorn nodded but said nothing before opening the door and vanishing out into the hall, leaving only the quiet click of the latch behind with the faint scent of athelas.

The Steward stood alone in the silent study before dropping back into his chair to bury his face in his hands.

He had said too much, gone too far, crossed too many lines, and gotten too close.

Of course Aragorn had left. Why would he stay? Why would anyone stay?

Aragorn stood in the hall, quietly observing his pounding heart. He was afraid, terribly afraid, and he hated it.

Orcs, Uraks, Mumaks, Easterlings, Wraiths of many kinds, the undead, even Sauron himself had not frightened Aragorn as much as the idea of losing Faramir, but he could tell he had overstepped boundaries better left uncrossed.

Perhaps it was his tone, or his affectionate use of Elvish, maybe it had been in crossing to check on the Steward's health that had done it, but he could tell it was his fault, something he had said.

He replayed the conversation in his mind, trying not to wince at every near-miss where his affection had gone undisguised, wondering if that had been the tipping point.

He'd said too much, gotten too close, and Faramir had reacted by pulling away- he could see it in the pained, unconvinced smile, the set of his shoulders, the way the Steward's eyes would avoid his own gaze.

Aragorn forced himself forward, heart heavy. His hip throbbed painfully.

He had his own work to do, and he could not let it bury Faramir for his own negligence.

Chapter Text

"Something troubles you," Elrond observed from where he was sitting, breaking the silence that had settled over them since he had entered the royal suite.

"It's Faramir," Arwen explained, delicately embroidering a blue silk shirt with a flashing, silver thread. "Estel doesn't know what to do with him."

Aragorn made a pitiful attempt to glare at her, but he could put no venom behind the look, despite his vexation at her baring his hurt so easily. Sighing he nodded, letting the frown melt off to be replaced by a look of exhausted worry. "I suspect I made him uncomfortable." He suspected it was more than discomfort.

"You suspect?" Elrond prompted, setting the silver goblet down on the table by his chair.

The king turned his gaze away, studying instead the burgundy curtains hanging by the window, and the surrounding white stones that made the outer wall. "Well, I know for certain he was uncomfortable. He had the look of a man in pain," Aragorn rubbed his hand over his face, trying to push back the guilt that was eating at him and forced himself to return his gaze to the participants of the conversation. He didn't know what he had done, and might not have done anything wrong, strictly speaking, so dragging himself over the proverbial coals wasn't going to help anything.

"Did you ask him?" Arwen asked, pointedly pausing her work to meet his eyes.

"How could I?" Aragorn returned, wincing. "Faramir goes to ground when cornered. One wrong move and I could lose him." He had to admit to himself that she had a point.

"Is the situation truly as grave as you think it is?" she asked, her eyes lingering on his only a moment longer before returning to her craft. "He's a ranger, my love, like you. There is much strength in him, you must know this," she reminded him, glancing up for just another second to meet her husband's gaze.

"Faramir will be fine, whatever happens. I do not fear for his sake; he will heal, he has that strength," Aragorn agreed, waving a hand in a way that was not quite dismissive. "My fear is selfish. I worry he will turn away from me and see me as a friend no longer."

"While I understand the worry, I think Faramir needs you just as much. As long as that need is present, he shall cling to you," she assured him.

"That's no consolation," Aragorn said, looking down into his cup and swirling the wine. "I don't want him to have to rely on my approval. He should know his own merit, apart from me."

Arwen shook her head at him. "And he will. You have to trust him, too, Aragorn," she reminded him and he nodded miserably.

"I do," he said, setting his own drink down. "I must continue to."

A hush settled over the three of them as they sat, almost comfortably but for the slight tension between father and son.

"How is your wound today?" Elrond asked, breaking the silence.

"It aches, but the scar is unchanged," Aragorn said dully, mind elsewhere.

"I could see to it again," the Elven Lord offered.

The king shook his head. "No, thank you, I'm alright."

There was an awkward pause, and Elrond cleared his throat. "You are not the only one who fears losing someone dear by imprudent action." He got to his feet. "Goodnight, Estel."

"Goodnight… father." Aragorn stood slowly, centering his weight on his uninjured leg before reaching a hand out toward Elrond, catching the elf's arm as he moved by toward the sitting room door.

Elrond stood stunned for a moment before folding his son into a short hug. "Sleep well."

It was another three days before a new message arrived with the rider from the Haradrim, and Aragorn sent him back with a response within the hour- a rejection of their further attempts to set negotiations within the borders of their own realm.

The exchange of letters continued for some weeks in the facade of polite professionalism that veiled the underlying hostilities of both sides.

At last, under threat of a full-scale invasion, the Chieftain of the Haradric Tribes agreed to set the meeting on the border of Gondor and Harondor, land that, by all rights, belonged to the Numenoreans, but had been under occupation for more than a thousand years, and hotly contested for just as long.

Aragorn had no intention of leaving Harondor under enemy occupation.

It was early morning, the sky still a silver gray before the blue of the horizon could cross the dome above Minas Tirith and herald the start of the bustling life in the city.

Astaren was dressed in the ceremonial armor of the Stewardship, and, in Faramir's opinion, looked far more fitting in the garb than he, a simple ranger doing his best to play the role of a diplomat.

The grim faces of the rangers around him reflected his own doubts about the mission back to him- none of them expected Harad to be honorable in its dealings, and some of them probably expected to die.

"Lord Faramir!"

A shout rang out across the courtyard before the stables, and he jerked, his head lifting from the last inspections of their gear to search their surroundings for the source of the voice, troubles forgotten for just a moment as his eyes landed on the flashing blonde braid of the maiden calling him.

Eowyn ran up the steps, her handmaidens struggling to keep up as they followed, arms laden with flowers. "We have only just arrived and Lord Aragorn tells me you are setting off for Harondor. I must curse my timing, I had hoped to call on you with my brother."

"Lord Eomer is here?" Faramir asked, wincing. He was certainly leaving his king and uncle more than their fair share of work.

"He is. He had come hoping to speak with you," she continued and he tore his eyes off her to resume inspecting the equipment.

"I cannot spare a moment, I am afraid," he said heavily, sparing a glance to his men, some of whom were repressing tears as the ladies of Rohan placed flowers in their hands as a respectful farewell from a sister kingdom.

"He knows," Eowyn said softly. "We are here to see you off, with Lord Aragorn's blessing." She lowered her voice. "He wanted to come himself, but I believe he is injured." She said it as though to be overheard would shame her. "Lord Elrond is very watchful, and Aragorn is moving stiffly."

He sometimes forgot that Eowyn herself was an expert healer; Aragorn was very good at pretending to be fine. "Yes," Faramir whispered back. "There was a fire, a little over a month ago. You must have seen the charring in the Pelennor?" he asked and she nodded, eyes widening.

"The dwarves of Erebor had not yet completed a new gate for the First Circle, so there was a wood gate up that caught flame and fell, lighting a hovel ablaze with children inside."

"Aragorn saved them?" she guessed, wringing her hands. "And the building collapsed."

He nodded, neglecting to mention that he had been injured in the same fire.

"How bad was it?" she asked, setting a hand on Faramir's shoulder, forgetting to remain hushed.

"A chipped bone," he said, matching her tone. "Little else. He was lucky."

She nodded, but still looked troubled.

"The hobbits are around," he said, changing the subject. "I think you will find that your visit was well timed in that regard. Merry misses you quite a bit, I think."

"Merry misses me?" Her blue eyes bore into him and he looked away, at last tightening the girth strap on Astaren as he prepared to mount.

"Him and others," Faramir admitted, setting his foot on the stirrup.

"You?" she asked, tone devoid of emotion.

He kept his face neutral and nodded. "Of course," he said. "You are a good friend."

"My lord," a ranger began to speak, a flower Faramir recognized as simbelmyne held lightly in one hand. "We are ready for departure."

"Farewell, Lady Eowyn," Faramir said softly, pulling himself upright into the saddle, feeling just a little more like a leader than he had. "Be well."

She caught his hand and pressed a bundle of simbelmyne and athelas into his hand. "Your country needs you. The Haradrim will not keep their word," she warned and he nodded, kicking his heels and setting Astaren into a walk.

"Ride," he ordered. "Stay together. I will not tolerate stragglers."

"Farewell, my lord," Eowyn said softly.

Faramir was not certain he had been meant to hear.

The journey was long and grueling, following the Harad Road down through green Ithilien to Tolfalas and beyond the banks of the River Poros, and yet had the effect of reminding Faramir once again how uncomfortably close Dol Amroth, and his only remaining family, was to the border of Harad, how close they were to harm.

Across the Poros, the landscape quickly began to change from the rich green forests of Ithilien to grassland, and wide, rocky expanses and overhangs, leading ultimately into the desert. It wasn't visible at that distance, it could not possibly be, but in the shimmering heat, the white expanse of the horizon stretching far beyond the rim of the world seemed to pull the vast sandy plain into view.

Faramir pulled Astaren to a halt, raising his hand to signal to the men with him that they should not go further.

The road narrowed ahead, passing between two halves of a jagged rise, split through in the middle as if by some divine wrath. It wasn't easy to tell how wide the top was, or how far the impression ran between them- everything in his bones said the location was primed for an ambush.

If it were him, he would have troops on top of and behind the massive rocks- with the size of them, he could hide cavalry and even a mumak or two.

He tugged the reins again and Astaren began to back, slowly setting one hoof back, and then another.

The other rangers followed suit, hands drifting to weapons.

It wasn't until his fingers brushed by the feathers on his arrows that he realized he, too, had reached for a weapon.

The breeze shifted, carrying with it a cough from the other side- no one reacted.

Only he had heard the sound.

It was faster than thought that his bow found its way into his arms, the string to his cheek, and he let the arrow fly, taking what seemed to him to be the slowest arc over the rise in their path.

It disappeared from view.

There was silence for a second longer, and then a cry of pain- a cry his men heard loud and clear.

His arrow had found its target, and the silence broke.

The trumpeting of mumaks filled the air, turning his heart cold and confirming his worst fears.

"Retreat!" He could barely hear himself over the screaming din of the swarming enemy, their horns mingling with their battle cries and the thundering hooves of their own horses. "Retreat!"

The enemy had cavalry, and javelins, and already men were dying.

He saw Haradrim fall, arrows sprouting from the chinks in their armor, and heard the cries of his own men as they fell from their mounts. The smell of blood filled the air, and already his fingers burned. How many arrows had he sent into the crowd pursuing them as Astaren carried him out of their reach?

The world lurched and his own mount fell, legs tangled in a bola.

Panic took hold at last, and he found his knife in his hand as he struggled to free his leg from her weight.

"Still," he gasped, dropping into her kicking legs, cutting at the sturdy rope.

The tangle came away and she righted, already kicking and snapping at the approaching soldiers, circling her master.

Knee now aflame with pain, he tried to stand, reaching for his sword as he did.

"The steward!" The cry sounded distant to his blood-pounding ears, but the effect was immediate.

The three Haradrim closest to him fell, choking on blood and Gondorian arrows, but his relief was short-lived as six more filled in.

He did not dare try to re-mount.

Astaren's hooves came down hard on one man, knocking him to the ground. Without pausing, she set her hooves on his broken form and kicked another foolish enough to approach her flank, caving in the helmet over his face.

Faramir shook himself and at last managed to free his sword, taking another three men before a spear found his side.

Time slowed and he found his gaze dropping to his hands.

The Steward's ring still sat on his finger, covered in blood- though he was unsure whose. He dropped his knife and yanked the seal off, dropping it into Astaren's pack and yelling at her to leave.

The spear was still in his side, and its wielder twisted it, causing him to stagger, but he turned, raising his sword despite the pain to hack at the neck of another.

The spear twisted once more, forcing him to his knees and the sword went wild, burying into the flesh of a soldier's arm.

The ring of opponents closed on him and he dropped his sword, lacking the strength to pull the blade out of his enemy's bone. He snatched up the fallen knife instead, baring his teeth against the pain and brandishing the blood soaked tip.

The barbed tip of the spear prevented him from getting free, but the approach would be costly for any man who dared attempt it.

To his horror, no one did.

It was clear to everyone present that he was a dying man, no more strong than a fish impaled on a stick, gasping its last. There was no need to enter the range of his knife when they could just twist the blade buried in his side.

It was only as his vision was fading that Faramir at last dared to relinquish the hold on his knife with an artful flick of the wrist- burying it into a new sheath of flesh to be found in the throat of a Haradrim Captain, one last spiteful strike at his captor, and in his mind, a fair trade- a captain for a captain.

The last things he heard were the screams of horses and men, and the trumpeting of the mumaks as darkness closed in over him, for what he thought must be the last time, a desperate prayer stumbling feverishly over his lips.

Father, greet me when I wake from this dream and think better of me, apart from this world. Mother, teach me to love him again. Brother, forgive me for my failures. Eru, I beg you to welcome me. I would come to you if you would have me.

The darkness gave no answer, and he did not ask it to.

Chapter Text

It had been perhaps a day or so past a week since Faramir had left for Harondor. 

No more missives had come from Harad, and as spring stretched into summer, the Pelennor healed from the fire that had ravaged the grassland. 

Aragorn had made little progress in finding the culprit who had started the fire in Ithilien, and walked the castle tense and watchful, uncertain if there were traitors in his court- or rather, uncertain if they were present at any time.

It was a near certain thing that there were traitors.

Worse than the tension though was the veneer of normalcy, the mind-numbing monotony that had set in with the rhythm of their days. 

He had finished reviewing the injury reports from the Ithilien rangers and had finalized treatments and retirement plans for both the rangers who would be returning to their posts, and those who were too physically broken to remain in service to Gondor.

Imrahil was by now very familiar with the inner workings of Minas Tirith and performed his duties as supplement to king and steward very well and with a flourish Aragorn hoped might rub off on Faramir; the lord of Dol Amroth would publicly burn requests from nobility he deemed as dishonoring their station- not so expressly, of course, but few members of the court missed when a document bearing their own seal found its way into the fire. In secret, he and the king searched for signs of Faramir’s tormenter as well, but the trail had been cold for too long to make much headway.

Eowyn regularly attended the audiences Aragorn held for his people, and at first, he could not fathom why; audiences were not the most interesting event to attend, but at last he began to notice that she was studying his method. She’d mimic his posture and body language, and her eyes rarely wandered from him.

He was content to let her learn the ways of Gondor from him.

He had just finished mediating a dispute concerning the profits to split between the owner of a cow and a cheesemaker who processed the milk from the animal when Eowyn approached the throne. Aragorn did not notice her at first, his mind still on the everyday problems faced by his people, but Arwen stood, opening her arms to embrace the princess of Rohan and drawing his attention. “Lady Eowyn! Thank you for joining us again today.”

Eowyn returned the queen’s embrace, blue eyes still boring into Aragorn. She pulled away, setting a hand briefly on the queen’s shoulder. “I’m happy to.”

“Something troubles you?” Arwen prompted as Eowyn stepped closer to Aragorn.

The shield-maid nodded, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “The men in the next group are going to lie to you,” she said in a hushed tone, leaning close for Aragorn to hear.

“You know this?” he asked. “How?”

She winced, uncertainty playing over her fine features, and at last she shook her head. “The same way Grima could not dull my spirit or blunt my steel,” she said with a helpless shrug. “I simply do, I suppose.”

“Thank you for telling me. I shall be on my guard,” he assured her, gripping her arm for a moment. 

She nodded, glancing over her shoulder for a moment before returning to her seat.

Aragorn surveyed the men who were approaching. 

There were two distinct groups among them, and clear hostility between the two. 

He had seen his citizens enter with disputes before, and some could get quite heated, but none had maintained this level of outright hatred between them.

There was certainly room for deceit there.

Neither story added up, either. There was time unaccounted for and inconsistencies, such that Aragorn could scarce follow the narrative from either side, just that each blamed the other for a series of rapidly escalating misfortunes. 

He took a breath to halt them, patience growing dangerously thin.

Father-

Aragorn jerked back and started to his feet, looking around wildly.

The action succeeded in silencing the arguing crowd of men before his throne, but the king’s attention was no longer with them.

He turned back to face his queen, trying to calm the panic that had climbed into his throat at hearing the pleading tone of Faramir’s voice.

Arwen stood slowly, and offered him a hand. 

His fingers slipped easily into hers and he watched as her chest heaved suddenly and her face drained of its color.

“Faramir?” she whispered, and he nodded, tugging suddenly at her hand to lead her out of the throne room.

“My lord?” a guard called and he waved his free hand dismissively. 

“I will take no more audience today. Fine both parties for lying to their king,” he called back, not bothering to slow his pace.

He strode into the war room down the hall, flinging the door open and drew from his waist his elvish dagger to plant the tip firmly into the map on the table, marking the location before it could be driven from his mind. Mark made, he withdrew the tip, absentmindedly resolving to have the map recopied onto a fresh sheet of vellum. He leaned closer as he studied the split he’d made in southern Harondor, a little further south of what served as the contested border. 

The location seemed familiar. There were hills marked around it, and outcroppings of rocks in the area that brought to mind his time in Harad as a youth, traveling to learn the ways of his enemies.

It had not been until leaving Harad, accompanied by a servant he’d won in a game and freed on principle that he had learned the significance of that place as they had passed through it.

He could see it clearly in his mind, the irregular outcropping rising before his eyes as he gazed into Gondor, the path bloody. 

The Serpent’s Mouth was a choke point and had been for the length of the war, but Gondorian forces had not pressed the border at all since Denethor came to power some thirty thirty years- almost forty now. It was a difficult point to hold, as it facilitated ambushes from both sides, but had no place for long-term troop bastions.

The full reality of the location settled on Aragorn’s shoulders as he realized with a sinking dread that he had indeed sent Faramir into a trap despite his best efforts to de-fang the Haradrim by keeping them on the border. Perhaps he had even dropped the opportunity into their laps, and now the son of his heart was injured, certainly, but perhaps dead or worse, captured. 

Aragorn had seen before how the Haradrim treated their prisoners, and for generations, the brutality coming from their desert-dwelling enemies had inspired desperate ferocity in the Numenorians who would not be captured alive.

“That isn’t marked,” Eowyn’s voice broke through his thoughts, startling him

Aragorn had not realized she had followed them out of the hall.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing to the map, her blue eyes sharp with battle-light.

The king of Gondor remained silent as he considered her.

If Eowyn knew Faramir were in trouble, she would almost certainly go charging off before he or Eomer could do anything about it.

Arwen glanced between the princess and her husband, her fingers still entwined in his.

“Lord Faramir is in danger, isn’t he?” Eowyn asked, eyes darting briefly back to the map before returning to bore through his soul. “And he’s there?”

“My lady,” Aragorn started, a cautionary note in his voice. He raised one hand in a gesture one might make trying to calm an angry cat. 

The shield-maiden did not let him finish. “He was there, but you don’t know now,” she concluded, and he winced. Her knowledge was uncanny. “Then surely the armistice is ended?” she asked.

“If I am correct,” Aragorn started, though he knew without doubt he was right. 

Arwen shot him a look.

“Yes,” he amended. “It is ended. Gondor is again at war. It is good that Eomer is here, I have need to speak with him on the matter.”

“I’ll fetch him,” Eowin said, turning on her heel with a graceful yet dangerous swish of her skirts, visibly restraining herself from breaking into a run down the hall.

“I need Imrahil,” Aragorn said, turning back to face the map on the table with a darkening look upon his face. “I’ll have to look him in the eye as I tell him I will make no negotiation for Faramir’s return.”

“That may cost Faramir his life,” Arwen gently, though she did not need to.

“I know,” Aragorn agreed. “But concessions would reward the unjust, cost many more Gondorian lives and dishonor all that he stands for. I must only hope that our vengeance is swift enough to wrest him from enemy hands. It is my duty as king. All must know that to break faith with me is to covet death.”

“I will speak to my father. Perhaps Elves can stand with men once more,” she offered and he smiled wanly in her direction.

“That age is ending, Vanimelda ,” he said, shaking his head. “Though I would not begrudge your request, I expect little will come of it.”

Arwen nodded and slipped away, leaving Aragorn alone, gazing at the map and the cut marking the possible end of his son. He shook his head again. 

He had thought once before that Faramir had fallen in battle, but the Steward was of the strongest Numenorian stock and had proved many times to be quite difficult to kill. 

He bowed his head to Eru, and lifted his hopes to the Valar.

Behind him, the door opened, and several people entered. There was Imrahil, Elrond, Arwen, and Eomer, all wearing grim expressions as they moved to sit around the war table.

“Peace was all too short,” Eomer said respectfully, bowing his head slightly as he moved to sit. “My sister tells me your Steward is in trouble. You have my sympathy.”

“I thank you,” Aragorn said distractedly, running a hand over his face. “I know it is asking much to bring this before you so soon after war.”

“And yet,” Eomer said understandingly. “Are we not sworn brothers in arms? Is Rohan not bound by oath to aid Gondor?”

Estel managed a grateful smile and felt that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “And what can Gondor do for Rohan for this kindness?”

“I have a request in mind, but we shall discuss that at a later time. The matter at hand is too urgent.”

Usually Aragorn would have balked at such an open exchange. Leaving the terms of a royal debt undefined was almost universally a foolish idea, and by the look Elrond was giving him, he was not the only one who noticed it, but he trusted Eomer to act honorably. He nodded, and the look on Elrond’s face darkened.

“I cannot offer such… generous aid,” the Elven Lord said slowly, eyes turning momentarily toward Eomer. “The strength of the Eldar is broken. My people are too few, and of those who remain their scars too numerous. Imladris can do nothing for you.” His tone was apologetic, but his face had shifted back to a practiced mask of neutrality.

Aragorn’s heart sank further as he realized that before him sat not his father, but a king, a picture of the duty he himself carried, and an attitude he may have to present to his own loved ones at times, an eventuality he deeply dreaded. “I would be grateful for your council in this matter,” he said, and Elrond nodded slightly.

“The Swan Knights are ever at your disposal,” Imrahil said. “And have somewhat more experience in the southern climes than most, save perhaps the Rangers of Ithilien.” 

“The rangers have been ground down by misuse for twenty years and their ranks are little more than three battalions,” Arwen said, cutting into the discussion.

“Indeed. The rangers must be carefully positioned and replenished. I think they will see little of the coming war,” Aragorn agreed. “And not much beyond the border, the sands render cavalry ineffective.”

Eomer did not look pleased.

“Then draw them out,” Elrond suggested. “The Gondorian cavalry, reinforced by the brave Rohirim, can cripple their army on your terms, and your knights can take Harad nearly unopposed, if managed.”

“I’m not going to count on that,” Aragorn started. “We may only draw-” 

A knock from the door cut him off, and he looked back to see two men at the door, one a Gondorian, and the other a member of Eomer’s delegation.

The two kings looked back, wearing shared looks of mildly impatient expectation. 

“Speak,” Eomer barked, and the Gondorian looked nervously over at Aragorn, who held up a hand and nodded reassuringly.

The Rider bowed slightly. “A rider from the delegation has left the city without leave.”

“Who?” Eomer demanded, his short patience already thinning.

“We don’t… know,” the man had to admit, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he stood under his king’s baleful gaze.

“We do, my lord,” the Gondorian cut in. “It’s the reason I’m here, sire,” the guard said apologetically. “The rider identified himself as Dernhelm.”

Eomer’s expression was blank for a moment with a lack of recognition but Aragorn put his face in his hand.

“Of course she did,” Estel muttered to himself. “I shouldn’t even be surprised.” He startled as a chair hit the ground and looked up again to see that Eomer had stood, worry and anger battling for a place over his features.

“Eowyn!” Eomer bellowed. “Dispatch a rider! Get her- him- Bring Dernhelm back here!”

Startled into action by the sudden shouting, the Rider managed a swift bow and took off at a run down the hall.

“Clear the center street,” Aragorn ordered his own guard. “They’ll need a clear way if they hope to catch up.”

The guard clapped a hand over his heart and bowed before turning to follow the other down the hall, still hurrying, but not with the same desperate clip.

Aragorn stood silent for a moment before easing himself into his own chair.

Eomer stood a little longer, looking lost and distraught before wordlessly picking up his fallen chair and dropping into it with an air of defeat. 

“What are the odds they bring her back?” Aragorn asked gently. 

It was hard to imagine Eowyn would put up with anyone to bring her back, even if the riders sent had the order of both kings, and if she did refuse, there was not much either could do about it.

Eomer just shook his head. “Windfola is a better steed than even Firefoot, and my sister is a light burden. It is a fool’s hope that they might bring her back.”

The king of Gondor nodded gravely. “That is what I feared.”

Imrahil cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I take it she does this often?” he asked, glancing between the kings.

Aragorn’s eyes widened for just a second as he nodded grimly, and Eomer’s only response was to drop his head into his hands and release a strangled noise of frustration.

Chapter Text

Eowyn’s pace did not slow even when she could no longer hear the pounding of hooves behind her. She did not slow, she did not look back, and she did not fear. With Windfola under her, a fresh shield and a proper sword by her side, she felt more free than she had in a long time. From the cold determination to find Faramir alive she drew the confidence of the willingness to kill for her goal.

Nothing would stop her, not the land, not the distance, not her own brother.

When at last her pace changed it was because Windfola needed it to, and even then the great steed as able and eager to keep moving, and so on they went.

Her first day she rode through fields and grasslands that covered the rolling hills surrounding the Pelennor, and at last gave way to a more wooded wilderness as she followed the Anduin southward.

It was on her second day of riding that she spotted the rangers in the distance.

Where thirty men had departed with Faramir to Harondor, twenty-one rode back, heads bowed. Most were injured and it was clear to see that all were demoralized; the capture of their steward had stung deeply and planted resentment that would fuel even greater retaliation, but the inability to recover the bodies of their fallen comrades was itself a crushing defeat.

As they drew closer, she searched their faces, drawing curious looks from the few who had enough energy or care left to spare it on her, but among them she did not find the Steward.

“Don’t go much further south,” one called. “We’re at war again.”

“And what of your Captain?” she asked, heart sinking with dread.

“Captured. Turn back now,” another man called back, hardly paying her a spare glance as he rode on, which was fine.

She offered a salute with her spear tip as the last went by, but she kicked Windfola back into a trot, new determination set in her heart.

Captured meant alive, at least for now.

Time was not on her side.

Faramir struggled to wake. The cold, black of unconsciousness clung like an old friend to his senses, familiar, and perhaps a bit too comfortable- easy to slip backwards and accept, but hard to turn away. Still, he forced his eyes open, and the fright and pain of his situation came crashing back all at once.

Burning pain in his side spread up his body, pulsing with the unsteady racing of his panicked heart.

There was cloth over his mouth and nose, a hand holding his face down- more hands holding his limbs.

He could hear their voices, speaking in some language that reminded him of fire and shadow as the pain in his side increased. He’d been stabbed again- then again- fire tugged through the flesh and he slowly began to realize that his captors were stitching his wounds closed. He forced himself to be still, lungs burning as he struggled to breathe past the cloth and the hand. 

It was a thick enough fabric he couldn’t make out anything past the weave in what little light reached him.

At last the pain took him again, though it threatened to empty his stomach first, and he sank into unconsciousness with a sense of nervous relief.

Part of him hoped not to wake up again, but Aragorn’s voice kept echoing through his mind.

Return to the light, son of Gondor. Be free of this darkness. Breathe again.

Faramir jerked upright, glancing wildly around what appeared to be a tent. 

His wounds were clean, sewn shut, and aching powerfully. He could hear outside the tent that the guards were talking about him. His command of their language was rudimentary at best, and he wasn’t quite able to make out specifics, but it seemed they didn’t think he’d be a problem, even left unbound. “We’ll see about that,” he muttered, first searching the interior, and finding only a fallen pair of shears still coated in what was presumably his blood, began to check the edges of the tent, listening for breathing at each wall and corner.

Finding the back left corner was the quietest, he pried the shears open and pushed the tip through the fabric, just low enough for him to crawl out once the slit was open.

The blades, now clean of blood, were reflective and broad enough to show him if there were people outside, and when there were a few in view of his escape, he waited.

At last the way cleared, but more Haradrim were approaching the door to the tent, possibly to retrieve or interrogate him. 

He wriggled hurriedly out the hole he’d made and dodged from tent to tent to the edge of the camp where sentries looked out into the surrounding desert in wide intervals. 

There were likely to be only four, but it would be dawn soon, and he’d be spotted if he wasn’t well away by daybreak.

Faramir readied his shears and crept toward the closest, heart cold as river stone.

A lone rider crested a red tinted dune as dawn broke over the western desert of Harad. She tugged at the reins as her eyes landed on what appeared to be an enemy camp, realizing she was in full view of the sentries. She could see that an alarm had been raised, and the interior of their defensive line was in chaos.

With a jolt, Eowyn looked again.

The alarm had been up before she had come across the camp, and the Haradrim hadn’t bothered mounting a defense in her direction at all. Somehow, they had not seen her, and what was more, they were already in distress.

She raised a field glass to her eye and squinted through its lens at the tents.

No riders had saddled the Mumaks.

Men ran from tent to tent, throwing the door-cloths open wide and dragging out the contents, perhaps looking for something- or someone.

She tightened her grip on the spear and her hand went to the horn at her side, an idea beginning to form in her mind as she looked on. She kicked Windfola forward, urging the horse down the tall dune, toward the camp.

When she had gotten close enough, Eowyn dismounted, crawling until she reached the sentry, fully ready to jump out and dispatch him with her short blade, but no, he was already dead.

Hope fluttered lightly in her chest.

The man, slumped forward, a look of shock on his dead face, and blood still slowly seeping down from his slit throat told her that a ranger had passed through.

She stayed to the edges of the camp, just behind the sentries but not deep enough to be easily spotted by the still panicking soldiers searching for their escaped hostage. When she got as close as she dared to the resting Mumaks, she drew the horn from her side- and blew, abandoning every caution she had to make as much noise as suddenly as she could.

The Mumaks, startled awake, began to panic, breaking their leads and running into the camp, crushing all in their path.

She made a sharp whistle for Windfola, and began to run back toward where she could see her loyal mount.

A few men, having spotted her, stood in her path, but in the chaos, the advantage was hers, and they went down under her blade, spraying blood across the sand.

Mounted again, Eowyn felt a surge of deadly confidence, and turned Windfola forward into what was quickly becoming a slaughter.

The rangers had thinned the war party a significant amount, and under the crushing feet of the Mumakil, even fewer were left alive to face the wrath of the Shield Arm. Only when the great beasts began to calm did she pull back.

“Faramir!” she called, straining to hear any response over the chaos. She thought she would have seen him in the fray, unless he was already on his way to Gondor again. She gritted her teeth in frustration. She couldn’t stay much longer, but she couldn’t seem to find the Steward either. With a wild shriek, she grabbed the nearest man by the top of his armor plating, Windfola’s speed knocking the weapon from his grip.

The horse didn’t slow down at all but sped on until they were out of the immediate range of their pursuers. 

Eowyn dropped the soldier and dismounted, kicking him back down before he could rise and leveling her blade at his throat. “Who did you have here?” she demanded, but he didn’t answer. 

His face was a mask, but she could see in his eyes the fear of knowing she knew they had a prisoner at all.

“Was it the Steward?”

Still he remained silent, but his eyes told her everything.

“And he escaped?” 

Yes, Faramir had escaped, and that was all she really needed to know.

 “Lay down,” she ordered, and when he stayed propped up on his elbows, she pressed the tip of her sword to his throat. “Down,” she said more firmly, and he set his head back, slowly, grudgingly beginning to obey. She vaulted back onto Windfola, kicking the horse to a gallop back down the way they had come, sounding the warhorn as they went.

Faramir dimly heard the warhorn of the Rohirrim over the blood pounding in his ears, but whatever they had given him to keep him unconscious while they tended his injuries was starting to affect him- it seemed to have taken longer than they were expecting. He stumbled over the sand as the world tilted and helplessly reached a hand toward the red mare racing across the sand. “Eowyn, no,” he mumbled, legs giving out. 

The world pitched to the side and faded to black.

Again, Faramir jerked awake, sitting up and repressing a cry of pain as his side began to burn.

Several people began speaking at once, but he could not pick out even a single voice speaking a language he could fully understand.

He was again in a tent, this time laid upon something of a mattress. There were rugs covering the floor, a detail which confused him somewhat; rugs were impractical to bring on a military campaign.

Someone called above the din and the voices died down around him.

Faramir glanced around the room as his captors became distracted. 

There was a low table with several ceramic tea cups sitting well within his reach. In a pinch, he could throw them, and the pot might break with large enough shards to let him have a weapon.

An old man entered the tent, apparently the source of the shout that had silenced the men and two women in the tent with him. He pointed at Faramir, who tensed, sending a glare back. “You are-” he waved a hand as if trying to remember the word. “Wake? A wake?” he corrected himself. “My West speak is rusty. You forgive me.”

Faramir remained silent, determined to give his captors no useful information, even by accident.

“You not…?” the old man raised an eyebrow and sighed. He said something in Haradric that the Steward didn’t catch before continuing to speak in Westron. “You safe here. We are Enuun, wanderers. We did not take gifts.”

Faramir blinked at him in confusion, but the old man continued; apparently he didn’t need to provide an answer.

“You do not trust us, we do not trust you, so all is well. When we again come to border, you be released. Understand?”

“I am safe,” Faramir ventured in disbelief. “But you do not trust me?”

“Our people were once-” The old man clasped his hands together, fingers weaving through each other. “Same people, but there is much blood between us. Very old wounds. Bitterness made Lord of Gifts strong position to take our sons, take our daughters. No more. We be free of him, we be free of you.”

Understanding began to dawn on Faramir with a combination of relief, scholarly curiosity, and fear. “Wait,” he started, holding up a hand pleadingly as he struggled to get off the bed.

“You stay,” the old man said sharply, stepping in front of one of the women, his daughter, perhaps.

Faramir raised his hands. “I need to return to my people.”

“You will,” the man said flatly.

“And soon,” Faramir insisted. “They are in grave danger.”

“You believe we are free enough to take you back, past slaughtered camp, to border?” The old man scoffed. “You fool,” he said. “They blame us, they hunt us. We must go now. Take you back come season’s change. Be glad we are not now killing you for trouble.”

Faramir bit back a protest; they were already doing him a great service in taking him further from danger. “Could you let me go, then?” he asked. “I’ll make my way back, and you won’t be found guilty of-” he stumbled over the words. “S- slaughtering a camp? What happened?” He remembered seeing fire racing across the sand, hearing something screaming, or maybe singing, but the memory was too jumbled to make any sense.

“Rider came, blowing horn and killing men.” He mumbled something in Haradric that was either their word for the Rohirrim, or simply meant “insane,” which, on second thought, might have been the same word. “Then silence. Rider-” he shrugged. “Gone now.”

The memory resolved into a more comprehensible image- that of a red mare in the desert- Eowyn had come looking for him.

His heart sank.

She hadn’t found him. 

He pushed away a wave of self-criticism, reminding himself that he could not have known Eowyn was coming, and that waiting longer may have just ensured that she found a corpse instead of a highly vulnerable camp of enemies. His escape must have made her raid possible, and there was that at least. He shook his head, realizing he’d missed the last few words. “I’m sorry, could you say that again? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“No,” the man said. “We will not let you go. We do not trust you, but we cannot see desert kill you. You are not strong enough.”

Faramir smothered down a wave of frustration. “When I am strong enough, please let me go.”

“You will have debt to pay,” the old man countered. “You must work for your stay. It will be payed off by season’s turn if you work hard.”

The words got stuck in Faramir’s throat. He wanted to yell at them, or flee, or hide, or fight, anything but cooperate- but he had little choice now. He had no supplies, no way of knowing how far they had taken him before he woke up, and no allies. “Very well,” he said, stomach a knot that would have emptied itself if it had anything in it. “I see that I must accept your terms.”

The man nodded. “You are called Ihem now. Remember it. I am Eshati, chief of this tribe, and you are one of mine now.”

Chapter Text

Faramir thought long and hard about the name he had been given- Ihem. He had no idea what it meant, or why it had been assigned to him, but it was ill-fitting in a way that he could not abide, like a rope slowly tightening around his middle, cutting into his flesh, at first uncomfortable, then painful, then agonizing, then fatal.

They escorted him to a tent smaller than the rest, presumably for the rest of their slaves.

He grit his teeth.

“Better slave than dead,” he had been told, but such words were no comfort, merely an affront to his pride as a lord of Gondor.

“I am no slave,” he told himself, hands clenching at his sides. His sense of duty would keep him until he had repaid what debt he earned, but no further. 

If they then tried to detain him, well, he supposed he would live or die fighting for his freedom. The tent flap pulled aside to reveal six men seated quietly, resigned to their fates.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust as the tent closed behind him, but he realized with a thrill of hope that four of the men before him were Gondorian- though their gray eyes had lost the spark of strength that shone in the Numenorian line. 

“Men of Gondor,” he whispered, kneeling before the closest. “Our time is at hand,” he said, reaching a hand out toward the next.

They greeted his hope with laughter, bitter, derisive, and hopeless. “You’ll learn, friend,” said another man, taking his hand. “Our time is done. At least our masters are gentle favored and serve not the enemy. Take heart in that, for you shall get nothing more.”

“They mean to release me,” he said softly. “And I mean to take you all to your homes. No more shall you live as slaves. Tell me your names.”

“I am called Rimmach,” said the first man, but Faramir glared at him. 

“Your names,” he insisted. “Do you even remember the gift of your forefathers that proclaimed your identity? Sons of Gondor, I bid you remember your strength.”

“I remember well enough,” Rimmarch said bitterly. “I remember that it is broken, that my name will only bring a flogging if it is overheard.”

“Your masters are gentle favored?” Faramir asked mockingly, his fury rising. 

“Better than the city-dwellers,” the second agreed.

Faramir suppressed a sound of disgust. “I’ll not use the title they bid me take and I will bleed as much as it will take to show you true strength if it takes my last breath.”

“Then die sooner so that our rations will not decrease,” Rimmarch urged him. “You bring only trouble.”

“Hold your tongue,” Faramir snapped. “Be silent, all of you, and harken to me. Your pain nears its end, but not if you cling to your cowardice.”

“And who are you to silence us, sir? You asked our names but haven’t given your own,” said the fourth, who had thus far been silent.

“I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, and Captain of the Rangers.” His chest burned with anger and new determination. “Tell me again that you have abandoned your people and your hope,” he said, the edge of a warning creeping into his voice. “Or tell me your names.”

The fourth man considered him closely. “I’ll match you, my lord. For as long as you can hold, I shall refuse the name they gave me. I am Coruen, I was once a captain of the third company of knights from Minas Tirith. It is for Lord Boromir that I now defer to you.” He paused. “I take it that… he has passed. Lord Denethor as well?”

Faramir nodded, pushing the newly formed lump in his throat back down.

“Then our people are without their leader,” Rimmarch pointed out. “We are better off here. Gondor has already fallen.”

“Not so,” Faramir began.

“Then,” Coruen interrupted. “It is all the more pressing we see our Steward returned.”

“Gondor has found her king,” Farmir finished. “The enemy has fallen. Sauron is no more. I bring not a feeble hope, but a certainty.”

“I will follow you,” said the second man, gaining a glare from Rimmarch. “My name is Nelarion.”

Rimmarch had a look on his face, the sort of expression Faramir had seen on Denethor before trouble followed. He put on a smile, and clapped the two who had joined him on the arms, though it tugged his wounded side to do so.

“We shall see an end to this,” he said. “Though we may suffer before it comes.”

Faramir woke shivering in the night, too cold to go back to sleep, he turned onto his uninjured side and tried to conserve as much warmth as he could.

The touch of threadbare cloth on his shoulder drew his attention back from the miserable conditions for a moment and he realized that Coruen was awake and trying to help him. 

“Take it,” the older man whispered and Faramir gratefully tucked the blanket around himself. “I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight anyway.”

It wasn’t much better, but it allowed Faramir to at least doze in restless snatches through the rest of the night.

The light of a lantern woke him at last before dawn as a man entered the tent, barking orders in Haradric. 

Faramir went to stand, but the man pushed him back down, presumably saying something like “not you.” Nevertheless, the steward was determined not to be left behind and stood again.

“He says you’re injured,” Nelarion said. “He says you must stay.”

“I am not one to shirk my share in this burden,” Faramir insisted. “I want to begin making payment toward my freedom.”

“My lord,” Coruen said pleadingly. “You’ll recover faster-”

“And be indebted longer? I think not.”

The tribesman began to speak again and then motioned for the door, clearly impatient as Nelarion explained the situation, flinchingly, as though expecting retaliation for speaking.

“He says you can come,” Nelarion said at last. “But if you do not keep up, I will be flogged.”

Faramir’s stomach turned. “I will not be the cause,” he said firmly, following them out of the tent. “I swear it.”

The work was hard. Before the sun came up, there was no shelter from the cold, and once it had risen, there was no escape from the heat. 

Not only were the chores difficult themselves, more so with the hole in his side, but they also had to be done on the move, carrying great packs of things as they went from camel to camel, fetching and carrying, and repairing textiles as needed, and all this knowing he was walking further and further from the reach of his home, his freedom.

“If nothing else,” Coruen had joked in passing. “You’ll sleep tonight for certain.”

By the time they stopped for the evening, Faramir could barely hold himself up, but he pressed on, head down, following the instructions of his fellow prisoners.

“Ihem,” a voice called.

It took him a moment to remember the name was meant to be his.

“Ihem!” It was Eshati calling.

The rank of his captor made no difference.

Faramir ignored him, and the yelling became increasingly furious. He had been expecting retaliation and the strike to his head was hardly a surprise, but it sent him sprawling, spilling precious water into the sand. His side and knee pulsed with pain, but he sat up with little reaction to right the pitcher and continued to work, still ignoring the call until Eshati took his shirt front.

“You answer when I call you,” he said.

“You called for me?” Faramir asked innocently. “I must not have heard you.”

“You heard,” the man insisted and Faramir smiled disarmingly.

“I am certain you never called my name,” he said pointedly.

“You speak without respect,” Eshati said accusingly, shaking him so that Faramir gasped in pain. “When you are well enough, you will pay for it. You will not be spared forever.”

“You have forgotten, Eshati, that my station is above yours. I am not your slave, I am merely working to repay the debt of my keeping, a thing which was forced upon me. Were I not sympathetic to your trouble, I would not stoop to even this. Do not push me or I shall force you to take my life for the trouble- or perhaps die trying,” Faramir warned him, speaking quietly so as not to be overheard. “I take no pleasure in stirring this conflict between us. Leave me be, and you will find I shall be no trouble.” 

“You dishonor me with your action- ignoring command, forsaking name. My men will think I am weak, let you be impertinent,” Eshati hissed.

“I do not forsake my name,” Faramir insisted. “I cling to it, and it is for this you resent me.”

“If you put such foolish ideas into the minds of the others, I will hold you responsible.”

The corners of his lips pulled into a smile despite himself. “We both know they are my people, not yours. It is appropriate that I should be held responsible for their actions.”

“We see how long you think this when you are broken.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, but the smile did not fade from his lips. “If I should not have the strength to see this through, I do hope you will forgive my failure.”

Eshati clearly was unsure how to respond to such a statement. 

Faramir was neither boastful nor pliant, was cooperative, yet defiant. The younger man was enough to confound even the wisest tyrant in the east lands.

“But if you keep at this foolishness, I will be forced to raise hand to you before your body is healed enough,” the chief warned, suddenly.

The steward just smiled again, apparently unbothered. “I expected as much.”

 “I take no joy in such senseless violence,” Eshati said, as though defending against some sort of unspoken judgment.

Faramir felt a twinge of irritation at the statement. 

The man had admitted that what cruel punishments he employed were senseless, but still insisted upon their use.

“What familiar words. How many times I have heard their like,” Faramir remarked, the smile vanishing from his face as he turned to resume his work, currying dust out of the coats of the camels. “I expect they are as persuasive to you as to me. If I may make any request of you, let it be this. Do not try to justify your acts to me- it makes no difference. It is your word that commands the whip, and nothing you pretend to feel will change that. Your apologies won’t lessen its sting, your sympathy will not prevent the shed of blood.”

“You are strange Westerner, Ihem,” Eshati said consideringly. “From most, such impudence I would reward with pain.”

“My name is Faramir- and I do not mean to be impudent,” he said with a slight shrug. “I am sincere in my request, though I should point out that if you feel the bite of your conscience for how you plan to correct me, perhaps your behavior is the one that needs amendment.” He couldn’t prevent himself from flinching as the blow fell on his shoulder, the crack of Eshati’s staff ringing out loud and clear as a rebuke, but his work did not slow. He merely smiled again and murmured praise to the camel for being a good mount and staying still.

“You ought not antagonize Eshati so much, my lord, you’ll just be hurt more. There will be plenty of that without looking for it,” Nelarion said, applying a cool rag to the swollen, angry bruise that was covering most of Faramir’s left shoulder.

The steward sat uncomfortably clutching at his shirt, trying to hold up the unlaced fabric enough to conceal the scars that marred his back like tree bark.

“This would be easier if you’d just take your shirt off,” the other man continued.

Faramir shook his head. “It’s cold,” he said lamely. 

It was a poor excuse given the extent of the bruising, but even still, he could not face the shame of being seen.

Coruen sat down in front of him and folded his arms. “Forgive my overstep, my lord,” he said dryly. “But we all have scars.”

Faramir couldn’t quite understand the words at first, and felt his face begin to heat as they sank in. “But- how did-”

“You’re not the first to try to hide the wheels. I didn’t think you would have come under the lash before, though now that I think of it, I had heard you were captured once.”

The steward shuddered. He hadn’t thought of his captivity in a long time. 

It had been when he was a young soldier, green as dew and eager to please his older brother, who was already captain of their unit. It hadn’t taken more than a week for Faramir to develop an abiding hatred for orcs- and then it had been over. He had never seen Boromir so angry- or Denethor so apathetic.

But no, the scars he was hiding were more shamefully acquired- forced on him by his own sire.

“Yes,” he said, drawing his mind back to the present. “I suppose you’re right.” He didn’t want to show the marks any more than he had, but to continue hiding them might give insult to his fellows, all of whom had felt the bite of the lash as well. He forced himself to let go and the cloth sank to the ground with the last of his dignity, drawing a gasp from Nelarion.

“Hush,” Coruen said immediately, though he rose and circled around to look at the old wounds for himself.

Faramir flinched as a rough set of fingers gently prodded his mutilated flesh. 

“You have bled for us,” Coruen said softly “Not once, but many times, for all the living and dead. This cannot be the work of orcs alone,” he said and the steward dearly wished the older man would be silent. “Tulus, come here.”

“And why?” Rimmarch asked. “To see a man who has been flogged? No thank you, I’m quite familiar.”

“Tulus,” Coruen insisted, and his tone brooked no argument. “Come here.”

The shuffling of cloth told Faramir that, grudgingly, Tulus was coming closer.

“This man has suffered at the hands of his own people and still fights for us,” Coruen continued. “Look on his scars. We should all be ashamed that so little has broken our spirits. Are we not men of Gondor, the last of Numenor? Give him your names. Follow him, I urge you. We may again see our homeland, or at last come to the stars in the attempt and be free in death.”

Tulus pulled away again. “There’s no glory in following a boy to his death. Prince or not, Steward or not, I’m not ready to die in torment.”

“Then let me swear to you protection. Follow me,” Faramir urged, his voice soft.

Tulus was quiet for a while, but at last spoke again. “I’ll think on it.”

Chapter Text

Fifteen companies in total rode under the banner of the White Tree, southward, behind a king, grim and gray with an inhuman fury calling back to the power of Melian that lay once sleeping in his blood, now stirring like a riptide current beneath the unchanging surface of deadly waters.

The scouts called back, their horns splitting the still evening air, shimmering with the southern heat and heralding the approach of a broken battalion, the rangers sent to accompany the Steward.

Aragorn raised his hand to call a halt, and his nearest captains began to shout a halt to the countless troops behind. He urged Roheryn forward, searching the downcast faces as he approached.

Those of the defeated rangers who were able dismounted and knelt in shame as they faced their king, while the rest lowered their heads as respectfully as they were able, despite the injuries among them.

“Where is-” my son ? “My friend, my steward?” Aragorn asked instead, pushing down the rising anger that was threatening to burst from his chest like fire. 

There would be time enough later for shows of fury at the betrayal, and he promised himself that when such a time came, heads would roll.

“Captured,” came the reply from the bowed head of a captain, a man by the name of Turothon. “I believe alive, as they took great care to keep him, even as he cut them down, man by man, though injured.”

Aragorn’s chin lifted and he let out a breath through his nose, forcing himself to calm down. “Injured,” he prompted, the word coming out clipt. “Tell me how it happened.”

“A barbed spear, sire,” Turothon said, wincing. His eyes dropped for a moment as he searched for the words to continue. “They caught his side and held him firm. I saw his horse fall, he may have been injured there as well, though I cannot say for certain.”

“Which side?” the king demanded, eyes flashing silver in the late afternoon light. 

The ranger captain grimaced and mimed dropping something with his right hand, and then touched his left before it strayed to a spot just above his hip. “His right side, I believe, here about.”

Aragorn could still feel the fury that had descended upon him, but a cold rationality had settled in, like cold steel at heart of a raging fire, reflecting and judging, and waiting.

The right side, further from the heart, just above the hip, away from vital organs. 

He could not have prayed for a better strike.

Provided the injury had not gotten infected, Faramir would survive it, likely without complication.

“Stand, Children of Gondor,” he said finally, gesturing for them to rise. “Who among you who has a taste for battle can fight this day?” 

“But a few,” Turothon said apologetically. “We were overwhelmed, even with advanced warning.”

“Tell me of this. How did it come to pass that any were able to escape?” Aragorn prompted. “Fear nothing from me in consequence, just tell me all.”

“I know not how, but my lord Faramir knew they were present. He halted us and knocked an arrow and shot a man blind, hidden behind the outcropping.”

“The Serpent’s Mouth,” Aragorn mumbled, drawing a curious look from the ranger captain. “It is nothing. Continue.”

“When we heard the cry, he called retreat. There was a struggle, and we felled many men, but more came pouring out- they had even brought Mumaks. We only just escaped, and-”

“And the steward didn’t,” Aragorn concluded. “And you’ve been traveling back since.” He glanced up at the sky and the lowering sun. “Those who want a chance to strike back should enter the command of Captain Merethir, but your company is welcome to return to Minas Tirith to recuperate.”

“There was one other odd occurrence, my lord,” Turothon offered hesitantly.

“Speak,” the king said, lowering his head once more to listen.

“We passed a single rider- a spearman of Rohan who would not be warned off from the border. He was very young and seemed to be searching among us, though for what, I do not know.”

“Ah, Dirnhelm…” Aragorn stroked his beard. “What is your intention, Captain? Will you ride on to the White City or turn back to Harad?”

“I wish to ride with your company,” he said firmly. “My injuries are not so great as to keep me, and I know the face of the rascal that caught my lord. If I should see him again, I’d like to set the score a little more even.”

“Very well. I shall be envious, should you manage to strike him down before me, but I will not grudge you the right, should we find him. Concerning the rider… I’ll have you report the sighting to King Eomer. He will be very interested to hear the recount.”

“A deserter, sire?” Turothon asked. “Do you believe he intends to betray us to our enemies?”

“No,” Aragorn said hurriedly. “No, nothing of the sort. A young and rash-” he hesitated. “Soldier. More eager than treacherous. He-” He tried not to wince at the deception. “Is loyal beyond question.”

“I should like to meet this man, then,” Turothon said. “Shall I go, my lord?”

“Do. Have those men joining us ready to march in ten minutes,” the king said with a sharp nod, setting his eyes again on the horizon. “I am eager to join our lone rider.” She had better be alive , he added to himself. And have left some glory for Gondor.

He stayed alone there as the rangers melted away around him, some continuing the long journey home, and others, morale raised by the show of might and wrath by their king, filed into formation to begin the fight again. He patted Roheryn’s neck and set his eyes on the horizon and squared his shoulders, Arwen’s most recent words to him echoing in his ears.

I tire of waiting for news of death, Estel. Do not bring me any, for I am done waiting for tears. The horns of Gondor shall sound in victory, and I will embrace my son and yours, this I wait for and none else.

The ready call sounded sooner than expected, as though time were slipping away from him, hurrying the days to their end as he watched. 

“Ride on!” Aragorn called to his captains, already leaving them behind.

The thunder of hooves and the rhythm of marching drowned out the sounds of wind and birdsong in a tuneless song of war, its tattoo grave, and its mirth cold as a threat made smiling.

The companies all made camp as the last fingers of the sun faded from the sanguine horizon over the west, to their backs where Gondor lay, making ready for her own evening’s rest, but the peace in the western land did not reach the soldiers on her border. Theirs was the quiet of a storm crossing water, all its light and fury waiting for the brake of rain to crash upon the cliffs that dared oppose. 

There was a hush over all the men that muffled their talking, the idle games of dice that passed the time to the curfew, and even held the rare laughter to quiet chuckles, stolen behind a chagrined hand to push the sound down again. 

It was the presence of death in their ranks, a rider among them who had, for once, chosen a clear side, and yet was made no less dread by his temporary allegiance to Gondor and her vengeful king.

For the second time, horns rang out over the companies, shattering the grave quiet with the drawing of swords and the war-shouts of the Rohirrim.

A lone rider, camel-mounted, had stumbled into the line of scouts and sentries set at the perimeter of the marching army, and at spear tip was escorted to the king in his tent.

Aragorn stood a head taller than the interloper, and took full advantage of the height difference to tower over what appeared to be a messenger, a white cloth of truce tied around his upper arm. “Tell me,” Aragorn started in his broken Haradric. “Why should I not kill you?”

Trembling, the man held forth a ring. “We have your steward,” he returned in poor Westron. 

Aragorn took the silver ring of office from the man and turned to examine it more closely in the lantern light.

There was the tree and stars, and into the bark was set a rod. Above the crest of the Stewardship was a plain coat- an image of battlements, or an inverse crown.

“How interesting,” Aragorn said, pocketing the ring. “This is indeed a seal of office, and yet,” he said, chuckling darkly. “I have never been more certain that you do not indeed have my steward at all.”

The messenger, now a captive, sucked in a sharp breath. 

“You have given me much to think on,” the king said slowly, drawing his thumb along his jaw. “Hold him while I decide what is to be done with him,” he ordered the guards. “Give him to Merethir.” He stepped out, paying no heed where his legs took him.

They had hoped to bargain with the life of the steward, but they had tipped their hands. 

Either Faramir was dead, or he had escaped.

It left a yawning hole in the information Aragorn had, namely how this particular ring had fallen into the hands of the Easterlings, but realizing they had no hostage had opened up the possibility of an immediate counterstrike- the messenger had realized very quickly that their leverage had dried up like a flower in the desert- short lived and fruitless.

He found himself at the door to Lord Imrahil’s tent, its blue fabric near black in the low light of a partly clouded evening. “May I enter?” he asked, trusting the half-elf to hear him.

“Please do,” Imrahil returned. “I am pleased to host you, my king.” The greeting was warm, but formal. 

Surrounded on all sides by tents and guards, there would be nowhere that was safe for a familiar address.

“I wanted to consult you,” Aragorn began, feeling uncertain. 

Imrahil was younger than he was by a good many decades, as were all but the few Dunedain rangers in the camp, and of course, Legolas, but the man had a good head on his shoulders. He was sharp and well learned, a good advisor for such puzzles as the ring presented. As expected from his intellect, the man quickly picked up on Aragorn’s hesitation. “Sire?” he asked gently. “You seem troubled.”

“I feel it,” Aragorn agreed. “Surely you heard the horns?”

Imrahil snorted derisively and then grimaced. “Excuse me, my lord. Yes, I heard them. My ears are still ringing. I take it a scout, or perhaps a messenger was caught off his guard coming from Harad to bargain?”

“He was. He did not expect to find an army already here, that was apparent by the supplies he still had with him.”

“He had meant to reach Minas Tirith unharried, then,” Imrahil agreed, laying out a cushion on the rug that made the floor of his tent. “Will you sit with me, my lord?”

Aragorn nodded distractedly and lowered himself to the floor, missing the presence of the cushion.

The lord of Dol Amroth wisely refrained from comment, and merely took his own seat once more. “I do not see anything so troubling in his preparations,” he prompted. “They could not have known you would have sensed the trouble so much sooner than news could have reached our capital.”

“That is not the trouble,” Aragorn said, shaking his head and reaching into his pocket. “The rub is in the proof he gave of hostage. They had meant to bargain for ransom, or perhaps land concessions.”

“All very standard?” Imrahil raised an eyebrow. “But they could not prove to have Faramir?”

“They could not, and by his reaction to being found out, they do not have him at all. I would not put it past my- past him to lose his seal of office to prevent any negotiation for his return, but I do not think that is solely the case,” he said, as much thinking out loud as speaking to his friend. He chewed the tip of his thumb thoughtfully for a moment as he considered his next words.

“So he is either escaped or dead,” Imrahil concluded, looking grim for a moment. “Either way, it is in our best interest to strike, and strike hard. The sooner we are able to cripple their invading force, the more like it is for Faramir to slip the borders and come home to us, and- if he is-”

“It’s not worth the speculation,” Aragorn said firmly. “We are none of us waiting for tears. Faramir is alive, I am certain, and will need our aid before the end.”

“Yes,” Imrahil agreed. “Then the path is clear. We will take them off guard in their own land and shatter their strength.”

“Indeed,” the king said, nodding. “Yet that still leaves a question that I find can have no satisfactory answer.” He palmed the ring from his pocket and held it a moment. “The proof they offered for the ransom,” he said, offering the small trinket to the other lord, who held out his hand to receive it.

“A ring of office. A fake, perhaps? Troubling indeed that they should have had the time and knowledge to forge such a thing,” Imrahil started holding it closer to examine it.

“No,” Aragorn said slowly. “Not a fake, but mark, it is not the ring of Faramir, second son of Denethor.”

“A plain coat? But-” he struggled to find the words and turned the ring over in his hand, again and again. “It must be a fake, it must be. How else could they have it? I do not wish to believe what I think must be true. It is too much, too monstrous to think on. Are they men and not animals? I expect such barbarism from orcs- I haven’t the tongue to speak what I feel seeing this- this- omen,” he stammered, holding the ring back to Aragorn, who had to hurry not to let it fall to the floor in Imrahil’s haste to be rid of it, as if the metal burned him.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed. “But I think it must be.”

“Then perhaps- perhaps the body of my nephew washed ashore in their lands. Perhaps they have his remains yet, and-”

“Perhaps. Don’t let your hopes rise. The sea may have claimed him and returned only what always comes home.” He turned the ring to face him and studied the tree. “But I see there is still his blood in the crevices.” He paused and looked up at Imrahil. “Are you alright?”

“I will be,” the man said slowly, face dark with newfound anger. “My sister’s sons are both dishonored at their hands. I will be alright when the lord of those lands has been toppled from his throne and my last nephew is well and home.”

“Indeed,” Aragorn agreed. “Then all will be well, though the sky witness another war.”

Chapter Text

"And what is to be done with our unexpected guest?" Imrihil asked. "We can hardly justify his release now that he has seen our forces."

Aragorn spared a glance toward the door of the tent. "I had considered taking his tongue," he said quietly, nodding to himself as he considered.

“My lord,” Imrahil started, his voice soft with a warning caution.

"But that would align with their expectations, and worse, would not keep him from finding some way to warn his chiefs,” the king continued. “No, my friend, I’ll keep my temper in check, you have my word. He shall be sent to the prisons of Minas Tirith, where I shall ensure he is kept alive and well cared for. I shall have the rangers ensure his anonymity and silence, lest old prejudices endanger his safety there."

"Prudent," Imrahil said, relaxing. “I thought for a moment- ah, well, it’s not worth mentioning.”

Aragorn shook his head. "There's only one man I would render silent thus, and I have it on good authority he is dead."

The lord of Dol Amroth nodded slowly, but refrained from asking after the identity of what was apparently a corpse, perhaps wisely. 

“Perhaps a ranger could be sent in his stead, disguised and carrying a response,” Aragorn mused, stroking his beard with two fingers as he thought.

“Trickery, my lord?” Imrahil asked, hesitantly. “It does not sit well with me to stoop to such tactics, I must admit. Against orcs, there is little I would hold back, but to use the same tactics we reproach against our own enemies?”

Aragorn had to bite back a bitter laugh. “There is some utility in acting honorably, I grant you, but neither will I give them warning of our coming and cost the lives of the children of Gondor. Too many already shall die. An answer then, must be of some ominous presence, a thing which will lay a question in their minds and find them ill prepared for the answer.”

“Is there such a message, my lord?” 

“I shall have to think on it,” Aragorn admitted. “We have some time yet before the response can be sent at all- he won’t have arrived to the White City for another three days.”

“Then it shall be another three before we should send this rider,” Imrahil said, tapping his fingers against the palm of his left hand as he calculated the remaining distance to the capital of Harad.

“With good fortune, we will be on them before it, but I shall not rely on mere fortune. She is a fickle mistress and prone to treachery,” the king said, standing. “I have much to think on, and I thank you for your ear.”

“I fear I have been but little aid to you. I have no answer for the treatment of our… guest, nor for the matter of my-” the lord’s voice faltered then and he struggled to swallow down his grief. “My nephew’s ring.”

“Would you like the care of it?” Aragorn asked, his hand returning to his packet where the trinket rested.

“Yes… and no. I think… I think it might be best returned to Faramir from your hand. Assuming-”

Assuming Faramir was still alive.

“No,” Aragorn said firmly. “He lives. I shall return it to him when we are reunited.”

“What then, now, my lord?” 

“What now indeed,” he said heavily, pressing a hand to his face. Behind his close eyes, he could see Boromir, his skin gray with death, lips bloodied from within, the scarlet blooming over him like a flower on a grave. “If Lord Elrond had come I might have wisdom beyond all the years of men, or through Gandalf the cleverness and guile of Istari, but here we are- two men as blind and deaf as men have ever been.”

“No, my lord,” Imrahil said gently, taking to his feet. He set a hand on his king’s shoulder. “You saw the forces of Mordor broken, their weapons scattered and shields fallen. You gave back to me my last nephew, the last shadow of my sister in his eyes. Even the elves must admit that you are, if not the caliber of the ancient heroes, an echo of their strength not seen in many centuries.”

“I pray you are right,” Aragorn agreed. “I trust wisdom to present itself,” he said, pushing the entrance to the tent aside.

Even into the lengthening evening, there was an oppressive heat in the air that hit his face as he stepped outside, reminding him that he and all his kind were not welcome in that land, but welcome or not they had come.

“This heat will be as much our enemy as all the bands of men who face us down,” Aragorn muttered to himself, ducking hurriedly back into his own tent. 

There would be time to think on the problem of the response as they rode on, and the question of the ring of state could wait… probably. 

The only course of action he could see for the immediate future was to press on as if nothing had changed.

The forces of Gondor were not a day beyond the border when they came upon the remains of a war party.

It was a grizzly sight, but not easily spotted until the soldiers stood atop the carnage, frightening off the buzzards praying on unburied bodies.

There were great bones, picked clean by scavengers, the desert wind, and the cruel, southern sun, the ribs standing like teeth gaping toward the sky.

“There must have been a battle,” Imrahil observed, riding closer to his king as they went. “But it cannot have been waged by our own men. I see none fallen but Haradrim.” His eyes swept the scene, searching for signs that he might be wrong.

“Indeed,” Merethir agreed from the other side. “And no clear battle line.”

“Only days old,” Aragorn said, unable quite to tear his own eyes away. He dismounted, brow furrowed to see better what lay beneath them.

“Only days?” Imrahil asked, incredulous.

“The desert is cruel,” Merethir said dryly. “It is a good reminder. The sun and the beasts will gladly leave us in the same state, alive or not.”

 “Tents- trampled. Useless, now,” Aragorn mused. He wasn’t really paying much attention to the chatter behind him. “Merethir, Imrahil, back them up. I want to see this place with better eyes. Keep the horses off.” He brushed his fingers over a half-buried scrap of fabric. It was thick, and rough, and dark, though he could not quite tell what the color was meant to be under the fine grit it had gathered. “Wool,” he muttered, tugging at the corner of it.

“Will you bury the dead, sire?” Imrahil asked, dismounting to better guide his own steed through the debris.

“There is no burial in the desert,” he called back. “This is the greatest rest that can be offered as we have no way to burn the bones with us, and it would be unwise to burden our own soldiers with the unresting. Leave them with your prayers, they’ll do the most good.” His mind was still on the fabric in his grip. 

As he pulled, more and more came up from under the pouring sand, eventually revealing a cloak- not anything in the style of the Southrons, but a Gondorian cloak, a kind standard-issue to the Rangers of Ithilien. 

Aragorn held it aloft. “Faramir was here,” he called. “We must search the grounds. I hold hope he shall not be found here.” He bounded across the sand, thrusting the cloak into Imrahil’s arms. “Take it,” he said. “As some comfort. There were no bones beneath.”

“A ranger and his cloak are not easily parted,” Imrahil said warily. “And we know not what sorcery may have destroyed them this way.”

“Not sorcery,” Eomer said, holding aloft a skull that had been picked clean, but for morsel here and there of gristle and hair. 

There was a dent on the back, a crescent shape split in two by a deep crack. 

“That man was killed by a horse,” Aragorn observed, eyebrows lifting. “Your sister is an accomplished warrior to have done all this herself.”

“His- the Lady Eowyn did this?” Merethir asked, letting out a delighted laugh and earning a glare from two kings and the prince of Dol Amroth.

“I cannot fathom how she managed such a feat alone,” Aragorn admitted. “But I am convinced she was a part of it.”

Eomer puffed out his chest proudly. “The Shield-Arm of Rohan is cunning indeed,” he said, tossing the skull away and making several Gondorians, their king among them, wince at his cavalier treatment of the dead.

“Yes,” Imrahil agreed hurriedly. “Very cunning, so much that how she managed it seems to be beyond the best of us, unless, perhaps, you have an explanation?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow. “I certainly should like to know how to defeat what looks to be no less than two Mumakil, and at least thirty men, alone, but I am afraid such an attempt would buy me only an early grave and a good pub story.”

“As I see no sign of Rohan’s finery among the sands, I think she will have herself an excellent pub story,” Aragorn agreed, kneeling again to examine the crushed remains of a tent. 

All the tent-poles were shattered, and the silk torn to shreds. 

“The mumaks have something to do with this, I am certain of it,” Eomer said, pounding his right fist into the palm of his hands.

“I agree,” Merethir said from where he, too, was kneeling. “Many of these men died crushed- stepped on, I imagine. I have found a few that have been gored, and there remains blood on the tusks.” He pointed toward the still flesh-coated skull of one of the fallen beasts.

“The mumaks trampled most of these men,” a new voice added, and Aragorn recognized Captain Turothon. “But few have any sign of horse-damage to them.”

“She must have stirred up the mumaks to panic,” the king said thoughtfully. “A good trick, that. I would like to know how she managed it.”

“This was a rout,” Merethir said. “We did not pass the rider coming in, so the lady must still be looking for Faramir.”

“She did not find him here, and neither shall we,” Aragorn agreed, but something in him hesitated to move forward. “There may be more information for us here, something missed, perhaps. Search on but a little longer, and then we shall resume our march.” He halted, glancing toward Eomer. “If that is agreeable to all parties?”

“I have no objection,” Eomer agreed. “Any hint or sign of my fool sister will help ease my growing dread. Little would keep me from a vengeful madness if I were to find her fallen.”

Aragorn glanced toward Imrahil, who was looking a little wary of the horse lord. He knew, of course, that Eomer was right. The king had been present to see the murderous strength that grief had poured into the horse lord’s unhinged mind upon finding Theoden dead and Eowyn apparently lifeless as well. “Your people would suffer a great loss to find their princess fallen and their king mad.”

“Then let us hasten to find them alive,” Eomer agreed. “Before more is put at risk.”

He wasn’t able to find much else, except that they had abandoned anything that had been crushed or broken in the mayhem. There was one thing that gave him a sense of relief as he laid eyes on it.

Faramir’s sword had been left abandoned in the sand, buried and waiting for rescue. It served to confirm what he had already suspected. 

The steward was not there. His belongings had been split apart between the officers as spoil, and the captain of Ithilien had escaped, possibly before Eowyn was even able to catch up.

A dark thought eclipsed the momentary joy of the discovery as Aragorn realized that Faramir’s escape necessarily meant he was alone to contend with the desert.

“I have seen enough,” Eomer said, dropping his hand onto Aragorn’s shoulder where the king of Gondor knelt, clutching a sword. “You seem grieved, my friend.”

“Faramir is lost. This desert hates the Numenorian line; it will not be kind to him. I can only pray he finds his way out before the heat takes him.”

The horse-lord tightened his grip for a moment. “My sister is willing to face a war party alone for him. I trust her judgment enough to say she would not choose a man so easily snuffed out.”

“Easily?” Aragorn asked, dragging himself worriedly to his feet. “Injured, alone, and wandering a land that despises him is to die too easily?” He held the sword a little tighter, as if to keep Faramir closer somehow.

Eomer held his gaze, an easy confidence in his stance. “Yes.”

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed. “I must believe that, if only for my own sake.”

“We both must, for you must trust that Faramir would not choose a woman so easily taken, either.”

The gray eyed king considered his brother in arms for a long moment. “Do you suppose Faramir has even realized?”

Eomer broke into a raucous laugh that seemed entirely out of place in the shimmering, angry heat of Harad. “No, of course not, and neither has Eowyn, yet why else would she charge off on such an ill advised errand?”

Aragorn inclined his head. “It will be a good marriage,” he said, making his way back toward Roheryn. 

It was good to think of a future where the ties to Rohan might be formalized with such an advantageous marriage to both sides, but more than that, that the happiness of his son might be secured in the heart of a worthy woman. 

Eowyn herself seemed amenable, if oblivious.

“That is, assuming either of them get up the courage to actually speak to the other,” he conceded. 

“Indeed,” Eomer said, mounting Firefoot.

“We’ll have to take special care of the animals from here out. Our supplies will last, and there is an oasis in our path, but we shall have to take it to have use of the spring there,” Aragorn said, addressing his captains once more as they once again readied to ride on. 

“And how know you this? I have seen no detailed maps of Harad, and those maps we have of it at all are few,” Eomer said, genuinely surprised.

Aragorn swung himself back up onto the saddle. “This is not my first visit,” he said grimly. “I pray it shall be my last. I never wish to have cause to cross the southern border again. Valar curse this place.”

“Perhaps curse it when we are not in its grip,” Eomer suggested.

“The desert hates us,” Merethir said, only half-joking. “But I take much satisfaction in knowing the feeling is mutual. If we despise the sun enough, perhaps it will turn its face away in shame and hide behind a friendly cloud for us.”

“If only,” Imrahil agreed, managing a smile even as he wiped the sweat out of his eyes.

“Ride on,” Aragorn called, urging Roheryn forward.

Chapter Text

Coruen was the one to persuade Faramir to rest while he recovered from being flogged. “Do not suggest to them that all of us have the strength to work thus afflicted,” he had said. “For our sakes, if not your own, accept the grace offered your injuries. There is precious little for anything else here.”

So Faramir had held behind, walking when they moved, resting as they stopped, and watching the workings of the caravan to better understand the strange culture he’d found himself in.

The Enuun traveled in two halves, men and women separately, and the women were attended by what seemed to be eunuchs. 

He was relieved to find no Gondorians among the faces he found attending the ladies on their side. 

As day was reaching its end and the caravan halted to set up camp, he saw that the women got settled in first behind tall fences made of cloth that kept them separate from the men, and then, once they were complete, only then did the rest set up their accommodations for the night, but something felt off to him.

His fingers tingled with the anticipation of battle, and his gaze turned continuously to the women’s camp at the heart of the caravan.

He circled the outside a few times, looking for signs of trouble, gazing outward to check that no threat was approaching, but even seeing nothing amiss felt no more settled than before. 

For a long while, he hesitated outside, but his sense of dread pressed him to check that he was unobserved and slip inside. He was determined merely to verify that all was well and leave unobserved.

A shadow passed before him, catching his attention immediately. It moved like a creature spooked and slipped into a nearby tent, drawing a scream from the woman within.

That was all the invitation Faramir needed to rip the fabric open and dive, catching by the tip of its tail what he soon realized, to his growing horror, was a snake, which turned immediately and bit his hand.

He caught it with his other hand and prized the still dripping fangs off of him.

There was no chance the bite had been dry, then. 

Sure enough the wound already burned with pain, pulsing with his heart beat.

One of the women approached, a silk scarf in her hands. She bound it quickly over his elbow and pulled it painfully tight, and then tighter, and tighter.

He swallowed down a grunt of pain and turned his focus back to the squirming serpent in his hand. A heat was spreading up through him that was unbearable and making his limbs shake despite the vice around his elbow. “And what should I do with you?” he asked the squirming beast. “Ought I kill you for following your nature? It was I that grabbed your tail and frightened you terribly, but it was you who hunted the ladies here,” he murmured, stroking the fingers of his other hand down its head. “ Na quilda, na estessë, ” he told it softly, and it ceased its struggling.

"Be still, be calm."

The screams of the women had apparently brought the guards running, as he could hear the pounding of footsteps outside the tent, and the cloth door was thrown wide.

They stopped short, seeing Faramir, and then drawing the wrong conclusion, raised their weapons, but the women descended around him, holding their hands out pleadingly and speaking urgently in Haradric. 

He caught the words ‘hero’ and ‘snake’ and a few words that made him think they were pleading for his life to be spared.

His vision was beginning to dim as he looked out over what seemed increasingly to be a sea of faces, and his eyes landed on the sharp gaze of Eshati. 

He murmured something to excuse himself and pushed through the confused bundle of women and soldiers and began to walk out and into the desert.

He walked a long way to rocky outcropping in the sand as Eshati and several others followed, speaking to him in urgent tones, but he did not hear them. He set the snake down among the stones where it hid immediately, burrowing down beneath a rock.

He saw it still though, a shadow beneath the ground that crept across the sand, seeking prey- it would not eat again though.

Out of a golden sky, cast in glory for the sun setting in the far west, an eagle plummeted and snatched the snake from the ground, talons rending the flesh of it, only to leave it strung out across the stones of an oasis as a warning to the people there.

At last he saw the banner of Gondor and her king riding under it, holding the dead snake aloft.

The sand fell away and Harad was undone.

“I need not worry for sparing you,” he told the snake, looking away from the vision that had opened before you. “I pity you. Your life and body serves only as a message for those wicked ones. Many will look upon you, but you will not live to see those days.”

A hand fell on his shoulder.

It felt like turning his head to see who was asking for his attention took up all of his strength, but he managed it, shuffling his feet over the sandy stones to look at Eshati, chief of his tribe.

He saw the tents behind them burning, the men dying and the women screaming.

He saw horses thundering across the sand, their hooves throwing up a storm- Swan Knights and Rohirim together. 

“I do not wish to see you destroyed,” he said, putting his own hand on Eshati’s shoulder. “You must let them come away with me, or I will not be able to prevent the path of justice.”

The undoing of Harad reached the burning camp and the world fell away into darkness, but strong hands caught him by the shoulders and laid him down.

“ Lorie, ion nin, ” a voice urged him, and he let his eyes close.

"Sleep, my son."

The voice belonged to his father, but at the same time, he could not place its owner; the only thing his mind would call forward was the winged crown. 

Even still, the comfort it brought him was immense and he fell into the hold of unconsciousness.

Eshati paced around his tent, leaning heavily upon his walking stick. 

I do not wish to see you destroyed.

Faramir’s- Ihem’s words were rattling around in his skull like dice in a cup, incessantly clattering against the rigid confines of their container. The Gondorian had been gazing back at their camp as though looking at his own death in the face, and Eshati could have sworn the gold of firelight had reflected back at him from their blue-gray surface.

“Tell me again, daughter,” the chief said heavily.

“He saw the snake enter and followed to save us,” she said, straightening the head covering of her attendant, who sat obediently at her feet. “He caught it by the tail, and did not let go when it struck his hand.”

“And your scarf around his arm?”

“I tied it there to prevent the spread of the poison,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice. “Why are you questioning me like this? Have I done something wrong?”

Eshati did not answer her first question. “No, no, nothing wrong,” he mumbled. “And you said he stilled the snake?”

“He spoke to it!” she said excitedly. “And the crowned serpent became a friend in his hand.”

“And what did he say, exactly, to do that?”

She frowned. “I don’t know exactly, but the language sounded like music.”

“Elvish magic,” Eshati growled. “Very dangerous craft.”

“Magic?” she asked, bouncing forward on his bed. “He is a magician?”

“Perhaps, Aryl,” he conceded. “I had thought he was human, but you say the serpent loved him.”

“When he spoke to it, yes,” she enthused, adjusting her own head covering and tugging at the dark locks of her hair underneath. 

“And where was the serpent before he caught its tail?” Eshati asked tiredly.

“At my feet,” she said immediately. “His head was back to strike, but Ihem-”

Faramir.

 “-caught it for me. He saved me, baba.” 

Eshati settled onto the bed by his daughter and looped a shaking arm around her shoulders. “By the grace of the moon you are still with me, and I owe him a great debt.”

Her face fell. “But he may not live to see it filled.”

The chief stood and resumed pacing. “A debt to the dead would be a misfortune upon our people. I do not know what he- no, no,” Eshati rubbed his face tiredly. “I do know what he would accept in exchange for his own life. It has been the only thing he will speak to me over since arriving here.”

“The release of the Gondorian slaves?” Aryl asked, her fingers smoothing out the colorful patterns of her silk robes. 

“The same,” he agreed heavily. “I see no choice. If I could say he would live…” he trailed off and his eyes fell on the lovely face of his daughter.

Her skin almost shimmered bronze under the light of the lamps in his tent, and her eyes were gold-

Like the fire that would consume his tribe if he did not surrender the Numenorians.

He shuddered as the thought landed in his mind.

“You would marry me to a foreigner?” she asked nervously. 

“I might have tried, but I am afraid he would dishonor you,” Eshati admitted. “He values too much the lives of those who are beneath him.” 

Her eyes flashed with interest and he realized he had said exactly the wrong thing. “No, daughter, no-”

“If he survives,” she started hesitantly. “Perhaps you can convince him to take my hand with the Gondorians as my dowry.”

She had a point.

He could marry her to a lord, and justify escorting them to a border. He would never have to worry about what kind of a life she would lead, being pampered in one of the rich cities of Gondor like one of their princesses. Eshati knew what kind of a man Ihem- Faramir was by his deeds. He was gentle and loyal, and even if he never loved Aryl, he would do his duty by her and she would be safe with him. 

As Steward, Faramir would have the influence to protect the tribe as well, to keep them from the wrath of Gondor’s armies.

“But is it what you want?” Eshati found himself asking.

Had Faramir been the leader of another tribe capable of protecting their own, the question would never have crossed his mind, but being the prince of a foreign nation, now, now though, he felt compelled to think of her happiness. 

“Would you even ask if he was one of our people?” Aryl asked dryly, as if reading his mind. “My happiness does not matter in the grand scheme of things. Is not that what I am meant to learn of my place?”

He crushed down his guilt and glared at her. “Answer me correctly, Aryl. Is it what you want?”

“Yes,” she said, a little hesitantly. “It will be good for our people, and… I do not think after sparing the life of the snake that bit him he would ever harm me. There is gentleness in him you do not find in the desert.”

“The gentleness of the moon…”

“And the color of dusk light is his eyes. He is handsome.”

“So are many men with the behavior of a camel, who spit and swear and smell,” he reminded her.

“But we know already of his character,” she pointed out smugly. “You said yourself that he values too much those under him, and would I not also be under him if we were wed?”

Eshati sighed heavily. “You would, Aryl.”

“Then he would value me highly, and treat me well. I have a better chance with him than the prideful lords of tribes who look down upon you, father. They would look down on me, too.” She left the rest of her assessment unspoken.

He thought for a long moment, but he could see no downside other than the far separation from his daughter and grandchildren, which was also a blessing in disguise. 

His line would be far from harm in Gondor, and beside that, even if Faramir refused the offer of marriage or died, Eshati got to keep his daughter- though he would still set the Gondorians free on the off chance that there was some Elvish spell that would burn his caravan to the ground if he did not.

“Very well,” he said, sitting again and burying his face in his hands. He drew his fingers down and set his chin on his wrist. “If he lives, I will offer your life in payment of the debt, and the Gondorians as your dowry.”

“Then they are mine now?” she asked and he nodded.

She got to her feet, clapping her hands to signal her attendant to stand as well. “I will need escort to their quarters.”

“You’re going to see them?” he demanded. “Now?”

“Now,” she said firmly. “They are mine, it is my right. I will not be shamed by bringing a poorly cared for dowry to my future husband. They must be cleaned and dressed and tended. They are no longer mere slaves, but the attendants of a future princess of Gondor.”

“Only if F- Ihem lives,” Eshati countered, frowning at her.

“And if he does not, they are about to be free men, and deserve to leave this place with dignity and grace after being treated like animals for these last long years,” she returned, folding her arms stubbornly.

She set her hand on his elbow. “If we make amends for their stolen lives,” she said softly. “Perhaps they will spare us. We know that war is coming to Harad. Gondor’s strength returns greater than it has ever been in living memory. Please, father, trust me.”

He pressed her forehead to his and they stood quietly together that way for a long while, reveling in what might have been one of their last moments of familial affection as she was now practically betrothed. “I do trust you. You have a good head on your shoulders. Your maia would be proud.”

“Maia would be proud of you, too, baba,” she said, stepping back. She gave his hands one last squeeze and then gestured to the door. “May I go out?” she asked dutifully.

“Yes, Aryl. Take one of the eunuchs with you when you go, and have their new place erected outside of the women’s camp, by the door so that you do not have to go far within the men’s part,” he instructed, though he expected she knew as much.

She smiled widely and covered her face with her veil before going out.

He had not seen her so happy in a long time.

Was the release of slaves really so enticing to her?

Was he engaged in something so wrong that it had been hurting her?

His fingers tightened on the blankets of the cushion that was his bed. He had a lot to think about because of this one Gondorian.

Chapter Text

Eowyn sat astride Windfola overlooking the surrounding area from the top of a particularly tall sand dune.

There was an oasis nearby and a small city around it on the south side, leaving the northwest open to travelers. 

“How considerate of them,” she said, a smile pulling at her dry lips. “I am quite thirsty. What about the rest of you?” she asked, turning to the war band behind her.

A raucous wave of laughter rippled through the fifteen men following her lead- all rescued from enslavement at the hands of the Haradrim.

“Aye, lady, I could use a drink,” Erkenreth said. He was a bear of a man, blond and blue eyed, of strong Rohiric stock and chomping at the bit to make their enemies pay for his imprisonment.

“I hate to be the voice of reason,” said another man, a Gondorian by the name of Raron. “But we few cannot take a city .” Like most Gondorians, his hair was dark and his eyes were gray, but was on the smaller side. He was a scholar, captured delivering reports between camps. He reminded her in some ways of Faramir, even if he was more stern in temperament.

Their similarities just made her miss Faramir more.

The Steward of Gondor was a man irreplaceable in his nobility and pursuit of ideals, and any like him were but a poor copy of a greater hero.

“But perhaps their slaves,” Eowyn said. “A quick stop to loose supplies and men will take us a long way, I think. More hands to carry more water.”

“More mouths to feed,” Raron countered.

“But more hands for weapons, too,” Erkenreth added. “Numbers will help us, and the burden of supplies will be easier carry if we can more easily overpower the ones who have them.”

“Assuming we get weapons at all,” Raron urged his camel forward, having to force the creature to back up after it went too far. 

“They won’t begrudge a proper caravan a brief stop for water,” Eowyn said reasonably, holding up her hand to stop the two from arguing. “We can listen well and speak again after our cantines are full. If it seems unwise to strike, we do not have to.”

“Sensible,” Raron agreed.

Erkenreth was less enthusiastic. “It seems dishonorable to take advantage of their hospitality,” he said, brow furrowing. 

She winced, ashamed the thought had ever crossed her mind.

Her time spent raiding war bands and slavers had worn down her regard for the people of Harad to nothing, and she had been on the verge of stooping down to their same level. “Thank you,” she said softly. “We won’t attack here. We’re just going to refill our water stores and move on. Hopefully we can inquire about the steward’s wearabouts, if we’re careful.”

“It seems a loss to leave so empty handed,” Raron countered.

“We will commit no violence here,” Eowyn said firmly. “Not if it can be at all helped. Material goods are to be given freely and not taken, even by subtle means. The only sneaking I can condone here is to free an innocent from bondage.”

“Most honorable,” Erkenreth agreed. “Though I doubt there will be any slaves kept where we could so easily liberate them.”

“And if we can help none?” Raron asked pointedly, gazing hard at her.

“Then we help none,” she said unflinchingly, meeting his gaze and staring him down. “If there are no more concerns, we ought to go. Better to be there and gone sooner.”

No one else spoke and she resettled her headcovering, lowering a veil over her features and taking on the posture of a demure, Haradric lady riding with her escort to water. Acting like a proper Gondorian lady was stifling enough, but taking on the role of a woman of Harad made court life in the white city seem freeing by comparison.

Her clothes were by far the most colorful of the ones they had acquired in battle. She had a red and gold patterned skirt, a silk shirt in amber and brown, and a red scarf and veil to cover her face. Most of her armor was stowed and wrapped up in blankets, but she still had on the chainmail and reinforced leather underneath, just in case of trouble.

Erkenreth took the lead, his own blond head covered with a cream-toned cloth and tie to keep the sun off and disguise the gold of his foreign locks.

She fell in behind him, and the rest followed suit, each man checking his own disguise.

They waited their turn at the spring at the heart of the oasis, paying the single coin fee for its use with money they had stolen.

With their cantines filled once more, they let their stolen animals rest and drink at the run-off and set out a blanket so the one woman in their company could sit in a manner appropriate to her station.

Four men stood at the corners of the blanket looking out as she pretended to doze.

Men from other caravans would stop by to speak to her guards and enquire after what clan she was in- upon being told they were not able to divulge such information, the strangers would begin to make nice, suspecting she was marriageable and wealthy and hoping to trade information. 

It was just as well that women were not supposed to speak to men outside their own tribe, as she was the only one who did not speak the language as fluently as a native; years in captivity had bred the necessity for the language.

Erkenreth was not good at the game and preferred just to play the role of surly guard, which was more-or-less the truth, anyway. 

Raron, though, was excellent at playing whatever roll he needed to play. To the strong he was obsequious, with the curious he was withholding.

One particularly gregarious merchant who was as round as he was tall engaged him with a particularly enlightening question; “Did you hear that the soldiers captured the Steward of Gondor?”

“I heard that he escaped,” Raron said in a conspiratorial tone, leaning forward as if sharing a joke with an old friend. His eyes remained on the merchant’s guards, who were looking at Erkenreth suspiciously.

“Did he? But they sent his ring of office to the capitol. They must have caught him and taken him back,” the merchant said, his eyes widening under his scarf. 

Raron gasped dramatically, drawing looks from the people around them. “Then they must have been very cunning to catch the steward, for I hear he is a shifty man who can disappear if he chooses.”

“What? Where have you heard this? The steward of Gondor is as big as a beast and strong as ten men.” The merchant paused. “Very strong, but I had not heard any such thing as being able to disappear.”

One of the attendants approached, whispering into the ear of the merchant, whose attention turned to Erkenreth as well. “Your companion looks familiar to me. Is he a relation of yours?”

Erkenreth tensed.

Eowyn, unable to understand, but perfectly able to see the shift in body language stretched as though waking and sat up, gathering her legs beneath her in a ladylike manner that also would let her stand if there came any trouble. Her long skirt would tear away in but a moment and she was lightly armored beneath it.

“We are not related,” Raron said carefully, maintaining his air of unconcern. “I believe he is a relative of my lady,” he gestured vaguely behind him, subtly making a sign at Eowyn that she ought to be ready.

It was a Gondorian sign from the rangers, and if she had not known Faramir, she would not have recognized it.

“Oh yes, your lady,” the man said, his interest shifting to the only features he could see of her, which were her strikingly blue eyes. “She is very beautiful, is she?”

“I have not seen her face,” Raron said smoothly. “But her eyes are captivating.”

“Yes, blue eyes are very rare- your eyes are blue as well!” the merchant exclaimed. “I am only just noticing. Does this run in your tribe?”

“It seems to,” Raron said, his discomfort beginning to show despite himself.

“And what tribe is that?” 

“I am not permitted to say until we reach our destination,” he said firmly, wresting control of the conversation back to himself. 

“And what destination is that?” the other man asked, but he made a sound of disgust as Raron smiled apologetically. “Do not tell me you are not permitted to speak that either?”

His smile widened. “Then as you say, I shall refrain from telling you.”

Eowyn got to her feet and clapped her hands, signaling that she had taken enough rest and was ready to travel again.

Raron bowed deeply and turned away. “Please excuse me,” he said. “My lady is ready and we must be moving on.”

“If you return to this place, seek out Shaku, eh?” the man flashed a salesman’s smile. “I give your family a discount on wares.”

Raron managed a tight smile and nodded. “I will, my friend. Go with blessings.”

“Go with blessings.”

He collected the blanket Eowyn had been seated upon and began folding it up as the others acted out the appropriate preparations to leave and help their lady to mount up on her horse.

Windfola had attracted no small amount of attention herself as horses were rare in the sandy parts of Harad; camels were better suited to travel across the unforgiving desert.

They were very close to departure, with their supplies carefully tucked away, and the blanket once again strapped in with their packs, and Erkenreth was helping Eowyn to mount Windfola when a shout rang out across the oasis.

“Stop them!”

“What’s going on?” Eowyn hissed.

“We are caught,” Raron hissed back.

Erkenreth pushed her up into the saddle and reached for his weapon.

“I know that man!” the merchant bellowed, waddling toward the oasis guards. “I sold him years ago- he is a slave- escaped- they all are!”

Raron’s hand locked onto Erkenreth’s large fingers. “This is not the time,” he urged. “We must get to safety.”

The larger man looked ready to protest until Eowyn kicked him from horseback. “Retreat,” she ordered her war band. “Go!”

The party exploded into action. 

Those who were able to mount their camels before the others harried guards and Haradrim to give the rest time to climb into the saddle as well.

The guards were driving her band apart with their spears, forcing them to scatter. 

A glance beneath her arm and behind told her that Erkenreth had managed to gather six to him, leaving nine on their own.

She struggled to free her sword from its sheath beneath her skirt, but at last it came free with the tearing of the fabric. She tapped her heels against the horse’s side and Windfola responded immediately, putting on a burst of speed and knocking aside a spearman who was menacing Raron, and crushed the foe beneath the horse’s hooves. “Gather with Erkenreth,” she barked.

“To me!” the Rohiric giant bellowed, drawing the attention of the eight who were still struggling to reform.

Sword held aloft, Eowyn pulled Windfola to rear and the horse spun on her back legs, coming down on a soldier who had made the mistake of closing distance with a war horse. 

She had managed to regroup with the last half of her warband when a soldier thrust his spear into her right arm.

A flash of light like a blinding star crossed her vision and cold spread through her bones as the heat of a fever baked her skin- then it was over and she was unhorsed and disarmed, lying winded on her back.

Windfola stood over her, giving her time to breathe, and as soon as she was able, Eowyn snatched the horn from her belt and put it to her lips, letting out three sharp blasts. The horse screamed as a blade fell across her flank, leaving a scarlet trail.

Eowyn ground her teeth and yanked herself into a roll, snatching up her fallen sword as she went, so that she was once more on her feet, and went on the attack. With a rain of quick, savage blows, she forced back the swordsman that had injured her horse. In the corners of her vision, she could see Erkenreth struggling to reach her and she realized with a growing horror that she was alone in the battle. She yanked a spear out of the hand of a nearby enemy, turned it around with a flick of her wrist and heaved it into the heart of the man keeping Erkenreth from advancing.

He did not waste the opportunity she had made for him and closed distance, at last unifying the warband again. He leaned down and wrapped an arm around her middle, yanking her up and onto his camel and forcing the breath out of her lungs all over again. He draped her over the saddle and whistled for Windfola to follow. “Retreat!” he yelled, his voice the loudest sound, even over the chaos of the battle.

They did not have much time to escape before the Haradrim would mount to give chase, and then they would be in no small amount of trouble, having horses in their number. Only Windfola, being of the Mearas, was able to keep up with the camels on sand, and none of their number were willing to leave any behind, and for good reason. 

Up to that point, they had been careful, striking only small parties that could do little to pursue them, but by the sound of it, there were more soldiers stationed there than she could have accounted for.

A great rumbling of hooves reached her ears as they fled.

She could see a cloud of sand rising up where an army had kicked up speed for the fight and he stomach turned.

It seemed she had gained the attention of the Haradrim main army with her raiding, and now they were caught from behind, and pressed against the oasis with nowhere to go, a wall of soldiers riding in from the northwest.

She struggled to right herself. “Turn!” she called urgently, scrambling against the camel’s neck. “Turn! Northeast, hurry!” She gestured along the rapidly narrowing corridor between the army hemming them in and the advancing guards from the oasis. “It’s the only way out!” At least she was upright again, though she had lost her sword somewhere along the way.

They never should have stopped at the oasis. They were all going to die and it was her fault.

Her eyes burned with tears of anger at her powerlessness. She had not even managed to find Faramir before her end had come.

What would she even have told him if she did find him?

It didn’t matter now.

The blast of a war horn sounded across the golden sands.

Chapter Text

Nearly a week had passed from the capture of the messenger, and Aragorn had yet to compose an appropriate response. Very soon he would have to make the decision to leave the Haradrim unanswered or send a basic threat, regardless of whether or not he was ready. He attributed the difficulty to the trouble of Boromir’s ring of state; his mind was too full of unanswered questions to linger long on lesser quandaries. Even still, it lingered on his mind as they rode.

Merethir had volunteered to take the message in disguise when it was ready, but unfortunately, the offer had not made inspiration for it come any quicker.

It seemed Eomer and Imrahil knew better than to interrupt him as he considered the weight of things to come as they had ridden mostly in silence the past few days, and what little they spoke on was meant to pass the time more than anything else. A wariness had settled over them as well, being so deep in enemy lands. 

Every soldier, not just their generals, was on high alert in case of assault from any side, but so far they had advanced undetected- not luck so much as provision from the Valar, he suspected.

At last great shadow drew eyes and he looked up on instinct, searching the sky for Crebain or worse, Hell Hawks.

It was only an eagle, the normal kind, wheeling overhead with something wriggling in its claws; a dying snake coiled and writhed as it tried to escape the killing grip. All at once, the eagle plummeted like a stone out of the blue sky to alight on a rock in the path of Gondor’s king where it set down the now dead snake. It did not begin to eat its prey, nor did the eagle spook and fly away as the riders approached.

The nearness of the bird struck Aragorn as more than strange, and feeling a sense of wonder, he found himself dismounting to approach yet closer.

It was a golden eagle, a rare bird even for Gondor, and nearly unheard of in the desert, and the snake it had executed was a crowned viper, a venomous snake with black scales that shimmered with color in sunlight. It hopped off the serpent and shuffled away as the king approached, allowing Aragorn to take the dead creature in hand.

This Estel did with a sense of grim triumph, and he examined the snake.

There was a wound from the talons that had held it across its throat, as though deliberately cute by a blade and not the random tearing of a claw, and its fangs were gone and eyes plucked out, but beyond the wounding on its head, the body was untouched. Its mouth was ringed with blood, but it did not seem to be its own.

“Merethir,” Aragorn called, stepping back from the outcropping and into the sand. “I have our response to Lord Enhik,” he said as the mounted ranger drew close enough. “Take the camel and go in disguise. Do you remember the ways I showed you on the map?”

Merethir gave him a look that was a step short of irritated. “Of course.”

“Go, then, as soon as you are able,” Aragorn ordered, handing the dead snake up to the other man. “Make sure you have a full store of water- enough for the journey back. Whatever water you take, we can replenish at the oasis ahead of us. It is not far now at all.”

“Only this?”

“I have no other words; the corpse is enough.”

“Yes, my lord,” Merethir agreed, making a face at the limp serpent in his hand.

The king remounted as his ranger drew to the rear of their forces and rejoined the other generals and Eomer at the front.

“You seem pleased,” the horse lord said, looking him over.

“I am,” Aragorn said with a nod. “I have found something to rattle the cages.”

“We shall come upon their first city -and its garrison- tomorrow,” Imrahil said apprehensively, drawing his horse forward so he was even with his king to speak with him. “There will be losses. We have been fortunate enough with the heat so far, but to fight in this-” he made a motion that indicated his helplessness and frustration. 

“I know,” Aragorn said placatingly. “It is my hope that surprise will be enough to force surrender.”

Imrahil took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. “This is the furthest Gondor has entered Harad in more than three hundred years.”

“You have concerns?” the king prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“If they flank us- come from behind, as far as we are, we’d never know and they would have us trapped in their country- a country that hates us,” Imrahil reminded him.

Aragorn managed a tight smile. “That has occurred to me,” he agreed. “But I know secret places of water and life, and I know where their sources are as well. Merely taking this one city is likely to cripple them and send a terrible message- that they will face the mercy of the sun if they do not surrender quickly.”

“You’re hoping to end the war here,” Eomer said suddenly.’

Aragorn nodded slowly. “I have had this notion for many years, but never the chance or forces needed to make the attempt.”

Battle light flashed in the horse lord’s eyes and he grinned wickedly. “I shall be pleased to bring them to their knees. I watched as their beasts ravaged the limb and bone in battle, and I have much desire to return the favor.”

“Mercy,” Aragorn urged the other king. “Mercy will win us support from within. Their people have long been downtrodden by their own nobility, and their traditions have been whittled away as they buy and sell their own blood. Long have they been taught to blame us for the troubles they face. They do not know a better way.”

“Can you teach it to them?” Imrahil asked, raising an eyebrow. “Can you open the hearts of the unwilling?”

Aragorn was quiet as he considered his answer. “No,” he said. “I cannot.”

“Then what hope is there for anything but senseless slaughter?” the prince asked. “A quick and clean brutality may be as much mercy as we can afford.”

“Senseless?” Eomer asked, anger beginning to creep into his tone. “Do you know how many riders they killed? And what of your Steward?”

“Peace, my lords!” Aragorn burst out suddenly. “It is the heat! Let us not do the work of our enemies before we even reach them.”

They fell into silence once more as the army advanced toward the first great city of Harad, Salek, one of three built around oases, the greatest of which was Umbar, the capitol and mightiest stronghold of Harad. 

Aragorn hoped to avoid a siege against Umbar; while the city was indeed well fortified, it was nothing compared to Helm’s Deep or Minas Tirith herself, but the sun and the thirst they would face outside its walls were weapons enough to fend off even the mightiest army. If they could separate the armies of Harad from their leaders and isolate them from their own waters, the war could be won in a matter of days.

The night passed slowly for Aragorn, who was kept awake by a mounting sense of urgency, as if something important would follow the rise of the sun. He neither knew what it was, nor could keep his mind from turning the feeling over and over, like a stone in his hand, trying to identify what might have come to pass.

He reasoned that it might be the excitement over the sudden end of generations of war, or the apprehension of the losses they may face, but neither seemed to satisfy the churning in his stomach.

He tried to picture his wife and her lovely voice, but the image conjured was not of comforting softness, but the hard light in her eyes, the determination in her voice as she spoke.

I do not wait for tears .

“None of us do,” he muttered, trying to convince his eyes to close. “Undomiel,” he whispered. “ Vanimelda , meet me in dreams as you once did. I need your strength.”

Morning came and a nervous energy had once again settled over the army. Morale was high and the men were eager for glory; Aragorn strongly suspected that the Eomer had worked the Rohirrim up for the coming siege, and from there the thirst for battle had spread.

The morning was still terribly cold and early, but the sun was up and it was clear they were ready to march despite the hour.

A cold breeze blew from the west, carrying to them the barest scent of Gondor’s green fields and forests.

They had half a day of travel between them and Salek- it was here that they were most likely to meet opposition. There would be the city’s own garrison, travelers and merchants moving from city to city, and a decent likelihood of encountering the Enuun, and this close to the city, they would not be any of the tribes more sympathetic to Gondor.

Sure enough, three separate caravans spotted them and scattered, wisely choosing to flee rather than fight.

Aragorn was unconcerned by their discovery; they were already too close to Salek to be intercepted before their arrival. If anything, the panicked reports of a massive military force occupying far Harad would cause an unprepared mobilization of forces that may just be in their favor.

The lines were formed just short of midday, at the crown of the desert’s awful heat. The cavalry and footman were in formations behind a great dune less than even a mile from Salek, mere minutes away, and still the city was oblivious to their presence. 

The lords rode in front, inspecting units and calling orders, their heads covered and bodies draped in cotton robes to ward off the oppressive air, and sweltering beneath their armors.

Aragorn had not missed the desert, not at all, and he certainly had not missed combat there on the sands. He had meant to give his men words to fill them with courage and bolster their spirits before the battle, when a horn sounded three blasts across the dunes; a cry for help.

The sound was quickly swallowed by the thick, shimmering air, but it did not have to hang long for all who heard it to realize two very important things; the first was that the horn was of Rohirric make, and the second was that it had sounded from the oasis.

Eomer sprang into motion, raising his spear and urging his horse forward to face the countless soldiers that had followed them into the heart of the southlands. “Our people are in peril! We ride now to the aid of those once lost to us! To glory, men of Rohan!” 

The cry that rose up from them was wild and angry and would have shaken even a cave troll, and drowned out anything Aragorn might have wanted to say to his own men before they took off into a lethal charge, hooves churning the sand such that they sent up a great cloud, as though a storm had rolled from Gondor into Far Harad.

In answer to the ardent zeal of Rohan, Aragorn put his own horn to his lips and sent out a mighty blast. It thundered across the field and he was confident that not only had his own people heard it above the rising din, Eowyn had as well, and it must have been the White Lady herself; what other Rohirrim would be this far into Harad?

Sure enough, an eclectic band of men was riding away from what appeared to be the pursuing city guard.

The man at the front had a woman riding with him, and as she struggled to right herself, the scarf slipped from her head, revealing the shining gold of Eowyn’s hair.

The Rohirric mass swallowed up the enemy riders, and the Swan Knights were quick to follow, taking the enemy gates before they could even shut.

Just as quickly the battle was over.

The citizens within the walls put up little fight, and those who surrendered were spared without hesitation.

Aragorn searched through the teaming faces of westerners come to Harad.

Many were blonde, and a few were slight, but Eowyn did not seem to be among them, even after the call of victory began to make order out of battle’s chaos once more. He was beginning to wonder if he had correctly seen the woman before the clash had begun.

“Aragorn,” Eomer said suddenly, pushing through the crowd to catch the other man’s arm. “My sister has news from within Harad.”

“She is well?” Aragorn asked, hsi heart lifting. “Does she know anything of Faramir.” 

“Come hear her,” Eomer said tiredly, wiping sweat from his face. “And then send her back, please .”

“She will not listen to you, her king?” Aragorn asked in a hushed tone, glancing around as he followed the horse lord back to what was beginning to be a camp outside the city gates.

“She says she will not leave Harad without your Steward. I cannot make her see reason,” Eomer growled.

Aragorn could not keep the smile from his face, which earned him a fierce glare from his brother-king. “I am similarly determined, my friend,” he said. “I cannot grudge her the same motive that brought thousands of men across these cursed sands. I must love what treasures the son of my heart.” He added the last part quietly, almost to himself, and if Eomer overheard he did not show it. 

“I grudge it,” the horse lord said sourly. “You came here for him, but I have come for her, and on finding her learn that she refuses to return to safety.”

“She slew the Witch King,” Aragorn pointed out. “Even you had once acknowledged that she has more than earned her right to the front lines.”

“It is one thing to know that,” Eomer snapped. “And another to live it. She is my sister , Aragorn, my little sister, the last of my kin. Need I remind you that my mother fell in battle? That I was there to see every one of my near ancestors cut down?”

“Peace, Eomer,” Estel said softly. “I know well the source of your reticence, I ask only that you perhaps understand hers. She also watched those same loved ones die. You had a sword in your hand, but what did she have?”

Eomer fell silent and Aragorn knew he had made his point.

“My mother was but a hundred when she passed,” he started and the horse lord interrupted him.

“But a hundred?” Eomer demanded, nearly spluttering. 

“Remember that I am eighty-seven,” Aragorn reminded him. “Nearly eighty-eight. She should have had another century at least, perhaps two. We Dunedain are long-lived among men.”

“Then what took her?” Eomer asked sullenly. It seemed he was remembering that, compared to Aragorn, he was a mere petulant child granted kingship for want of a proper adult.

“Despair,” Estel finished. “She died of despair. It is my hope that a degree of freedom, of hope, will save others from her fate.”

Eomer sighed heavily. “Others like my sister.”

“What about me?” Eowyn asked, standing as they drew near, but her brother just shook his head.

“Do you have news of Faramir?” Aragorn asked eagerly, already moving on from the subject.

“Not precisely,” she said slowly. “We have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

Eowyn knew she could not put off being lectured for her rash actions forever, but at least with her brother, she could lessen the weight of the coming chastisement by proving that none of it had been in vain- returning men to the Eorlingas who had long been thought to be dead did a lot to help her position. She could tell by the look on his face though, that Aragorn would not be so easily placated.

They had reached the same conclusion about Faramir, deciding it was most likely that he had escaped captivity and was somewhere behind the border, alone, if he was lucky. Aragorn wasn’t telling her everything though, and attempting to dig only earned her a frigid glare that silenced her further queries.

“Beyond the matter of my missing steward,” Aragorn said guardedly, surely changing the subject to prevent any other uncomfortable questions from her. He pressed his palms down on the outer rim of the barrel they were using as a table. “What else have you been up to in the intervening weeks since your departure? Try to tell me all you can; the more information you give us, the better we will be prepared for the coming battle.”

“Battle?” she asked, sitting a little straighter and pushing other thoughts out of her head; whatever information followed would be terribly important.

“We have taken one of their greatest cities,” the king pointed out. “I cannot imagine they will let us just have it without a fight.” He made a hand motion indicating she should begin her recount. “Now, tell us how you have come to be here.”

She shrugged. “I suppose at first I wandered- almost aimless. I was just trying to find Faramir, and I had no idea what direction he might have fled in to hide. I tried south at first and I was almost caught at the border. I slew a messenger who had been about to signal for aid.” Her jaw clenched. She still wasn’t sure slaying him had been the right call, but she also wasn’t sure she had any choice. “After that I began harrying slavers, guard patrols, and military couriers. Their water and food sustained me, and I soon had a number of freedmen riding with me.”

Aragorn and Eomer exchanged a look.

“You may have opened the path for us to march unseen across these sands,” her brother said, patting her on the back.

She glanced toward Aragorn, half hoping to find his ire dimmed toward her in light of her aid, but his gray eyes were still as cold as sword steel, and she winced.

“If I put a map in front of you,” the Gondorian king began thoughtfully. None of the cold edge she saw on his face had reached his voice, and somehow the absence was worse than any scolding. “Would you be able to mark the places you encountered each?”

“I believe so,” she said tentatively.

“Hold out your hand, then,” he ordered.

She could not quite keep the tremor out of her fingers- half of her expected a strike like she might have received as a younger child for climbing trees in her court finery, but he only grasped her hand to turn it over, and gently at that, and with his other placed into her grasp a set of map markers. She gazed at the tokens, not quite comprehending their significance.

Aragorn got to his feet. “If you would both wait here, I will return shortly,” he said, letting himself out of the tent, which was made of a thick, tan canvas.

Eomer nodded his assent and leaned against the barrel they were using as a table, a stormy look overtaking his features as they were left alone.

Eowyn watched the heavy door to the tent to avoid having to make eye contact with her brother.

“You came all this way alone, without orders, to fight for the life of a single Gondorian,” the horse lord said in a low tone. “Do you still claim he’s just a friend?”

She looked down at her hands, the silk scarf clutched between them and nervously smoothed her thumbs over the folds and gathers of the fabric. “Yes,” she said slowly. She could no longer deny that the strange, fluttering feeling in her chest was a romantic hope to be close to the noble Lord Faramir. “But he won’t see me.”

Eomer sputtered for a moment at her response.

She could not bring herself to look at her brother.

“He won’t see you? What in the world are you talking about?” he demanded.

“He would be better suited to a Gondorian woman, not a wild thing from the hills. He’s elegant and refined- almost elven,” she said, folding her arms together over her front. “Not like me. I want him to be happy.”

“And you don’t think he could be happy with a lady of Rohan?” Eomer demanded, his voice rising. “Is your respect for our house so low?”

“No, Eomer,” she snapped, scrubbing her hands over her face, only to immediately regret aggravating the mild sunburn over her cheeks. “I know well that we are lordly and glorious- I slew the Witch King himself. My value is not a question to me,” she said a little more confidently than she felt.  “Merely his tastes.”

Her brother had opened his mouth to respond, but the tent flap swept open and Aragorn stepped inside once more, cutting off any further discussion of the state of her heart, which was sore enough without Eomer poking at its new injuries.

The king of Gondor wasted no time in spreading a map over the top of a barrel. It was undetailed, as most maps of Harad tended to be. He next produced a quill and began to scratch new markings upon the parchments- hills, rocky outcroppings, oases, and other landmarks that had not been included.

Eowyn watched in amazement as it seemed the country came to life under his touch.

Aragorn pulled back at last and made a face. “It may be good that Elrond is not here,” he mumbled, wincing at his handiwork. “This is not the most graceful map I have ever penned.”

“Better than either of us are able,” Eomer grumbled.

Eowyn squinted down on it, studying the landmarks. Had the map been as empty as it had been at the start, she would not have been so confident to quickly place down the tokens representing squadrons, slavers, messengers, and scouts.

The king of Gondor nodded at the setup as if it was what he had expected. “You confused them,” he said at last. He muttered under his breath in what she supposed must have been Elvish, fingers twitching slightly in a motion that might have been a tap against the table top had there been any more force behind the movement. “Here first,” he said, tapping a marker. “Then here…” 

“And then here,” she said, pointing to the site of her third raid. 

“These movements would have convinced them a force was gathering further to the northeast. Well done.”

“My thanks,” she said hurriedly. She wasn’t about to admit it had been an accident on her part. Eowyn had merely intended to veil her own safe haven than to lead the Haradrim elsewhere. 

He laughed. “I am thanking you, my lady, for allowing us safe passage through the desert.” 

“As the One willed, I suspect,” she said softly.

“Indeed. It will take time for messengers to pass from the capital to their standing force, which is likely in the north, here,” he tapped the parchment. “And they will likely try to use their secret ways through this canyon. When their attempts to communicate fail, they will send increasing numbers until someone slips through our net- we will delay them as long as we are able, but it will come eventually.” He traced a path across the dunes with his fingers. “It is my hope that a peace can be brokered first and further bloodshed prevented.” He turned his steely gray eyes on her with a grim look of determination. “Think how many lives may be saved, for both the men of Harad, and for Gondor, how many children will grow up knowing the tender love of both mother and father, sisters who keep their brothers, mothers who keep their sons.”

She had heard Faramir say similar things in the rare moments she could convince him to speak his inner thoughts, and the reminder of the mutual sorrows of war just made her chest tighten with a terrible ache. It felt as though she stood at the edge of a cliff, and only the knowledge that Faramir might yet live had prevented her from casting her heart into the frigid waters to deaden her compassion for the people who took him from her. 

That was not a comfortable awareness. 

He stands between me and the pit that once entered offers neither solace nor return.

“How many of the men you brought with you can speak the local dialect?” Aragorn asked suddenly, pulling her out of the tangle of her thoughts.

“I am unsure,” she said immediately, stumbling over her response. “They are all fluent in Haradric, but I don’t know about the dialects.”

“All?” Aragorn asked, lifting his eyes from the map for a long moment. “How long…” he muttered, shaking his head. “That may be fortunate for us,” he said, the momentary show of pain swallowed up by a cold practicality. “Have them enter the city. They will speak with anyone willing to see them. We must enforce fair treatment of women especially. If we win their favor, their husbands and sons will be more willing to consider a lasting peace.”

“I will do this,” she agreed, turning toward the door to the tent, but she halted suddenly. “One of the men, Erkenreth, may not be the best choice for this,” she warned.

Aragorn mouthed the name to himself, eyebrows lowering. “That is a Rohirric name,” he realized, inclining his head. “I understand.”

She curtsied once and let herself out of the tent.

“What more can be done to search for Lord Faramir?” she heard Eomer ask.

Her footsteps faltered and she paused to listen to the response. She almost missed what Aragorn said because he spoke so softly.

“There is very little to be done until peace is secured,” said the king of Gondor after a long pause. “I dare not send riders into the desert to die of exposure or be enslaved and killed by the wandering tribes. He could be anywhere, and may even have returned to Minas Tirith by now. Nothing can be done.”

She grit her teeth and kept walking, internally berating herself for feeling so hurt by the response. She knew what the duty of a king had to be for the sake of his people, and she had known before he had spoken what the answer would have to be. Stupid girl , she told herself for holding on to any hope that Aragorn might have acted recklessly to spare her worry. Stupid, stupid . 

It was a stupid thought and she was a stupid girl for thinking it.

She kicked a rock, sending it flying over the camp to bounce off the blue canvas of a nearby tent where it fell and clanked against the helmet of a passing soldier, who looked skyward in confusion.

She picked up her pace.

Erkenreth was, predictably, opposed to the entire idea and argued against his involvement even before Eowyn was quite able to tell him he was not qualified for the position on account of his unruly behavior, which almost caused a scuffle among the Rohirrim of her cobbled together company, because those among them who were slightly less feral could tell she hadn’t finished speaking.

At last, quiet settled over the men and they faced her again, though Erkenreth had his arms crossed. 

“I see no point to winning over the hearts of a people who enslave women,” he muttered mutinously. 

“You will not be coming along,” she said flatly. “You have neither the temperament nor the self control to be trustworthy on an assignment of this kind.”

He looked for a moment like he wanted to say something, but bowed instead, cutting short the smiles and laughter that had started at his expense. “Very well, my lady,” he said, brows knitting in a thoughtful way that was uncharacteristic of his usual demeanor.

The other men sobered, exchanging puzzled looks, all of them unsure what had changed; it seemed they had expected him to be a part of the joke.

“Come along, then,” she ordered them, motioning the remainder of her troop to follow her back.

She was barely paying attention as Aragorn parceled them out to the different districts of the city, and before she knew it, she found herself once again alone with her brother and the king of Gondor, who was looking at her with a cold expression, his lips pursed. 

“Your brother wants me to send you home,” Aragorn said at last, and Eomer’s shoulders relaxed.

Eowyn’s heart dropped, managing to turn over on its way down, disturbing a set of butterflies that tried to escape by her throat.

“Finally,” her brother muttered, shooting a glare in her direction.

“But,” Aragorn continued, and her heart lifted just enough to turn her stomach. “I believe, having just wrested a stronghold from the hands of our enemies, that it may be unwise to send any riders back across the desert, escorted or not.”

Eomer glared at the other king. “You couldn’t have brought this up when I asked?”

“I hadn’t given it the thought required,” Aragorn admitted, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “It is often better not to speak before considering the content of the words given. I simply do not believe Eowyn would be safer crossing the desert than sheltering with us.”

Eomer shifted his glare back to his sister. “You should not have come,” he said in something between a mutter and a growl. “There’s nothing to be done about it now.”

“Would you go even if I did send you? You have already defied one king, and I know better than to think I am your liege,” Aragorn mused, lifting an eyebrow at her.

Somehow the words stung and she winced as if she had been slapped; she almost wished he had actually struck her, at least she could have made sense of that. “I am caught between two loyalties,” she whispered, realizing with a growing horror that she was no longer standing upon the simple authority of the command of Rohan. 

“What?” Eomer asked, stepping closer.

Aragorn’s eyes widened for the barest second but the look vanished from his face with a subtle incline of his jaw; he would let her keep her dignity and make no remark without her leave.

“Nothing,” she said hurriedly, shaking her head. “How can I be of service?” she asked, directing the question to Eomer, who shook his head with mounting irritation. 

“Just- go make sure the men have water,” he snapped, turning away.

She let herself out before he could look back, head spinning.

It should have been simple; Eomer was her king, not Aragorn, and yet the command she desired and respected most was from Gondor.

There was sand in her boot, and it was rubbing her skin raw.

Chapter Text

The doors of death were a familiar place to Faramir. He had seen them as a white-gold passage to a better realm, trembling on the edge of silver gray clouds, like the sun showing its face after a terrible storm, just to sink, sanguine, behind the shimmering glass of the ocean horizon. He had seen them as an iron gate, corroded from something once great, and then unrecognizable beneath the ice and the filth, and wreathed in cold, fever-fire.

For the first time, though, Faramir was sure he could see them as they truly were; a truly massive castle gate, the construction of which was distinctly elvish in its winding metal figures of vines and flowers, weaving together the twisted silver bars. Behind it was the shimmering gold light, but there was no threat of coming night to take the peace of the moment away, and the cold fever-fire had gone out, leaving him with only the ague of his dying body. 

Standing there, before the open gates, he felt as though he had been submerged in cold water that stung against the heat of his sickness and ripped the breath out of his lungs so that it drifted in flashing bubbles to the surface of his consciousness. Though he was standing in the plane of his fevered reality, he could tell at times that all was not as it should have been. 

He was hanging outward, sideways off of what should have been the floor, looking down through the gate to the halls of Mandos where beyond waited the luminous Valar. If the force keeping his feet to the ground faltered for the barest instance, he would fall.

As it was, the force of seemingly invisible water sweeping past him was plunging with all the savagery of a waterfall so that he barely kept his balance, leaning hard against its pull.

“ Are you coming? ” a voice asked him with a command to answer.

He wanted to say no, but had to swallow back the words bubbling up in his throat. It was taking all his strength to remain where he was, and to answer, even to refuse the invitation, would be to collapse.

At times the struggle felt like a dream, a thing of his imaging that faded away to darkness at irregular intervals. The darkness, too, sometimes parted and the shining bubbles he had thought were his own lifebreath drifting through the unforgiving current would open up to show him a cruel sun and a distant, blue sky. There was sand, sometimes, and a face, veiled in a blue like seafoam.

He had called for her, once, and only once, only to realize he did not actually know her name- the eyes peering down at him were golden brown, beautiful, but not the haunting, cold blue he missed more than life itself. He was unsure if the word had even passed his parched lips, or if it had died like his hope, unspoken in his throat.

Aryl had been arguing with her father for several days over what ought to be done with the man who would wake to find himself her fiance, and every day they had argued his condition had worsened. She wanted to bring him to a city for healing, but her father had been deeply opposed, stating that Faramir was a wanted man, and to bring him to the hands of his enemies was worse than to fail in healing him.

“Strange things are happening in the heart sands,” her father had said, shaking his head slowly the first time she had suggested it. “Merchants and soldiers, vanishing, strange tracks, miles long. Couriers are spooked and towns are suspicious of outsiders. We could not bring a blue eyed slave without losing him to the guards.”

It had been enough to keep her quiet until the Steward’s condition began to worsen.

Faramir never woke for longer than a few minutes after he first fell unconscious, always sweating terribly as he fought against both fever and the oppressive heat of the desert, but as the days went by, those precious moments of wakefulness grew further and further apart.

 At last, there was no question that the man from Gondor was dying, and even Aryl’s stubborn father had to concede that there was no more risk in taking him to Salek than keeping him secret- at least for the Gondorian.

The Enuun were not, broadly speaking, welcome in the cities, their tribes being the most likely to oppose the Chieftan of Harad.

The risk to their own people was not considered, however. As their guest, Faramir’s health and wellbeing came above the lives of the tribe.

It was in pointing out that the advisors of Enhik Echaya were just as likely to want the Steward alive, as a bargaining piece, that Aryl at last won the argument with her father, and the caravan turned back, heading almost due south, toward the great city of Salek.

It was the third day of their travel to Salek, and she was leaned over the man who would be her fiancé when his eyes fluttered open, like the delicate wings of a butterfly in an overwhelming wind. 

His mouth moved, forming unspoken vowels. Only a single syllable had escaped his throat, though, and all she heard was “-wyn?” She was almost certain he was not asking about a lamb, and coupled with the look of grief and disappointment on his face before his eyes drifted shut, she had not been the one he wanted to see.

Something about the sorrow that still lingered on his unconscious visage twisted her stomach into knots. She wanted to press her hands to his face and smooth away the troubles caught in the downward tilt of his eyebrows, and the oh-so-subtle pout of his mouth. 

His face was not meant for such things, and it would be better for him if she could just keep him away from all the unpleasantries of the world. He could be so happy with her.

But… no. 

Something unpleasant had knotted up in her stomach, like the anticipation of a sandstorm. It was unease, but she could not quite tell what it was about. It was just a feeling, a worm crawling around in her gut, ruining her appetite and keeping her anchored next to a dying man.

She told herself she was being silly, and went about her duties- but not before asking one of Faramir’s men to tell her if he woke, and what he said.

The man, formerly named Haitham, had smiled in a way that told her he had no intention of following her direction. “I will do what I am able,” he said evasively, that same unreadable smile over his worn face. 

She did not push the issue. The men were guests now, considered free already, to pay the debt they owed to the steward. She did not like to linger too long near them- the one called Rimmach, or rather, Tulus always seemed to have violence on his mind; she supposed that was the fault of her own people, in some way.

She let herself out, instead, her eunuch attendants following behind as she returned to the women’s encampment at the heart of the caravan where she had a map and a stack of pebbles counting out their progress along the way.

It looked like they had two more days of long, hard travel that would eat into the morning of a third, and a part of her mind she could not quite suppress into silence wondered if Faramir would even still be alive on the morning of that third day.

They had all expected to encounter another caravan or two the following day, and had estimated delays into the journey for appeasing larger tribes or hosting any smaller caravans they came across, but crossed paths with no one that day. It was strange, but not unheard of in the vast desert, so it was only by the second day of travel that the leading men of Aryl’s tribe began to feel unsettled. So close to a city as they were, they ought to have encountered someone- anyone, really.

They had arrived at Salek much earlier than anticipated as the journey had been entirely unimpeded, and the time saved had meant Faramir was still alive as the walls came into view.

The stars glittered in the velvet sky above, and a half moon cast strange shadows over the dunes.

The city before them was a dark mass in the pale sand, turned silver by the pale light of the heavens, and punctuated by the occasional firelight, flickering through windows behind the tall defenses, and torches moving through the city streets.

The night was quiet, almost too quiet.

From where she sat at the heart of the caravan, Aryl could hear the whispering of the nightly breeze as it teased at the sands beneath their feet, and tugged playfully at the light silks of her garments, interrupted only by the clanking of stirrups and armor as unsettled men-at-arms shifted in their seats.

The ragged wheezing of the steward barely carried to her, even in such stillness, but her thoughts could not let go of the sound. She heard it in her mind, even when it was too quiet to even possibly reach her, and the sounds he made were quieter by the hour.

“Father,” she called, only for the nearest warrior to hush her.

Something was wrong. No one was sure what, exactly, but everyone present could tell.

The Gondorians attending Faramir began to whisper to each other, their words obscured by the sighing of the winds. 

Aryl wished she could understand them better.

The sound of camel hooves shifting through sand and the strain of creaking leather reached her, and she turned her head, looking for the source of the disturbance.

Her father, stiff and drawn, was approaching, angling his camel through the crowd to reach her.

“Daughter,” he whispered, the word barely more than a breath.

“What’s going on?” she asked, lowering her voice to match him as he leaned over to hear her.

“Something is wrong,” he said unhelpfully.

She could tell as much for herself.

“There are not enough lights from within,” he continued, gesturing into the darkness. “Look on and see there.”

She had never seen a city at night, always being kept in the confines of the women’s camp after dark, so she wasn’t sure what it was supposed to look like, but she could at least agree that the city was very dark.

He pointed a finger down, to the walls closest to them. “And look there,” he said. “The outer gates are closed. Travelers and guests will have no water here.”

“Why?” she asked, stomach knotting up at his words.

It was a grave sin to turn a traveler away thirsty.

“Perhaps a spirit of illness has settled here,” he said warily. “We should not have come.”

“But Faramir will die if we do not get help,” she said, pleadingly, her voice picking up volume with her growing alarm.

“He is weakened by his wound; a spirit of illness would certainly finish him off. He will die either way, and many of our people will follow him.” He shook his head. “I never should have taken slaves; we are cursed for transgressing.”

“Then free them- all of them, and then we can leave. Surely we will be forgiven?” she asked, ignoring the man who shushed her again and reaching over to clutch on tight to her father’s arm.

He just shook his head again and they sat in the unnerving quiet. “We did not make our water station in time, and if we do not get the water here, we will all die.”

She bit her lip, holding back a curse of frustration on herself. 

This was all her own fault.

“And if we enter the city to get water-” he shook his head. “I see clearly now for the first time. A spirit of plague cares not who is master and who is slave. What we have seen as the natural order of the world falls apart in the face of our mortality. I have been a fool, Aryl.” He kicked his camel forward and pulled out of her grip. “Release every slave,” her father ordered, raising his voice so the whole caravan could hear them. “We will face whatever fate is in store without shame.”

At first, no one moved.

Aryl sat in shock.

Their entire way of life had just turned on its head over the course of a mere three nights. 

She had advocated for the slaves before, but not at the cost of the caravan.

How would they survive?

A glance at her father’s face as he rode away told her that he meant not to.

With a grave solemnity, the warriors of her tribe began to move, taking from the attendants all the marks of their former station, and giving them the gifts of freedmen- silk scarves to tie on, to mark them as equals to the citizenry of Harad. 

The women and eunuchs who had been slaves before came to her camel to touch her, to thank her for her part in their release.

The knot in her stomach tightened.

She had done nothing for them, and had been complicit in their continued captivity. She opened her mouth to protest, but the caravan was moving again, approaching the outer gate to the spring before the city of Salek.

Silently, she urged her mount forward, and the crowd that had gathered around her parted to let her through. 

Her father dismounted before the gate and drew back the great ring mounted on its dark, smooth surface. He released it, and it let out a crack like thunder, that rolled around the sands for a few moments before vanishing into the breeze. 

There was a long pause, and the gate began to creak and groan, the chains behind it jingling against themselves as the massive door opened, letting them into the outer bailey of the great city of Salek.

No one spoke as they stepped in through the doors, but Aryl could see several heads craning too and fro, as if looking for unseen dangers in the men around her.

There were city guards posted in all the usual places, but there were no citizens lounging by the water, or traders with their caravan animals wrapping up business for the night. 

She watched her father slip away from the group to speak with one of the armored men by the wall. She saw them bow to each other, saw their hands move as they exchanged greetings, and soon enough, she saw her father turn back and return, pushing his way to her.

“There is no plague here,” he whispered to her. “But they say we should drink, refill our stores, and leave quickly.”

“Did he say why?” she asked, and Ishati shook his head.

“If there is no plague,” she said, her heart lifting just slightly. “Then we must ask for help, father.”

“I will split the caravan, for this,” he said, heavily. “My most loyal I will keep, and the rest you must lead away. If there is death here for us, I would not have it fall on you.”

She leaned down, pressing her forehead to his. She wanted to protest, but duty outweighed the trembling grief that was blooming through her chest. “Thank you,” she said instead, and knew he understood.

Chapter Text

Aragorn had settled into a bed roll in his tent, set up in the central square of the city. The press of bricks against his back was not all that different from laying upon the street in Minas Tirith. He supposed that some things were simply human, like laying roads, and children playing in gutters.

He could just hear the whisper of Arwen’s love in his mind as he drifted into a star-filled dream when the tent-flap pulled aside and the clank of armor woke him.

He was sitting up before his eyes had opened, and there was a dagger in his hand, a stark reminder from the reflexes of his body that he was not at home.

“There is a caravan at the outer spring requesting a healer. The man promised to the daughter of the chief of the tribe is suffering from the venom of what they called the crowned serpent,” the guard explained.

Aragorn squinted at the newcomer in the darkness. After a moment, he was able to make out the armor of the Swan Knights, which told him Imrahil thought the situation was important enough to pass it to the king. “Where is your lord?” he asked, wiping his free hand over his face.

“He awaits you in the square, my king,” the knight responded, already backing away.

“Very good. Inform him I will be but a moment.” Aragorn sighed as the clanking subsided away from his tent and threw off his covers.

It was terribly cold outside the warmth of his bedroll, and it would be until the morning brought with it the desert’s blistering heat.

He dressed quickly, donning chainmail over gambeson over tunic and tucked his healer’s satchel under his arm, setting the strap across his body and over one shoulder. He wrapped up in his thick, royal cloak before stepping out, but the chill still seeped into his skin after only a few minutes of exposure.

Imrahil was pacing in the small clearing left for gatherings between the tents.

The city was not so open as to allow space for the entire invading force to set up tents, but Aragorn had insisted that no civilians be displaced from their homes. It had made keeping a hold on the city harder, almost certainly, but preserved a dignity the native peoples had not expected from enemies made out to be monsters for centuries.

Aragorn raised a hand in greeting as he slipped into the open, checking over his shoulder almost reflexively as he peeled away from the cover of the many tents. “Imrahil,” he said, keeping his tone pleasant. “What is this business about travelers needing a healer in the night? Why has it not been granted?”

“The request was made not half an hour past,” Imrahil said, bowing slightly in greeting.

In a more formal setting such a bow might have been a slight, but from Imrahil, there in that Harad city square, Aragorn took the motion as it was meant; not to waste his time. 

“I made the decision to bring the matter to you when I heard that these Enuun had released every slave before entering the city. They call for aid on behalf of a stranger to their tribe- I believe treating them as equals and free-men, with respect and nobility, will earn us more trust from the underclass than anything else we could achieve here.”

Aragorn’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You were right to bring this to me. I will see to this man myself.”

“And he will have a better chance of survival under your hands, my king,” Imrahil agreed, motioning that Elessar should follow him.

Aragorn fell easily into step with the younger man as they wound through the heavily guarded streets of a city in sullen silence to the outer bailey of the fortress defenses, the place where the spring gurgled happily nearby in the cold night. 

The Enuun greeted him immediately as if they sensed the shift of attention in the air as the guards stood a little straighter. 

The chief of the tribe bowed deeply, lowering himself to his knees before taking the hands of the king in supplication. “Please,” he said. “To save our guest.” 

Aragorn put on a comforting smile and guided the old man back to his feet, glancing over the crowd gathered behind him.

Many of the faces looking back at him had certainly once been slaves- their clothes and skin were long worn from labor and the wicked desert sun, but they stood among the tribes-members, new, clean silks clashing with the stained rags clothing them.

“Take me to your guest,” Aragorn said gently, withdrawing one hand to check, almost unconsciously, that his healer’s supplies were still at his side. “I will do my best to heal him.”

“We are in your debt,” the chief said, bowing again as he stood to lead the king. “He is this way.” 

As the two parted from the crowd, the chief glanced around, as if checking that they were out of earshot of any others. “I am believe your people are looking for the guest,” he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratory whisper.

Aragorn’s attention sharpened and landed fully on the chief, who recoiled from the cold gaze suddenly upon him. I have found him , whispered a voice in the king’s heart. The son of my spirit has been delivered into my hands. “He was bitten by a crowned serpent, I heard,” he said, reining himself in to keep from further alarming the Haradric chief. He wanted to take hold of the man and demand to know where Faramir was, but he held himself back behind a carefully painted smile.

“This way,” the chief said. 

They had erected a single tent by the closed gate to the oasis courtyard. It was not a slaves’ tent, but woven of colorful silks and embroidery, likely the chief’s own dwelling place, and the finest accommodations of their small tribe.

Aragorn pushed the flap aside and stepped in, closely following the other man, his heart in his throat.

Sure enough, Faramir lay unconscious, pale as death on the short, padded bedding of the Enuun chief. 

Aragorn knelt immediately, whispering to the younger man and smoothing a hand over the clammy skin of the Steward’s forehead. “ Ion nin, ma tais samye hiruves? ”

Faramir stirred under his fingers, reaching a swollen, disfigured hand up to feebly grasp at his king’s touch. “ Samie nwalma, ” he murmured back, and Aragorn almost didn’t catch the words, they were spoken so softly. 

"My son, what troubles have you found?"

"I have found pain."

“You speak, both, a language of wonder,” the chief said quietly.

“I was raised in that language,” Aragorn responded distractedly, slipping the strap of his satchel off of him so he could more easily rummage through its contents. “I need water,” he said, but stopped himself, remembering just in time that he had no right to order a chief like one of his own subjects. “Would you send someone?”

“Aryl,” the chief said immediately, and a woman Aragorn had not noticed rose slowly to her feet, bowing before she slipped from the tent.

To be left alone with a man, even in such a state, she must have been deeply trusted, or perhaps considered engaged to Faramir, a troubling prospect. She was dressed in a pale green silk robe, and her face and hair were veiled in azure, and the fabric glittered with beads. She must have been the chief’s own daughter.

The king’s hand closed around a small knife in a leather case. He slipped it out without needing to look, and lifted Faramir’s hand to examine it more closely. He carefully trimmed away the bandages, and did not try to peel them away from the skin where they stuck, but waited for the water. 

Infection had set in, predictably. 

“What is your name?” Aragorn asked, hoping to pass the time as he prepared tools and medicines. 

There were a couple different kinds of knives, all small and sharp and Elvish, and a prepared poultice of king’s foil and bitter herbs and honey, a vial with an elvish drought to drive out the poison and lower fever in a crystal vial, and a number of small, fiddly tools like tweezers and a suturing needle. 

“I am Eshati. What are you called?” the chief asked.

Aragorn bit back a smile and busied himself inspecting the knives. He was called many things. “I am Elessar,” he said, deciding on a name that might not evoke his kingship immediately, and thereby close off any chance he had at speaking honestly with Eshati, but would not be considered a deception as it was one of his officially recognized titles as the king of Gondor.

“It is an honor,” Eshati said politely, bobbing his head in respect.

Aragorn returned the gesture, though a little distractedly as he kept his eyes on Faramir. “The honor is mine.”

“You know this young man?” the chief asked warily, and Aragorn nodded. “You must be powerful to be so familiar with Gondor’s Steward,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “But you tend him like a servant. You are not dressed like a servant.”

“I tend him like a father,” the king said, surprised at himself that he would admit such a thing. “For Faramir is the son of my heart, though I cannot speak it to him. Would you hesitate to kneel before your daughter?”

Eshati started forward as if he had been insulted, and then deflated. “No,” he admitted. “I would not, though it would make me weak.”

“To serve others is no weakness,” Aragorn said, once more smoothing a hand over Faramir’s forehead. “It takes more strength to be gentle than to destroy.”

Silence stretched out between them until a rustling from the tent door announced the entry of Aryl.

She had a large jar expertly balanced on her head.

It looked heavy.

“That is freshly drawn?” Aragorn asked Eshati, respectfully keeping his gaze away from the woman.

“Yes,” the chief said.

Aryl set the container down by the healer.

Aragorn removed a dish from his pack and carefully poured a small amount of the fresh water into it. There were herbs in a small silk pouch that he poured into the mix. They were ground down to a powder and turned the water green as he stirred it with the back of one of the small knives.

“What is that?” Aryl asked, and Aragorn glanced cautiously at Eshati.

Finding no anger at her curiosity on her father’s face, he relaxed slightly. “It cleans the water of things that might make the infection worse, proofs it for use to cure and heal.” He saw her nod from the corner of his vision and dipped a cloth into the mixture.

It took a few minutes to soak off the last scraps of bandage, revealing not only the bite wound from the serpent, but also the marks of incisions where they had cut into his bloated flesh to drain the building infection.

Those incisions were likely the reason he was still alive. 

Aragorn set the cloth on Faramir’s hand to soak off the scabs and turned back to Eshati, who looked a little bit ill. “May I borrow a cup?” he asked. 

The chief nodded quietly and slipped out, likely grasping at the excuse to leave; he clearly did not have the stomach to be a healer.

Aryl seemed to be fairing much better, though it was hard to tell with her face hidden.

“Athelas,” Faramir sighed, some of the pain easing from his face.

The scent of the herb had filled the tent, a familiar smell that reminded Aragorn of the woods around Imladris. He hoped that Faramir was reminded of his own home, and similarly comforted.

Eshati returned only long enough to hand Aragorn a clean, stone cup, and ducked out again.

“This will not be pleasant, my lady,” the king said as he pulled off the dark flakes. 

The wounds began to seep a foul, green ooze, and a stink began to fight with the light scent of the Athelas.

“It was I who drained it,” she said easily. “I know what is in store.”

“Your bravery reminds me of a dear friend,” Aragorn said, setting the knife’s edge against an existing wound. 

Aryl knelt next to him, offering a bucket. “You’ll need this,” she said, and Aragorn nodded.

He could do without it, but the process would likely be much more clean for all parties with the discharge contained. “Very good,” Aragorn said. “Thank you.”

At last the wound was cleaned and Faramir had been treated with every medicine Aragorn could justify, and his hand was wrapped tightly in new, clean linen bandages. 

Aryl had left them alone once the work was done and Aragorn’s hands were clean. 

The king lowered his head to Faramir’s chest, mostly as a way to draw close to the son of his heart, but also to reassure himself of the strong beat beneath the cover of the Steward’s ribs. The rhythm of that heart had improved greatly from the treatment he had received.

It had been months since Aragorn had last seen him, and finding Faramir in such a state was a blow.

At least the Steward was alive; it was the king’s one comfort.

The image of the bite wound, swollen and black, at the base of Faramir’s thumb had remained in Aragorn’s mind, and called forward the thought of the crowned serpent, its bloodied mouth robbed of fangs. 

“Was it the same snake?” he muttered to himself, sitting upright to examine the Steward’s face again.

Faramir’s eyes had opened and were welling up with tears. The gray pallor of his skin made him look very much like his brother in his last moments, gasping for breath on the banks of the Anduin. 

Aragorn shook his head and set a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Welcome back, melon nin .” 

Faramir managed a smile and grabbed the king’s wrist with his left hand, as if checking he was really there. “You’re really here?” he asked, and Aragorn nodded, his throat struggling to swallow down a lump that had formed there. “I kept hearing your voice,” he continued, struggling to lift his head. His voice was rusty from disuse and dehydration. “I kept hearing you.”

Aragorn dipped the clean cup into the fresh water and pressed it to his son’s lips. “Drink,” he ordered. “And rest. We will have much to speak on when you are well, but you must recover your strength.”

“But fa- my king,” Faramir protested. 

The king tilted his head, his thoughts racing. Had Faramir meant to call him father? No, it must have been wishful thinking, a trick of his own longing filling in what was never meant to be there. 

“When I was at the gates, it was your voice that called me back.” He looked even closer to crying, and pushing the matter was only upsetting him further.

“Alright,” Aragorn said soothingly. “Tell me all about it, then.”

Faramir spoke in fevered babbling, speaking in no particular order of the silver gates and the beautiful figures beyond it, and the voice that had demanded of him whether he was coming or going. “You answered for me,” he said at last. “It was your voice.”

Aragorn sat in stunned silence. “Could it have been the fever?” he asked, taking the Steward’s hand, but Faramir shook his head insistently, slowly back and forth across the pillow, the sweat of strain beginning to show on his forehead.

“I have seen them before,” he said, his voice beginning to fail. “Veiled by the Black Breath, and before that by injury. Never so clearly have I known the Halls of Mandos.”

Aragorn’s stomach tightened into a knot. He had almost lost Faramir to the same gates that had taken Boromir, gates beyond which he was not able to so quickly follow. He fell silent once more, comforting himself as much as Faramir by rubbing a thumb over the Steward’s near arm. “I heard your voice as well,” the king admitted at last, but it appeared that Faramir was unconscious once more. “You called me ‘father.’” 

Chapter Text

Faramir knew he had been moved, and that he was among friends, and that was all he needed. He thought sometimes he heard Eowyn’s voice with the breeze that sometimes reached him in the tent, but so deep in the desert he knew it was impossible, merely a figment of his feverish desires.

It only occurred to him after another week of drifting in and out of consciousness that Aragorn had come for him, and rescue was imminent. He knew time had passed, but not how much.

He struggled against the weight of sleep, whenever he was aware enough to do so, and often swam upward into the gray and gold boundary between dream and wakefulness, frustrated and trapped beneath the heaviness of his own eyelids and limbs, pressing him back, and down into the mattress and into the dark.

At last he forced his eyes open into the white light of day, wincing at the brightness as he rolled himself off of the bed-padding of the Enuun tribe that had rescued him- if it could be called a rescue. It took him another few moments to adjust to the brightness of the tent, and as the pain in his head lessened just enough to let him understand the storm of colors around him, he realized that he was in Ishati’s tent- in Ishati’s bed.

Had Aragorn really been here at all, or had it been a miraculous vision?

He pushed the covers off with renewed haste, stumbling clumsily to his feet, and almost falling when the world lurched around him, spinning wildly as purple clouds invaded his vision, sparkling brightly with the pain from his right arm. He caught himself on a large, clay urn, hands braced on either side of the jar’s mouth. 

It was a water urn- he had seen it before in the women’s encampment. 

The pain in right arm spiked again and he pulled it close to his chest, cradling it for a moment as he recovered himself, still leaning with his left.

The urn must have been quite full with water, or he would have surely pushed it over.

His hand felt deformed, like the bones themselves had melted and curled inward. 

He forced himself to look at, drawing his arm up and before him as if revealing some horrid and cursed artifact- but it was shaped like a hand and arm, whole and without deformity, wrapped tightly in clean linens that smelled like Athelas. 

His king had found him as surely as the sun rose in the east. Of course he had; Aragorn was a ranger, a warrior, and a healer. He would not leave any of his people to such a fate, no matter how lowly.

Faramir searched around the tent for a change of clothes and found, across the seat of a stool, a set of dark trousers, and a light linen shirt- Gondorian clothes.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he peeled himself out of his slave’s attire, which smelled rank by that point. He cleaned himself as much as he was able with a clean cloth and water from the vat, and dressed painfully slowly, stepping outside to find his king once he was suitably presentable.

His arm throbbed, and the outside sunlight hurt far worse than the comparatively dim inside of the tent. He stood for a moment, shielding his face.

“Lord Faramir!” an eager voice exclaimed. By her accent, he could already tell she was not from his own land.

He squinted into the blinding light as her figure approached, surrounded by her attendants, blue silks catching the sun in a way that made her even harder to look at. 

Was that the chief’s daughter?

She crossed to him and took his hands in hers- a bold action he was not prepared for coming from especially a woman of Harad. 

He winced and pulled his right hand out of her grip, cradling it  protectively against his chest once more.

“I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, pulling back abruptly. 

He shaded his eyes against the harsh light with his left hand, squinting at her. “It’s alright. I am sorry to ask this, my lady, but where are we?”

She bowed deeply and swept her arm across, indicating a landscape he could not actually see past the bright glare. 

His surroundings were merely splotches of bright white and deep shadow.

“This is Salek, a great city of Harad,” she explained, and he felt lightheaded.

His stomach turned over.

When last he had been sensate, the Enuun tribe had been trying to avoid cities, in part for their own safety, and in part for his. 

Knowing that they had strayed so far from their intended destination did not fill him with confidence, and yet Aragorn had been there.

The idea that the king might have been captured was one too frightening to give place for very long.

No, Aragorn must have taken the city.

Faramir’s stomach turned over again. He had failed to broker peace, and further bloodshed was now unavoidable. 

“Lord Faramir?” she asked, taking hold of his left elbow as he staggered under the weight of his own fears and his guilt. “Perhaps you should rest a little longer.”

“No! No,” he said firmly. “I have rested too long. They will need me-” he hoped they needed him. “There is much to be done, and I cannot shirk my duties any longer.”

It had been months since he had been captured and escaped, and he counted all of that time as wasted.

“I did not mean to anger,” she said timidly, and he set a hand on her shoulder. 

“You didn’t,” he assured her. “I am not angry, merely urgent. I must return to my people.”

“Let me come with you,” she said, taking his hand. “It is not permitted to enact violence before a woman except to protect her. All petty grievances must be put aside. All the women are out in the streets to keep the men from rioting,” she said. “But it is best not to be alone.”

“Rioting?” he asked. 

“I know very little why. Much has happened these last two weeks while you are sick. Some of it is forbidden to me as woman,” she said, leading him forward.

That told him that whatever had occurred, there had been violence.

He stumbled.

As they entered the shadow of the inner wall, his vision cleared of the painful, blinding glare, and he could at last see his surroundings.

There were Gondorians at the gate into the city proper, their gray eyes on him, expressions bearing mirrored signs of wonder and worry as they watched him.

Faramir did his best to walk a little straighter and steadier.

So the city had been taken. 

That was something of a relief.

He glanced back as they paused before the closed portcullis.

The oasis was beautiful with its many palm trees around the clear, glittering water of the spring.

He had never been to a city in Harad, but even to him, the square felt empty. 

There were horses and camels tied up at the rails, all of them dressed in the manner and colors of the Rohirrim, a strange sight to be sure. 

Among them was a cherry red mare that looked all too familiar.

Surely that could not be Windfola?

A tug at his left hand informed him it was time to enter the city.

He had been staring at the horses too long and the portcullis was open.

“My lord,” asked one of the guards as he stepped through. “Should we send a message ahead of you to announce your approach to the king?”

“A messenger?” Faramir asked, scanning across the postings. “With what extra hands? No, do not thin the guard on my account,” he said, striding into the city.

The portcullis lowered behind the last of Aryl’s attendants with a clang , and Faramir felt his hands begin to shake.

He felt trapped.

The trembling made the throbbing in his injured hand worse, to a degree that made him feel sick.

There were more guards within the wall, just every few street corners or so, and others patrolling.

As Aryl had mentioned, most of the people in the strangely empty streets were women and attendants, all going about their business in a way that was so normal as to seem like a show put on, though he could not tell if the audience was meant to be the occupying force, or their own men.

She led him through comfortable shadows and scorching, blinding heat in the city, in winding streets and through broad courtyards until he was well and truly lost, but at last, in the heart of the city, the streets opened up into a bright and wide square that was filled with tents and pavilions of Gondorian and Rohirric design, and yet there were so few soldiers even there that the sight did nothing to put Faramir at ease.

He heard an exclamation from across the square, and the clanking of armor told him someone was approaching, and quickly, but the light flashing at him from the gleaming silver prevented any chance of identifying the man. His stride was wrong to be Aragorn.

Faramir braced himself, trying to will the bright splotch in his vision into a proper and identifiable image.

Strong arms close around him, lifting him from his feet, catching and supporting him in the embrace, and somehow, miraculously, not crushing the metal of the Gondorian plate-mail into his flesh.

“My nephew,” Imrahil said, his voice tremulous as if on the edge of tears.

Faramir wrapped his uninjured arm around his uncle, too stunned for words. He was distantly relieved that his uncle was holding him up, because his legs would have given out on their own.

The sudden return of a familiar and protective presence made Faramir feel small again, and the weight of the entire world, and the horror of the months he had spent in the desert began to sink in all over again.

His cheeks burned; he wanted to feel protected and kept while he was injured and weak, but he was ashamed to have such childish desires.

Imrahil began to pull away, but Faramir’s legs gave out, and the Steward found himself again in his uncle’s arms as the prince of Dol Amroth caught him. “You do not look well. I will take you to my tent, you can rest there.”

“I-” Faramir started to protest.

Imrahil shifted his grip on the Steward to free up one hand, putting it to his nephew’s face in a way that could only be described as paternal. “You’re the last remnant of my sister. Let me be selfish, Faramir, and keep you. She’d never forgive me if I let you work yourself into an early grave.”

Faramir cursed himself silently. 

Such words were exactly what he had wanted- acceptance and protection and affection all at once, but he had wanted them from… from…

From Aragorn.

Ungrateful. 

It was something that Denethor had thrown at him time and again, that he had denied, and worked, and toiled near to death to disprove, but here and now, getting what he wanted, it wasn’t enough. It had warmed his heart and lifted his spirits, but the longing for something else had remained, almost untouched, as if nothing at all had been offered.

His father had been right about him.

Faramir could not look Imrahil in the eyes and lowered his head, nodding miserably. “You’re not the selfish one,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re not selfish either, then,” Imrahil said flatly, half carrying him across the square. “Reckless and self destructive, perhaps, but never selfish.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I can and I do,” his uncle insisted, pushing aside the flap of his tent.

From inside, Faramir could see the blue and white patterns that culminated in the swan of Dol Amroth on the door, and Aryl hovering anxiously outside with her attendants. The pain in him lessened as Imrahil set him down on a bedroll.

The padding was thinner than the bed that Ishati had let him use, but more comfortable from its familiarity.

“Now tell me,” Imrahil started. “Who is this young lady escorting you with such familiarity.”

“I came here with a tribe of Enuun who collected me from the desert,” Faramir said, closing his eyes against the bright light, and finally allowing himself to relax. The tremor he had gathered on the way did not go out of him, even still. “I believe she is the chief’s daughter, I think her name is Aryl.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I am worried that by saving her life, I have given them cause to say we are engaged.”

“I see,” Imrahil said, nodding a few times. “I shall speak to Aragorn for you. Just… rest here. Be here when I return.”

“But-” Faramir opened his eyes to protest that he ought to go to the king himself, but Imrahil just shut him a dark look, and the words died in the Steward’s throat.

“You may outrank me, boy,” the older man started. “But I am still your uncle. I will keep you safe even if you hate me for it.”

“I would not hate you,” Faramir said immediately.

Imrahil laughed. “You might once the boredom sets in.”

He repressed a snort and set his head back down, already fighting to remain awake. “You’ll tell the king where I am, right?”

“Yes, Faramir,” Imrahil said gently. “And I won’t let anyone remove you from our care.”

The sensation of touch on his arm, and gentle probing at the injuries on his hand dragged Faramir out of a deep slumber. He groped for a knife with his left and uninjured hand, but there was no comforting weight where any of his weapons should have been.

“Peace,” someone said in a rasping voice, exhaustion evident by tone. “It’s just me, melon nin ,” Aragorn said, brushing his fingers over Faramir’s face. “Your bandages need to be changed.”

Faramir could not stop himself from sitting up. “My king!” he exclaimed. “You came for me.”

“I could never have forgiven myself if I allowed this place to take you from me,” Aragorn said heavily, pulling the younger man into a close embrace.

The Steward froze for a moment before pulling away.

Aragorn smelled of sand and blood and other men’s fear.

 “My lord,” he started. “Are you alright?”

The king did not respond, but took up Faramir’s wounded hand again and began to unwind the bandages. 

“My lord?” Faramir tried again, his heart slowly climbing into his throat. Had he done something wrong? Was he angry?

“I will be fine,” Aragorn said at last. “Let me just do this, and I will be much improved. Lay back down. There is no need for you to trouble yourself tonight. I am but a healer.”

“You will always be my king,” Faramir whispered as he leaned back into the pillow. “Even as a healer. I see before me a hero of old, and such glory cannot be unseen.”

The king was silent for a long moment. “I am sorry,” he said. “A fine hero am I, sending you to the desert and death.”

“And yet I live,” Faramir said, managing a laugh. It sounded a little strained, even to him. “I know what it means to lead. My own men have died for my orders- as I would for yours, easily, willingly,” he said, squeezing the older man’s arm with his free hand.

“There are words I would speak if not for my station, Faramir,” Aragorn said with a deep sigh. “There are so many things I would tell you, if I only could.”

“What stops you?” the Steward asked.

In truth, he was very familiar with the feeling, and the fears that came with it, that his behavior was unbecoming, that admitting to the pull of a familial bond would break it before it could ever have a chance to establish. He wondered what it was that tugged at Aragorn so, but he resigned himself to play the part of the dutiful servant; he would never find out.

Faramir hissed as the poultice touched him, setting off a new round of stinging and throbbing.

The healer murmured his apologies and they sat in the quiet dark in companionable misery until the pain faded down to a dull ache.

“Sleep now,” Aragorn said, tying off the new bandages. 

“But you’ll go,” Faramir protested, wincing as he realized the words had left his mouth.

“I’ll stay,” the king promised him. “Imrahil is overseeing the walls tonight. I have nowhere better to be.”

“Thank you,” Faramir mumbled, his eyes already sliding shut.

Was there anything so comforting as to sleep under his father’s care?

Chapter Text

Faramir woke before Aragorn, a thing which made the entire world feel wrong and backward. He sat up slowly in his uncle’s bed, examining the slumped figure of the king carefully.

Aragorn had apparently fallen asleep sitting, his shoulder braced against the scabbard of his sword, one hand clenched tight over the handle. His left arm sat in front of the sheath, cradling the leather close over his lap, and providing most of the stability he was leaning against.

White and red drew Faramir’s eyes to the king’s wrist where there was just the barest line of visible bandaging from beneath the man’s overcoat. 

The Steward pushed the blankets from his legs.

Aragorn’s head snapped up and his eyes fluttered open from even the barest sound of the shuffling cloth. “You’re awake,” he said, setting Anduril aside and leaning forward.

“You’re injured,” Faramir said, reaching out a trembling hand. “Something happened while I was asleep.”

“Ah-” Aragorn said, pulling up short, just shy of the Steward’s extended hand. 

Faramir pulled his fingers back in as if he’d been burned, kicking himself. He shouldn’t have been so careless with his actions.

Uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

“Yes,” Aragorn admitted at last. “Salek came under siege. It was not unexpected, but we were able to sit quite a while before they were aware of us here, and dwindled their water down to nothing. The battle was over quickly; a mercy to both sides.”

Faramir’s hands bound up in the blankets beside him as he anxiously sought something to hold, ignoring the rising pain in his right hand.

“We are waiting now for a messenger from Umbar,” Aragorn continued, reaching over to undo Faramir’s grip. “Have some care for your injuries, my friend,” he said, smoothing his fingers over the back of Faramir’s hand to relax the fingers and soothe the smarting wounds.

“And what about you, my king?” the Steward asked, tentatively reaching for the King’s arm to push the sleeve out of the way.

“It isn’t very deep,” Aragorn said dismissively, though he did not pull away. “I’ve seen to it already.”

“Yet I see that the blood seeps through the cloth,” Faramir pointed out, emboldened slightly by a lack of refusal. “You tended this?” he asked. “With one hand?”

Aragorn offered him a lopsided shrug. “I’ll admit it is not my best work, but it does not need to be.”

“Let me?” Faramir asked, and the king tipped his head in approval, shoving the bag of medical supplies closer with his free hand. “Thank you.”

“It is I who should thank you, seeing to my neglected scratch,” Aragorn said with something of a grim chuckle.

Faramir hissed through his teeth as the bandages came away.

A cut ran from the corner bone of the wrist beneath the thumb around and down toward the elbow, where the wound stopped just short of the crook. 

“I could not so readily call this a scratch,” the Steward said quietly, dabbing at the freshly pooling blood that had seeped from it already and were threatening to run down the king’s arm. Setting the used bandages aside, he reached into the pack and found a salve- by the smell of it, a numbing salve he could use to prepare the wound to be sewn shut.

Aragorn sat in silence through the process, watching as Faramir worked, his expression soft but inscrutable, and making the Steward wonder if he were doing a poor job of it.

At last, with a strong poultice applied and clean bandages wrapped over the wound, Faramir let himself relax once more, searching Aragorn’s face for approval. He found it at once as the king managed a small smile and nodded, just once. 

“Very good,” the other man said, experimentally opening and closing his hand a few times. He winced. “I came very close to losing my sword-strength with this one, I think.”

“Yes,” Faramir agreed. “It was close.”

“While we are on the subject of injuries, would you allow me to see your side?” Aragorn asked, cradling his newly tended arm.

Faramir blinked at him in confusion. “My… side?”

“I heard from Turothon that you were injured there,” Aragorn said by way of explanation. “When you were captured,” he added, and Faramir shrank back.

“I was, yes, but it is well healed now. It will not cause me any hindrance. It’s no more an injury, just a scar.”

“I would still like to see,” Aragorn said gently, and Faramir’s stomach rolled over on itself.

“But why?” he burst out, not quite able to contain himself, and unconsciously covering the place that the barbed spear had found him.

The king fell silent for a moment, and Faramir thought for that uncomfortable quiet that he had done something wrong and upset the other man, but Aragorn spoke again at last.

“Perhaps it may seem foolish to you,” he started. “But it would bring me great comfort to see that you are truly healed from that harm. You are… a precious friend to me.”

Faramir felt a bit foolish pulling up the edge of his tunic to show off a recent scar, but nonetheless he did.

A moment passed in silence and Aragorn’s mouth folded into a displeased line. “I should have found you sooner,” he said. “I could have treated it better.” His battle-rough hand covered Faramir’s and he lowered the fabric again. “Thank you. I can see that you are truly alright now.”

“It must be morning,” Faramir said, trying to change the subject. “Do you wish to rest further?” 

Aragorn offered him a sad smile. “I cannot,” he said. “Even should I wish it. There is too much to be done.”

“You are not without your Steward,” Faramir reminded him. “I could take on some of your burdens so that you may better recover,” he offered, pressing his hands together unconsciously in a gesture that was almost pleading.

The king chuckled and shook his head. “Not a day safe, and already volunteering for labor. What am I going to do with you?” he asked, ruffling the Steward’s hair fondly. 

Faramir did not offer a response in case it had not been a rhetorical question. 

Coming from Denethor, such a question was only a trap.

“It will greatly boost morale for the men to see you with some vigor returned,” Aragorn mused, drawing his thumb over his jaw bone as he considered. “I can scarce keep you here, and I will be somewhat more at ease to have you in reach than wonder what you might do to keep yourself diverted, as I know you will. There is someone who will want to see you

Faramir wasn’t certain if he were in trouble, or about to be granted some freedom to aid the king for the day, but he ventured a smile, hoping for the best.

“We had both best get ready for the day then,” Aragorn conceded at last. “But beware, ion nin , I think today may test even you.”

Both the King and the Steward had plenty of cause to practice their Haradric, settling disputes between soldiers and the locals, and even, to Faramir’s shock, petty disputes between the citizens of Salek, as if Aragorn were the ruling lord there all along.

Though the work delegated to Faramir’s care was light, by design, he knew, it still tired him quickly after being so long bedridden. The bite wound throbbed up to his shoulder when he tried to use his hand, which was often, seeing as it was his dominant side. He noticed the tasks becoming fewer and further between as the day went by and knew that Aragorn had seen his growing exhaustion, too.

He had managed to acquire and document an updated catalog of the army’s supplies, which took most of the morning, and was in the process of reviewing several repair requests, but they were taking longer than they ought to have between his focus, which was drying up in the heat, and the pain of holding a quill in his injured hand.

It was about midday when Eshati and Aryl entered into the square where the king was holding his business with the people of Salek.

Faramir, who was already feeling unwell from the scorching heat of the day, even under an awning as he was, felt about ready to lose the meager contents of his stomach as it contorted itself into a butterfly knot the very same instant he laid eyes on the pair of them- and their Numenorian attendants.

Coruen and Nelarion smiled on seeing the Steward, clothed once more in the garb of their people, but Tulus seemed as sour and ever, though it seemed to Faramir that his scowl was not as deep as it had been.

The ranger glanced over to his king, searching the older man’s expression. Aragorn seemed just as troubled as Faramir felt, though anyone who did not know him might not notice. The king had a smile on his face, but the corners of his eyes were tight, and his head was tilted to one side, as if inquisitive.

Faramir recognized the tilt as a sighting, as if the other man were looking down an arrow shaft and past his own bow at the approaching Haradrim.

Eshati bowed respectfully as they approached. “The gods have sent you to us,” he said, still bent forward. “I know now it was the king who saved his servant.”

Aragorn glanced at Faramir and raised an eyebrow, but the Steward had no answer for him and could only shrug helplessly.

“I have realized,” Eshati said slowly. “That the sin had put curse upon us- the curse of war, and plague, and death, and now think back, and I believe it is… be my fault… that my beloved daughter has no mother.” He shook his head. “Pray this will be enough, or we will suffer unending. I have released all slaves of our tribe.”

Aragorn’s other eyebrow lifted as Eshati straightened up. “I am well pleased to hear this. I expected no such thing so soon.”

“Your Steward is strange,” the chief said as a way of explanation. 

“Indeed?” the king asked, the ghost of amusement settling over his features as he glanced back toward the man in question.

“As payment of our debt to him, I offer now my daughter for marriage,” Eshati concluded.

An uncomfortable silence reigned over the entire group for a few, long seconds until Aragorn at last broke it, clearing his throat. “The Steward of Gondor is unfortunately not in a position that affords him the liberty of accepting your generous offer; he has a duty to form a marriage that will strengthen the line of Stewards. However, a tie to a country once our enemy may help in achieving peace. I will, therefore, seek -upon my return- a suitable match amongst the nobility, if it is agreeable to her.”

Aryl’s shoulders sagged.

Had she been hoping to marry him? Faramir found himself staring rudely in his confusion and had to turn his eyes downward to the papers he had just previously been working on. 

The letters neatly written across the surface of the sheet no longer held any meaning to him, and his eyes glanced across them without reading a single word. He must have given her a wrong impression of him, somehow. He had not meant to lead her on, and for the life of him, could not figure out how he had. 

They had barely ever interacted, and yet somehow, he had still managed to put her in this most uncomfortable position.

Eshati was hesitating to respond, looking toward Faramir for something, though the Steward did not know what. “You are unmarried?” he asked. “Uncourted? Surely there must be some way.”

Faramir opened his mouth to tell the chief that the king’s word was final on the matter, but Aragorn spoke first.

“I have a match for him in mind already,” Elessar said easily.

Faramir’s gaze turned sharply toward the king as a growing sense of horror overtook him. He put down the quill he had been holding and clenched his hands together on his lap to keep them from shaking.

He had known all his life that a favorable marriage was unlikely for him, by birth and duty, but hearing such a thing confirmed from the mouth of the king was somehow… heartbreaking. Perhaps he had dared to hope, but who would he choose? Or, more appropriately, who would even choose him ? 

If it had existed at all, it would have been a foolish hope.

He pushed the pain downward with stinging balm. “I am honored to serve Gondor,” he said, numbly.

Aragorn smiled at him, and he thought it was meant to be reassuring.

“I understand. I will… consult my daughter,” Eshati conceded at last, the disappointment evident in both his tone and on his face.

Aryl looked ready to cry.

Faramir wanted to offer some comfort, but wasn’t sure what to say, and had to watch helplessly as they turned away, feeling terribly guilty for his part in breaking Aryl’s heart.

He understood now how much it hurt.

“My lord,” he managed at last. “May I ask-” before he could get the question out, several soldiers and Haradrim men came crashing into the square, almost knocking into Eshati and his daughter.

The Haradrim were all shouting, and the Gondorian soldiers were grimly quiet, hauling along what seemed to be… one of them.

They had a footman bound in irons and struggling to pull away from the firm grip of his fellows, and a woman, unveiled and silently weeping, trailed along with them.

A crowd was gathering behind, of mostly women, and the few men, mostly elders, who were not drafted to the war.

Aragorn stood, calling for quiet in Haradric. 

Grudgingly, the men following behind fell silent, turning their wrath now on the king, who stepped away from his seat to walk among them. 

“What happened here?” he asked, addressing the grim faced soldiers who were hauling the apparent criminal along with them. “What is his name?”

“This is Maelorost. He assaulted a woman,” one said with a grim shrug, a motion that nearly toppled the prisoner. “Didn’t get far, but this is building into a riot.”

Aragorn turned to the stunned woman who had been trailing behind, and extended a hand, as if to put it on her shoulder, but apparently thought better of it. He spoke again, this time in Haradric, much to the evident shock of the closest men to the heart of the chaos. He asked if she was hurt, and the woman shook her head and cast her eyes to the ground in shame.

Her face was beginning to show a bruise.

She pointed toward the captive, muttering something that Faramir thought must have translated to “my veil.”

Aragorn glanced back and his face hardened with anger. “A moment,” he told her, and snatched a piece of colorful silk that had previously been hidden from sight in Maelorost’s hands.

She hurriedly took it and turned away once more to cover her hair and face.

The guards moved as if to strike their prisoner, but Aragorn put out his arm. “No,” he said. “He will stand trial, and then… should he be found guilty, he will be put to death.”

Maelorost’s defiance crumbled for a moment as a look of shock overtook him. “What?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. It did not last long, though, and fury found a new hold on him as he strained against his chains. “I thought you would protect your own people,” he yelled, struggling toward Aragorn, who looked unconcerned about the feeble threat the chained man represented.

Faramir stood and approached, doing his best to hold himself tall next to the king and not to disgrace them all by appearing weak. “It was never your place to presume to know the mind of the king, and even less now that you have betrayed him, but I will explain it to you now so that you can know your death will indeed protect all of Gondor.” He took a breath. “Your actions will stir unrest with the people of Harad, who will hate us now more than ever, and if we leave you alive for this action, more soldiers will die and the war will continue because the people will have found their spirit again in hating all of the sons of Numenor."

"Even more pressing is the debt you owe this one," Aragorn motioned to the woman, who still had her back turned. A gray haired man, presumably her father, had wrapped his arms around her protectively, and was glaring venomously at the Gondorians. "You owe her your life, and I will see that debt paid."

“And what of the men who took my wife, dishonored her, and left her rotting on the ground for the birds? What of them?” he demanded.

“Eru knows,” Aragorn said, his eyes still turned toward the shaking woman. “And they will be cursed for all days, even to the end, if they do not meet their justice in this life. But this is no longer about you. You threw that away when you involved an innocent woman.”

“Don’t bother with the trial,” Maelorost said bitterly. “Just kill me now, then, and see the efficacy of your curses. I confess, you have me.”

Faramir glanced sidelong at Aragorn, whose face had not shifted from a grim expression that the Steward could not read.

“Very well. Know also that I do this as a mercy for you, that you will not pay for your crime twice, and so have hope to see your wife again in the next life. Farewell.”

Faramir, bowed his head.

They would have to clear the square, and prepare witnesses for the death, which would take at least a day, and he was uncertain that such preparations would be acceptable to the Haradrim; by their laws, such a transgression was meant to be paid on the very same day it occurred.

A sudden motion in the corner of his vision made Faramir flinch back, startled as if something or someone meant to strike him. 

Apparently many others had the same reaction, jerking away instinctively as a splash of red spread across the stones.

“Go in peace, disgraced son of Gondor,” Aragorn said, standing above the fallen head of Maelorost, Anduril gripped firmly in his hand, the blade glittering scarlet.

Chapter Text

Shocked silence reigned over the square for but a moment until the Haradrim began cheering.

"Fetch a cloth, Faramir," Aragorn said softly, barely audible above the roar of the crowd. 

The Steward took a stumbling step back before turning away and shaking himself. He had seen bodies before, and death, repeatedly in fact, and he had seen executions, but never had he seen Aragorn, nor any nobles for that matter, take it to themselves to be the executioner.

It had been so clean and sudden.

Maelorost had no time to realize his death was upon him, even having requested it.

A distant, cold part of himself had to marvel at the precision of such a cut, to slip between the bones in the neck without resistance. Aragorn truly was a master swordsman, and Anduril a master blade.

He took a rag from the tent he had been staying in and began the walk back, paying it no more heed than he had on the way there. If asked to recount how he had gotten the cloth, Faramir would have no answer.

The king wordlessly accepted the cloth and cleaned Anduril almost as if he were comforting the blade before sheathing it once more. "Take the body outside the walls, set a pyre, and there burn it," he said at last. "Hang the shackles over the gate to the square as a warning to the rest." He turned, blade sheathed once more, toward Faramir and set a gentle hand against the Steward’s forehead. “You have a fever,” he said, his frown deepening. “You ought to lay down.”

The sudden change in the king was almost as jarring as the speed of the execution; where a moment ago had been a frigid steel and ferocity was warmth and gentleness. He was a healer again so soon after embodying death. 

Faramir could not bring himself to protest as Aragorn led him away from the gristly scene they left behind them. He had expected that Aragorn would lead him to his uncle’s tent, to lie down and rest again, but instead he found himself sitting under a wide awning in an abandoned corner of the city after a long, silent walk.

“It’s just as I remember,” Aragorn said suddenly, shattering the quiet.

“You’ve been here before?” Faramir asked, surprised.

“In my youth,” the king said with a nod as he studied the wall. “Long ago. There was a spring here, once, hidden and kept by the family that used to live in this house, but they seem to have gone.”

“And the spring?”

“That is what I want to find out,” Aragorn said, nodding absentmindedly and running his fingers over the bricks. “Or was it inside?” he muttered to himself. His expression cleared a moment later and he pressed the broken door open, snapping a board inside as he did.

A couple of startled yelps alerted the two of them that they were not alone.

A young boy dashed across the room, throwing his arms wide in front of two younger girls, huddled together and quaking in the corner.

They all had eyes as blue as Rohan’s open skies, and the deep brown hair and tawny skin of the Haradrim.

“Children of slaves?” Faramir asked in a whisper.

“Yes.” Aragorn knelt immediately, smiling in a disarming way. He took the canteen from his belt and held it out. “Thirsty?” he asked in their own tongue.

The little boy glared at him suspiciously and snatched the canteen, retreating quickly, presumably to avoid being grabbed, and handed the bottle to the two girls who must have been his sisters.

The older one gave most of the water to the youngest, took a little for herself, and handed the rest back to the brother, who took a few sips, but gave the last back to the oldest sister again.

“Do you want more?” Aragorn asked, still speaking in Haradric. 

The older brother took the canteen back, and tossed it across the gap to Aragorn, who caught it deftly. “How?” the boy asked suspiciously.

Aragorn moved past them, motioning Faramir to follow, and deeper into the house. 

There was a wall built up over what once had been a doorway, and the king had no trouble kicking through the old, powdery mortar. 

This startled the children, who shrank back again, frightened once more, but neither Numenorean took any steps closer to them, so they calmed quickly.

There was something of a tunnel behind the wall, carved into sandstone.

There had been a rise of rock there the size of a mountain, hundreds, if not thousands of years ago, and the oldest buildings of Salek had been built against it, some of them even carved into the sides, and the city had grown around it.

Aragorn had to stoop down quite far to fit, and Faramir, even being several inches shorter and a good deal thinner than he ought to have been, still felt compressed and cramped on all sides as he followed, ducking to avoid the stone ceiling.

All at once the tunnel opened into a round and verdant cave, with a hole at the top letting sunlight down into the center to refract across the surface of turquoise water at the top of a deep well. There were plants and birds in the cave, and vines climbing the wall that kept the air cool despite the late afternoon heat in the desert outside.

A few, small cries of astonishment alerted Faramir to the fact that the children had followed behind.

Aragorn knelt and refilled his canteen, motioning for the Steward to sit on a rock near the water’s edge. “A grim day,” he said as the younger man settled down onto the stony seat. “But a necessary one.”

Faramir nodded, unsure of what to say. “...Such days remind me of home,” he managed at last. “Not in their bitterness, but… in the contrast.”

“Recent night makes dawn seem the brightest part of the day,” Aragorn agreed, taking his cup from where it hung on his belt. He plucked up a few of the plants and crushed them between his fingers before adding them to the cup, and poured a powder from a cloth bag he’d taken from a pocket into the mixture as well. He filled the mug with the canteen and set it into the sun before topping off his water supply and returning the cork to the bottle neck.

“We’ll have to go back eventually,” Faramir ventured as the children began cautiously to step into the open from the tunnel.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed, his gray eyes soft as he watched the three of them splash at the edge of the well. “Especially after what has happened.”

Faramir's eyes fell to the ground as he remembered the single, savage movement that had killed a man just minutes ago, and some distant part of himself wondered when such sudden violence would be turned on him. 

It was inevitable wasn’t it? After all, his own father hadn’t even seen fit to protect him from his failures. One day he would disappoint Aragorn, too, but at least the consequences would be just and humane.

Faramir shook himself firmly, a stern voice in his mind insisting that he was harder on himself than anyone else, and that such violence would be reserved for criminals , not failures. 

“Is everything alright in there?” Aragorn asked dryly, snapping the Steward out of his thoughts.

He felt his face relax and realized he must have been wearing his disquiet on his expression. “I’m alright,” Faramir assured him.

“I didn’t think you could get any more pale, but here I have seen you turn suddenly grey,” Aragorn said, almost teasingly, and then added, “Wait just a little longer, the tea is almost ready.”

“What are we going to do with these children?” Faramir asked, changing the subject away from his unwanted thoughts. “They are too young to leave on their own.”

“Their parents are most likely dead,” Aragorn agreed. “I will do my best to earn their trust, and bring them home to the West. I don’t intend to make them; they will only see us as slavers of a different shade if we do, but living here… I don’t expect they will last long at all.” He tilted his head, eyes soft as he gazed toward the water’s edge. A new light entered his stony eyes and he shifted his attention back to Faramir, who had to resist the urge to fidget nervously under the intense gaze. “Perhaps I will put you in charge of that task.”

“Me?” Faramir asked, initially taken aback. 

It seemed a sensitive enough situation that someone like Imrahil, who had his own children might be better suited for it.

“Yes,” Aragorn said levelly. “Unless you do not wish to?”

“No,” Faramir protested immediately. “I’m honored- I just… did not think I was well suited.”

“You’re shorter than me, and have a lighter frame, closer to the size they would expect from an adult of this land, and you’re soft-spoken, naturally, and gentle favored. I can be gentle, but it is a mantle I don for the use of it, and not the inborn bend of my spirit, as I see it in your own,” he explained. “And selfishly, I will worry for you less if you are here, where it will be cooler, and the work lighter.”

Faramir gazed at Aragorn in abject confusion, trying to work out for himself how any of what Aragorn had said was selfish.

Before the Steward could unravel that mystery, the King reached over to the mug in the sunlight and handed it to Faramir. “Drink that,” he ordered. 

It was bitter, but the Steward had tasted far worse on far more occasions, and downed it without complaint or reaction.

“We will give it some time to take effect, and return to the square for luncheon,” Aragorn said consideringly. “Eomer is often around at that time, and I know Eowyn wants to see you.”

Faramir looked away sharply.

Nothing so easily revealed a secret desire as having it forbidden from granting.

“Is there something wrong?” Aragorn asked.

“Not at all,” Faramir said hurriedly, and the King squinted at him, unconvinced. “...It shouldn’t be, at any rate,” the Steward amended as the scrutiny landed on him.

“So there is something wrong?” Aragorn prompted again, raising an eyebrow at him.

“It is best left for another time,” Faramir said evasively, his eyes drifting away from the piercing gaze of the other man. He dearly hoped Aragorn would forget about it.

“Very well,” the King conceded, though he did not sound pleased to let it go so easily.

They sat in silence a little longer, watching the children splash about in the shallows and try to climb the tall palms that were reaching for the sunlight streaming in from above.

Aragorn at last was the one to break the silence as he stood, stretching. “You’re looking better already,” he said. “Your color has improved. Do you feel well enough to join the others for luncheon?”

Faramir almost scrambled to his feet. “Yes, my lord. I think I could finish the day with you, if it was your will,” he added hurriedly.

Aragorn shook his head and began down the tight tunnel to the no-longer-quite-abandoned house on the other side, motioning the Steward to follow. “No, I think not,” he said. “You ought to rest here, and perhaps bring some food to these little ones.”

“I will, then,” Faramir said as he stooped down. 

It was comforting to think he could still be useful to the King, at least, rather than giving up duty entirely for yet another afternoon.

The square, when they reached it, was in a state of very carefully managed chaos, almost alike to a hive of bees that has not yet decided the approaching bear is a threat, but highly suspects it is.

There was still a significant pool of blood on the flagstones, and a trail leading away where Maelorost was executed.

There were more guards about than there had been, and still crowds of Haradrim, pointing at the blood and sharing the story of how it came to be.

His death, at least, served, yet the cost was too high , Faramir thought passing the excitement by in somber silence. That some good can come of an evil should never be cause enough to allow such depravity. He shook his head, and glanced forward at Aragorn, whose face had returned to a grim-set at the reminder. He got the feeling they were harboring very similar thoughts.

Imrahil was standing near the makeshift desk where the King usually worked, and directing the other lords who had come along with their soldiers, and none of them were relaxed. Hands sat atop sword pommels, brows were furrowed, and dark looks passed between them. 

Eomer and Eowyn were a part of the circle, and the Horselord’s arms were crossed, a deep frown over his face.

The prince of Dol Amroth brightened and pointed toward them, visibly relaxing. Most of the men with him also seemed relieved as they spotted Aragorn and his Steward, including the two Rohirrim.

“There they are,” Faramir heard Imrahil say. “There is no need for drastic measures.”

“No indeed,” Aragorn agreed. “I apologize for my sudden egress. It was necessary to take a moment away from the crowd.”

“I heard what happened, my lord,” Eowyn said, curtseying politely to the king, though her eyes were on Faramir. “We were worried when no one could find you that something had happened.”

“Something has happened,” Aragorn said, gesturing to the crowd around the bloodstain.

“Something more,” Eowyn clarified, a displeased frown flitting across her expression. “You are both alright then, I trust?”

“Better than expected,” Aragorn replied. “Faramir is still recovering from the effects of serpent venom.”

Her eyes were still on the Steward and her body turned to follow, facing him completely so that Faramir knew for certain that she was now addressing him and him alone. She curtsied deeply, lowering her eyes for just a moment. “Welcome back, my lord.”

Aragorn and Eomer exchanged meaningful, pleased looks and the knot in Faramir’s stomach tightened.

“I saw you,” Faramir said, pushing the feeling aside, and directing his attention entirely toward Eowyn. “And Windfola, on the dunes.”

“I wish I had found you then,” she said sadly, stepping closer. “So much time was lost.”

“That is not your fault,” he assured her. “It is because of you that I was not found and again captured when I collapsed.”

“You collapsed?” she asked, wringing her hands agitatedly. 

“I was given something to make me sleep, and could not entirely fight through it,” he admitted, feeling weak by his inability to overcome the drug they had given him then.

“To fight through such a thing at all…” she said, grabbing her arms in a gesture of self-comfort that made Faramir feel guilty for troubling her. “You are strong, my lord.”

The Steward struggled to find the words to answer her, but his mind simply kept circling through her words.

Eowyn , Shield-Arm of Rohan, slayer of the Witch King, beautiful and wild, thought he was strong.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, and flinched as Eomer’s hand landed on his shoulders.

“Let us gather for a meal,” the Horselord said merrily, half dragging Faramir away.

The Steward would have protested if he could have gotten his voice to work, and if Eowyn were not laughing and smiling again, as she was, and following them.

Faramir’s face was hot with embarrassment and perhaps something else, as he had quite forgotten that the two kings were present at all for their conversation, but more importantly-

Eowyn had called him strong.

Chapter Text

Cloven hooves pounded across the sand, in a muffled tattoo, sending up clouds of the fine dust and silt into the air that glittered in the early morning desert sunlight, and shimmered with the haze of the heat. 

Behind one rider were another five, all on camels. The five behind had weapons raised as they raced after the rider in front as he closed in on the gates into Salek.

There was no opportunity for violence.

The gates slid down behind all six, and they found themselves surrounded by Gondorians with polearms, just waiting for a reason to strike.

Five scimitars fell to the ground in surrender as the gravity of the situation became suddenly clear to the Haradrim warriors who had been chasing the messenger that had delivered to their Chief a dead serpent.

Merethir, the messenger in question, slid off the back of his camel and tossed away the turban and the cloths hiding his face and shoulders from the sun, which had not long ago hidden his identity from the nobles of Harad. He raised a hand to point to the nearest guard, who seemed surprised to find a Gondorian under all the Haradric garb. “Inform the king of my return. I need to speak with him-- and urgently, at that.”

The guard he had indicated seemed to hesitate. “What name should I give?” he asked, uncertainty clear in his voice.

“Captain Merethir of the Ithilien Rangers,” the messenger said, a cocky grin spreading over his face.

Recognition dawned on the other man and he nodded, turning away immediately as the other guards began to bind the hands of the captured Haradrim.

Merethir turned to examine the men who had been pursuing him just minutes prior.

They were all glaring defiantly out, but he could see the tell-tale signs of nervousness in their eyes and trembling hands, and the thin sheen of sweat over their faces, but then, it was very hot. 

He would not mock them for fearing to be captured by such a powerful force. Instead, he smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I suspect the five of you will be making the ride back to Umbar very soon.”

They didn’t seem to understand him, but the name of their capital caught their attention, and alarm flashed across their faces for just a moment.

Ah, right , he thought, and then. Oh, well.  

Lord Aragorn spoke Haradric well enough. 

They would understand soon.

Aragorn was standing over a map, studying the terrain around Umbar again, as once more, Faramir reviewed their supplies, morale of the various armies they had brought, and revised his predictions of how long they could afford to be away from Gondor, as well as how long the army would last under the present strain of occupying enemy territory.

Time was not with them, but neither was it with the forces of Harad.

He chewed his lip, trying to memorize every line, and apply it to what he remembered of Umbar from his youth. 

A lot could change in forty years.

The terrain would probably be mostly the same, but that wasn’t enough to save lives if it came down to one last battle.

He hoped it wouldn’t; it would be unwise for Harad to even attempt a skirmish now, with their armies scattered, messages disrupted, trade crippled, and one of their major water sources completely captured.

“My lord,” Faramir said, and he realized it was not the first attempt his Steward had made to get his attention.

Aragorn lifted his head.

Faramir gestured to a soldier who held his helmet in hand, a respectful distance away, his hair mussed and messy from his armor.

“Captain Merethir is back, sire, and he is requesting to speak with you,” the man said. “He claims it is an urgent matter.”

The Steward’s eyes sharpened with immediate interest; Merethir was one of his men.

Relief flooded through him and he bounded over to Faramir, taking the younger man by the shoulders. “This is what I have been waiting for,” he said, and turned back to the guard. “He was followed, I presume.”

“Yes, your majesty,” the man responded, slight bewilderment entering his tone.

“Let them go. They do not need to speak with me to know that I have taken this city entirely,” Aragorn said. “And bring the captain to me.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man said, bowing deeply.

“Merethir is here ?” Faramir asked, breaking his stunned silence as the soldier moved away, though he sounded less than pleased. “I suppose he would be.”

“The war will be over in a matter of days,” Aragorn assured him, turning back to the map he was studying, though he was hardly looking at it. “I can feel it.”

“So easily?” The Steward’s brows lowered yet further. “It doesn’t feel real. It cannot be; I shall awaken in my bed and find it was all a dream- and not the good kind, either.”

“Not easily at all. There was the siege for Salek, and several smaller battles between our forces and theirs that took more casualties for the heat than for Harad’s might, just in getting here. Our enemy was broken already, worked to the very brink of extinction under Sauron; there are more orphans than adults to care for them, more women than will ever find husbands here,” Aragorn said gently. He took a moment to study the stormy expression on the younger man’s face, and felt his own forehead crease in return.

The look on that young face seemed to be some mixture of doubt and guilt.

“What thoughts trouble you?” Aragorn asked, barely able to keep himself from calling Faramir ‘my son.’ 

“Only one man needed to have died,” he said, almost so softly that the king couldn’t hear him.

Aragorn could hear his own father’s response to such a statement.

“Foolishness,” Elrond would have said. “Do you not know the gravity of your own station?”

Aragorn shook his head to dispel the thought and opted for a gentler tactic. “What do you suppose would have happened had I not repaid their treachery with blood?”

“You would have taken the border, and secured it with crushing force. I would have died in their midst, in torment,” Faramir replied, growing a little pale at the thought of it.

That is the expression of someone who has seen torture , Aragorn thought grimly.

“And they would have been justified in their opinion of the West, that Gondorians are merciless, dishonorable bastards who would leave their own to ignoble death, and in seeing that, redoubled their efforts to reclaim lands they believe they have every right to, lands that have been under contest for milenia. The war would have dragged on out of pure spite until the people of Harad could never recover. Gondor would be victorious, but the toll would be incalculable,” Aragorn explained. “You are one man, yes, but you represent all of Ithilien, the rangers, the royal bloodlines of all Gondor, and even of Arnor. You are her Steward, Faramir.” Your father should have made your worth clear to you at a far younger age. “Your fate cascades like water through the sea, until all shall feel it, though they know not why they tremble in the current.”

“Would that all men could be so valued,” Faramir said dully. His expression had not changed.

“Were it solely my choice, I would so avenge the lives of every soldier that fell, every child that passed in the night, and every mother whose voice was stilled in this wicked war,” Aragorn agreed, feeling his jaw tighten just thinking of the hopelessness that had filled so many, and the look of despair on his mother’s own face when she passed. “Your rank -and mine- represents those lives. As best as we are able, we shall make right what was wrong. Live well then, Steward of Gondor, and help me to lead our people into a golden age.”

He nodded slowly, but Aragorn suspected not all his meaning had taken root yet, and they would need to speak more on the matter later. 

In the meantime, there was work to be done, and Aragorn could see Imrahil approaching with the other generals.

No doubt, they had heard the news that Merethir had returned from his mission to deliver the headless snake.

He clasped hands with the lord of Dol Amroth, and they exchanged pleasant greetings with each other, though they were undercut with tension.

“I won’t waste your time, sire,” Imrahil said at last, and the king knew they had reached the heart of the issue. “The lords want to know if we will be marching on Umbar,” he said slowly, gazing intently at the other man.

Aragorn took a moment to consider before he responded.

Imrahil was not merely asking because he was curious; the generals must have been uneasy.

“It is not my intent to further the war without due cause. We have recovered Lord Faramir, and if they surrender, no further action is required,” he assured them, and could see some among them relaxed hearing his words. 

Imrahil, however, frowned. “My lord, if I may, waiting for a response gives them the chance to catch us here, and while I believe this position is defensible to some degree, we will be closing ourselves in with their own forces.”

Aragorn nodded once.

It was true, engaging in a second siege would be disastrous unless they stooped to the sort of brutality Gondor had come to expect from Harad, but the king was unwilling to make his soldiers into monsters. The generals of Harad may well assume that and avoid a siege altogether, but it was not a gamble they could afford to take.

 Unfortunately, though, leaving was also unideal; the desert had already claimed the lives of too many soldiers, who had cooked in their armor, and giving up a ready source of water would only guarantee the deaths of more. 

Still, facing the cruelty of the sun and sand would be better than engaging in battle at Salek.

He found himself wishing that Gandalf were present; the old wizard always seemed to know just what to do. 

What does your heart tell you ? 

“We must leave Salek,” Aragorn decided. “In two days time. They shall not find us where they expect.”

“Then we march on Umbar after all?” Imrahil asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“No,” the king said with a shake of his head. “There’s an outcropping of stone between Salek and Umbar, wide enough for an army, and often their forces train there, away from the sand. We will meet them there, in whatever manner they decide.”

“And if their forces are gathered there already?” Imrahil asked uneasily.

“We’ll take them by surprise. We will travel at night to avoid the heat, and light no torches. We must prepare immediately; spread the word, Imrahil,” Aragorn clapped the lord of Dol Amroth on the shoulder and took a step away. “Do not tell anyone when we are to depart, merely have them ready at any time.” He did not want anyone managing to send a message ahead of their departure to warn Umbar.

Imrahil and the other generals bowed and excused themselves to begin their preparations, and Aragorn found Faramir staring at him, that same, cloudy expression over the Steward’s face.

“What about the children?” he asked. 

“They may wish to come with us,” Aragorn suggested.

“A battlefield is no place for ones so young,” Faramir protested.

“They’ll only be slaves if they remain,” the king said, eyebrows lifting slightly.

A pause settled between them, until at last, the younger man said, rather hesitantly, “they may not…”

“Yes, they might starve instead,” Aragorn said dryly. 

“I’ll offer,” Faramir decided heavily. “I won’t force them.”

“No,” Aragorn agreed. “Of course not.” He paused again, studying the son of his heart and had made up his mind to question his Steward on what was bothering him so deeply, but a voice called to them from across the sun-lit square, under the brightly colored awnings.

“Aragorn!” Eomer yelled, crossing swiftly to the other king, who sighed heavily and set the matter aside for later.

Eowyn followed closely behind her brother, though her eyes were on Faramir. A thin smile settled itself on her lips as she positioned herself beside the Steward, which was, as far as Aragorn was concerned, right where she belonged.

“Eomer,” Aragorn greeted, offering his hand, which the horse-lord clapped warmly with a firm grip. 

“Men are packing as if to go home,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Surely you are not giving in?”

“No,” Aragorn assured him. “Merely controlling the field. Your Rohirim will have the advantage if you are still with us.”

“Until Harad surrenders or falls. Too many of my people they have taken as slaves.” Eomer’s blue eyes glinted with a dangerous light. “Vengeance has been long coming. The riders will be made ready. When do we leave?” 

“I would rather keep that knowledge from the citizens of Salek. As far as your men are concerned, I will leave that to your discretion, but know that Gondor marches in two days’ time,” Aragorn advised, couching his words in the guise of a suggestion to respect Eomer’s authority as king of Rohan; it would do neither of them any good to perceive Aragorn as stepping into the ruling seat of a country not his own.

“They will be ready to ride at any time in the next week,” Eomer promised, and the king of Gondor repressed a sigh of relief.

Subtlety was never the strong-suit of the lords of Rohan, it seemed, except perhaps where the heart was concerned.

Aragorn’s eyes settled again on Lady Eowyn, who was speaking quietly to Lord Faramir, looking as comfortable and at ease as she might in her own court, as if there were nothing at all odd about being half-dressed in men’s attire, hair braided for war, half-way across the world and surrounded only by sand and curses. He supposed that, for her, it was the most natural thing in the world.

He could understand, in a way. His pursuit of Arwen- of the unity of Gondor and Arnor - had led him as well to the blood-stained sands of Harad

“Windfola hates it here,” Eowyn was saying, as her brother made his way to issue commands to their riders. “The sand, the heat. I think she misses Rohan more than I do.”

“Oh?” Faramir asked, tilting his head slightly, his earlier storminess all but evaporated. “Do you not miss your home?” he asked.

“You’re going to think I’m silly,” the lady said with a laugh, her gaze dancing away from the Steward’s face to the sky, the ground, to meet Aragorn’s eyes as he watched them. “But I miss Gondor, I think.”

Aragorn bowed, muttered an excuse, and turned away to let them have their time together. That was something else he would have to discuss with Eomer, but now was not the time. For now, there was a ring in his pocket weighing heavy on his heart.

Merethir was waiting nearby. “You’re not going to speak with the prisoners?” he asked as Aragorn approached.

“What is there to say? They have seen that Salek fell to us, that her streets are guarded by Gondorians, and her stables full of the wild Rohirrim.” The king chuckled to himself. “In releasing them alive and well, they will know there is room for diplomacy. I do not need to waste more breath on the matter. They will either surrender within the week, or fall within the year.”

“I shall pray that wisdom remains in this land, then,” Merethir said dryly. “Though I can hardly hope for it.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow at the other man. “As far as they know, we killed their god,” he pointed out. 

“A desperate animal fights the hardest,” the ranger countered.

Aragorn inclined his head in a silent acknowledgement. “That may be,” he said finally. “But I will hope for all our sakes.”

Chapter Text

It was Faramir who first spotted the white banners over the bright horizon, coming up above the sand and the camels from the south-east, beneath the rising sun. 

There were five riders, each carrying a flag of truce, and armed lightly with scimitars, but no polearms among them. 

The Steward considered warning his king about the weapons, but they would be in view soon enough, and five scimitars would do very little against seven-thousand, between the men of Gondor and Rohan’s combined might- and plenty had stayed behind to guard the borders while the war-force was away.

“Imrahil,” Aragorn said, shading his eyes against the morning as he gazed toward the approaching party. “Bring the swan knights forward on both flanks. They shall ride into our midst and be surrounded. Let no man loose his blade, unless they betray us.”

“The first blood will be theirs,” one of the generals cut in, still squinting against the sun.

“There are only five,” Imrahil assured him, gazing unhindered into the morning’s radiance as he moved away to issue new orders to his riders. “They won’t have time to do more than cause injury.”

“Why give them even that chance?” the same man asked, and Aragorn answered.

“To be beyond reproach,” he said. “If we are gentle and they repay viciousness, then our men have all justification in reprisal.” The king tilted his head. “We must not become that which is most hated, or Gondor will be lost as surely as if Sauron had taken back the ring.”

Faramir resisted the urge to look back. He wouldn’t be able to see Eowyn, or the three children they had brought with over the heads of the man soldiers, but he hoped they knew his thoughts were with them.

Imrahil returned and took his place behind Aragorn, who rode just a little advanced from the lines behind him, and waited for the Haradrim to cross the sand and meet them on the rugged sandstone outcropping.

“We are come to speak,” called the man at the front of the five camel-riders. He was dressed in white and purple, and there was a blue stone set into his turban.

He must have been a prince.

“The second son,” Aragorn muttered, low enough that Faramir thought only Imrahil must have also heard. “I would rather have speech than bloodshed. Come, and let us treat with each other,” he called, more loudly so that the approaching diplomats could hear. “Our weapons will remained sheathed so long as yours do.”

“The weapons we carry are for our own lives, should we fail to save Umbar further humiliation,” the prince explained, an odd look passing over his face.

“Then I pray for your sakes that your masters have chosen wisely,” Aragorn replied, his tone somewhat cold, but not insincere. 

“Would you be that kind, to set up a-” the prince hesitated. “ Dinwalli? Somewhere to speak in private.”

“A pavilion,” Aragorn supplied, nodding to the man behind him in an unspoken order.

Troops parted and preparations began to make camp.

Faramir glanced between the two groups that had formed- the diplomats engaged in tense, polite conversation while they waited, and the many men setting up tents and pavilions and supply stations, not sure which he should join.

Imrahil caught his eye with an intense gaze and mouthed ‘stay ,’ making up the Steward’s mind for him, which was a relief.

“We have words for you,” the prince of Harad was saying. “We think you will find them favorable, but they must be given in- in- to be discreet” he finished, frowning as the words defied him. He shot a meaningful glance toward Faramir and the other generals. “To be discreet,” he said again.

Aragorn tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at them. “You wish to have the King of Gondor and Arnor alone with five armed strangers?” he asked, his tone barely containing incredulity.

Faramir felt his expression darken.

The camel-riders hesitated, exchanging worried looks. 

“Very well,” Aragorn said, a good natured, yet dangerous smile spreading over his face. “I accept.”

“For showing our good spirit, I will take only two with me,” the prince said, tugging at his sleeves. “For I think I fear you more than you fear me.”

“Wisdom rides with you,” Aragorn said, nodding his approval. With a tug of the reins, he turned Roheryn into a turn to look back. “It seems our place is secured. Pick your men and we shall have water together in the shade.”

“You are that gracious,” the prince said, dismounting his camel. 

Faramir grit his teeth. He wanted to go with, to sit in behind Aragorn as a spare hand and an extra sword in case of perfidy, and yet he also knew that three men should stand no chance against the wielder of Narsil reforged.

Still… war was random, and luck was cruel.

Anxiety gnawed at him as the four men vanished into the pavilion, leaving Roheryn and three camels loose outside, eyeing each other malevolently. 

Other men were pacing, and the expression on Imrahil’s face was beginning to grow sour. “Hush,” he snapped at last, startling Faramir and several others.

Tense stillness fell over the men close enough to hear, and Faramir became suddenly aware that in the resultant quiet, he could hear the conversation coming from the tent.

“You must no more speak that title. You were mistaken,” Aragorn said sternly. 

Faramir glanced at Imrahil, whose troubled expression told him that the lord of Dol Amroth was also listening.

“I will still accept him as the price for peace, him and all the men of the west enslaved in Umbar to Gondor,” the king continued.

“All the slaves?” the prince returned with a gasp. “Our economy-”

“If your economy is built on the backs of my people, bent and whipped for their toil, and hated for their heritage, then it does not deserve to stand. I am not without sympathy for your people, but I cannot, will not prioritize your people over the welfare of my own.” Aragorn’s tone was hard, and brooked no argument. “Those are my terms. The choice is yours.”

“You would make me choose between one collapse or another,” the prince objected.

“All the more reason to save face here, give into us and give up all the slaves, not merely the men of Gondor and Rohan. Should you do this I will open trade and travel through Gondor.”

Faramir winced. 

Opening the borders so soon after a war was just asking for trouble.

The terms given made it highly unlikely, but he could not approve of such a decision, even still. 

He would uphold it, if necessary. He would not fail at his duty. Not again , he told himself. I won’t fail again.

“I do not have the authority to make such a decision,” the prince of Harad said, and Aragorn cut in immediately.

“But you must have some to negotiate with me,” Aragorn said flatly.

Faramir could hear the shuffle of fabric and metal from within the pavilion, and thought someone must have stood.

“I could give you your Gondorim, and your Rohanim. I could even promise to release my own slaves, and beg your mercy on my people. I could release the slaves of every man sworn to me and it would not be enough,” the haradric noble said, sounding grieved.

“And what of your fighting force? How many able bodied men are left to keep those slaves in check? They will hear very soon that we have passed through. They will know you are crippled and they will not be kept. The spirit of the west is not so easily broken,” the king said.

The prince laughed. “Very true, lord, very true. It seems to be disaster up or down. So I will choose up, and perhaps we will not fall as far as choosing to die.”

“A wise choice,” Aragorn said, his voice beginning to thaw.

“Please understand that I am not…permitted to negotiate. This talk, these ways, they are secret. To save face, I am here to negotiate for further talks, but in practice, I can only say so much. You must be understanding the discreet now, yes?” the prince asked.

“What guarantee do I have that any of my terms will be met?” Aragorn asked, the ice returning to his demeanor.

Faramir glanced at Imrahil; his uncle looked troubled.

“I would give you the clothes off my back if it would convince you. If you will only go now, you will have your price after the formal talks. Let my people save face, and you can have your-” he hesitated. “-Your nameless man now.”

Aragorn lowered his voice.

Faramir could not hear any more of their conversation, and his stomach tied itself up in knots as he worried about the negotiations going on inside. He considered stepping closer, but even with his sharp hearing, it would soon become obvious that he was eavesdropping. He shook his head, deciding against it. He had not meant to be listening in at first, and would not make the decision to do so now. He glanced again at his uncle, who seemed still to be listening.

The horse he was on turned his head, as if sensing his unease, and gazed at him, eyes reflecting anxiety back at his rider. It danced and shied, and Faramir struggled for a moment to regain control, but settled his mount soon enough. It only served to make him miss Astaren. 

“My lord,” said a soft voice that was almost musical in quality. “The other men have dismounted. Camp is settled, and it will soon be time to eat.” Eowyn was standing, looking up at him with a soft smile on her face, her nose and cheeks kissed pink by the sun. “Would you break bread with me?” 

“Yes,” he said, heart lifting for only a moment before he remembered that Aragorn had a match for him in mind. “I- no, I shouldn’t.”

The smile on her face faltered, but lingered for a moment, badly hiding what looked like- was that… heartbreak ? It couldn’t have been. It must have been mere disappointment, which was bad enough.

“But why not?” she asked. “Surely there is nothing wrong with taking a meal together.”

He slipped down from the horse’s back, and handed the reins off to the nearest soldier. “No,” he said hesitantly. “I… merely wish to be mindful of propriety.”

She stared at him hard for a long moment, her smile gone. Her eyes, blue as the sky, seemed sad, like sudden clouds had passed over her horizons, but the smile returned. “We are but friends, my lord. No one will fault you for that.”

He smiled as some form of relief filled him, even as his heart sank yet further. 

Eowyn only thought of him as a friend; Aragorn’s preferred match would not keep him from her, because there was nowhere for his heart to go. She would not be heartbroken to see him with another.

“I will introduce you to the children properly now,” he said. “They are very sweet, and I believe you will find them endearing. I want to make sure they are fed properly.”

“It will be easier with someone to translate,” she agreed, her smile spreading as they walked. “Though the youngest one seemed unbothered, even without understanding.”

“The language of your care is clear enough,” he assured her.

She looked at him sidelong. “I’m not so sure,” she said distantly. “Some people seem to miss it entirely.”

He nodded his agreement, half wondering about whom she spoke, and continued walking.

Aragorn emerged from the tent under Imrahil’s steady gaze, several hours after he had entered and suppressed a groan. “You heard all, then, Half-Elven?” he asked, keeping his tone low as he approached the prince of Dol Amroth.

The three Haradrim riders remounted their camels, and all five began to ride away, their white flags still held high.

Imrahil nodded grimly. “I heard enough, my lord,” he said. “Could it be true?”

“I do not see how,” Aragorn said gently. “I expect a robber, or a fool at best, who knows not what he had, whose life was saved by coincidence.” He set a hand on Imrahil’s shoulder and glanced about, almost furtively. “It is best that no one else knows, and especially not Faramir. Not at this time. How much did he hear?”

“I cannot know that,” Imrahil said, shaking his head tiredly. “But I think he does not know what you are keeping from him. He went away with Eowyn, and his ears are not quite as sharp as mine.”

Aragorn nodded, satisfied. He did not believe Faramir would have left so easily had he heard the matter in question.

“I do believe that the Valar could work such a miracle,” Imrahil said hesitantly.

“As do I,” Aragorn agreed. “But why here, and why now?”

“Gandalf…”

“Is of the Ishtari,” the king pointed out. “And his return was to save all the world from shadow.”

“Perhaps it is a reward?” Imrahil asked hopefully.

Aragorn was growing quickly tired of the subject, and his heart was sore, remembering how many good men had died in just the last year. 

There had been so little time for mourning.

“You will only have to grieve again,” he said brokenly, unable to look the other man in the eye, feeling all over again as if he were responsible for-

“Then let me grieve again,” Imrahil said suddenly. “Even if there is no real hope, then I shall savor the thought that he yet lives, if just is beyond reach.”

Aragorn nodded again and turned away. “A beautiful dream.”

“So is all of life,” said the prince of Dol Amroth. “And from it all of us will awaken some dream.”

“How very Elvish of you. Are you sure you take after your martial parent?” Aragorn teased half heartedly, weighed yet heavier by thoughts of his own half-elven parent.

“Very,” Imrahil said wryly. “Were I immortal, my body would not ache so when it rains.”

Aragorn chuckled, about to respond, but the lord was speaking again.

“What will you do when it is a farce?”

“If indeed he is a robber, put him on trial. If a fool, nothing at all.” He surveyed the camp with one hand shading his eyes.

“And if not?”

Aragorn winced, not quite sure how to answer. 

Imrahil waitied in patient silence as his king considered the problem, long and hard.

Aragorn’s hand slipped into his pocket, and his thumb rubbed over the crest on the signet ring, unbidden. 

It was heavy there.

The quiet stretched on, like the oppressive heat of the desert. On the dark, flat stone of the outcropping, the air was even hotter.

“I would not trust that no sorcery had defiled him. I would have him hooded until our return, to see Gandalf,” he decided at last, and then laughed. “In four day’s time we’ll be riding home, my friend.”

“There’s something to hope for,” Imrahil agreed.

Chapter Text

A serpent lay on black stone, burning in the light, and striking itself, bent back double  in agony. Again and again, its fangs pierced flesh, sharp as knives, more venomous than Shellob’s fell sting. It writhed, twitching, wracked with pain as an eagle looked on, disinterested.

Gray storm clouds lay across every far horizon, promising rain, promising the renewal of a ruined land, though not without hardship.

From afar, a sweet voice called, bell-like, and sighing as the sea.

“Ellessar! Ellessar! Isse samielde vanwa? Nanwe!”

He tried to call out to the cool wind blowing out of the west, “Tulin!” but his voice made no sound, for he was not there at all.

“Ellessar! Ellessar! Where have you vanished to? Return!”

“I come!”

The process of packing and readying to leave Harad for good had all the soldiers and generals in high spirits, but Aragorn was troubled. His dreams had been strange, and still he had the return of one prisoner weighing on him heavily, along with the ring in his pocket. He ate little for breakfast, and paced on the stones despite the rapidly growing heat.

Four days had passed since the diplomatic party had left them, and they expected at any moment that an escort could arrive. As soon as it did, the king would have his men depart for home.

He did not intend to linger long enough, or march slow enough that Harad could even possibly spring an ambush on them. It was a slim possibility, anyway, but he had no intention of feeding it with hesitation.

Faramir was occupied speaking with Eowyn, which suited Aragorn well, because he did not think he could meet the eyes of his Steward on such a day until he knew what precisely the Haradrim would deliver to him.

The morning passed by, and the afternoon lengthened almost into evening when at last the escort arrived, and as they had been instructed, the face of their prisoner was kept hidden.

The exchange was quiet.

The five men once again rode in with their white banners greeted and surrounded by Gondorians and Rohirrim.

They helped the man, his hands still bound, to dismount, and left again as quietly as they had come. He was tall and broad, and carried himself like both a warrior and a nobleman, and the bulk of his shape and its bear-like strength settled a doubt into the pit of Aragorn’s stomach.

Imrahil raised his voice to the Gondorians, followed swiftly by Eomer rallying the Rohirrim so the many armies began to move, leaving Aragorn a few minutes of precious space and privacy to approach the once-prisoner of Harad.

“Tell me your name,” the king ordered, startling the man, who, with a hood over his head, could not see.

“I know it not,” the prisoner said, with a voice that confirmed all of his worst fears.

Aragorn cut the ties on the nameless man’s wrists. “Do not yet remove the cloth,” he said, ignoring the nagging worry of what the heat would do to someone under such heavy cloth; a helmet was worse, and the troops were managing.

“May I ask… why?” the man said hesitantly, rubbing the imprints of the rope in his skin. “I have come to understand you are my liberation, and I wish only to respect the station of… whomever could have such power, and yet I wonder that my face must be hidden?” He was speaking cautiously, but there was also a surety behind him; if he received an unsatisfactory answer, there would be trouble.

Aragorn hesitated, and then set his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “You are right to. It is my fear that there is sorcery afoot, and your condition, without memory, is only another sign of it. Until I can be sure of all, you will be kept in secret and under guard.”

The man nodded, and his shoulders relaxed, though his fingers flexed with something like anxiety. “Sorcery?” he asked. “How am I to trust my own mind, then?”

“I don’t know if you can,” Aragorn admitted. “But I swear to you, I will keep you, and fight for your freedom and surety again.”

Silence settled between them. 

“This I trust,” the hooded man decided. “Though I know not why.”

“Good.” The king nodded. “It is time that we depart. You will ride a horse that shall be bound to mine.” He paused, and before he walked away, he added. “You are not to speak until I tell you.”

“Why should that matter?”

“Your identity must be hidden until it is certain that you are who you seem to be. If it is revealed prior to that, you may face scorn and doubt to the end of your days, and if you are not, then it will merely cause those who loved you to grieve again,” Aragorn said heavily.

The hooded man nodded. “I will keep my silence.”

The nameless man spent his days listening, as his silence gave him only that chance. He had since learned a good deal about his situation, some of which made him feel hopeful for a life free of whatever sorcery was frightening the king, whom he had learned was called Aragorn, but other details only seemed to add to his apprehensions.

They were going to see a powerful wizard named ‘Gandalf,’  someone who could destroy him were he truly undead, or tell truthfully if he were… someone dear, apparently.

The idea of being undead, a soulless puppet of evil magics, terrified him more than the thought of being destroyed, though the latter held its own type of dread also. 

Several days he thought the heat would make him ill, but always when they halted, the king made sure he was given shade, and water in private. 

He did not expect to be greeted one late evening, by another man.

“You can remove your hood,” said a voice that the nameless man had heard speak to Lord Aragorn many times. “I know your face with or without.”

He hesitated; the king had asked him to keep it on, except when he was alone. 

“You may also break your silence,” the man continued, his voice strained.

“Does the king know?” he asked, hesitantly reaching his hands up to pull at the rough hood.

“He does. You’re in no danger with me.”

Hearing this, the nameless man felt a weight lift from him, and tossed the hood aside.

Blue-gray eyes met his own gaze, and he found himself looking at a man who might have been much older than him, with streaks of gray running through his dark hair, yet his face defied the marks of age, and he bore no beard. He had a stern countenance, but there was a softness in his expression, and something like sorrow that lingered there. “You know me not,” he said.

The nameless man nodded. “And yet I think you know me,” he replied, glancing about the tent.
There were the usual two chairs set up for their use, and he gestured to them in a silent offer before lowering himself into one of the seats.

The sorrowed man took the chair across from him. “I am Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth,” he said, sitting. “How strange it is to introduce myself to you.”

“Would you tell me who I am?” he asked hopefully, and a look of pain crossed Imrahil’s face.

“I cannot,” the lord said, shaking his head. “Not until you have spoken to Gandalf.”

The nameless man’s heart fell to hear such words, but they made sense; it was best not to name the undead. He winced, not quite able to escape the sting of that last thought. “Why do you visit?” he asked.

“Because, even if you are not the one you appear to be, then I have a rare chance to say goodbye, to treat you now as if you are, and make peace with your death, your actual death, the way I never got to before.” Imrahil smiled then, but his eyes were still full of sorrow. “So many of my family have passed without farewell, without closure or comfort. How blessed I am now to have this chance.”

“I must admit that it is my hope not to die,” the nameless one said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I have wishes and desires I can make no sense of- for valor, and glory. To serve something far greater than myself.”

“You do not sound like one who is soulless,” Imrahil said softly.

“What do I sound like?”

“The man I knew.” He shook his head. “I must be patient.” The prince stood and turned away. “The hope is more painful than the grief,” he said, shoulders shaking in a way that  might have been pained amusement…or sobbing.

Imrahil did not visit again before they arrived in Gondor.

Aragorn did not linger to admire the sight of Minas Tirith rising up before him like a white spire from the emerald field of the Pelennor, nor did he slow his pace in the streets leading up to the highest circle of the city. He outpaced all but a few of those following his lead, until only five riders were able to keep up with him- one of those riders was tethered to Aragorn’s on horse so the separation was impossible. He dismounted in the courtyard before the throne room, leaving his entourage behind, and pushed the doors open to the throne room.

Court was apparently in session; a few men were standing at their seats, some of their faces were red with anger.

Gandalf stood glaring by the queen’s throne, where the queen herself sat in a gown the same shade as her starlit eyes.

Aragorn wanted to run to her, to kiss her and hold her after so long away at war in the desert, but his business was too urgent. “Mithrandir,” he said, almost breathlessly. “I bid you stay. The rest, disband,” he ordered.

A round of protests began, but Gandalf slammed his staff into the stone, letting a bright flash fill the room.

Nothing more needed to be said, and soon the hall was empty, except for the three of them; even the guards had left as ordered, which suited Aragorn well. 

“Gandalf I have need of your aid,” he said urgently, almost dashing back out the door. 

Outside, Faramir and the nameless man had dismounted, and Imrahil was preventing the other lords from dallying in the courtyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of the once-prisoner from Harad.

Eowyn and Eomer had remained mounted and were glancing about in confusion. “My lord,” Eowyn called. “What is happening here?”

“If you will indulge my silence but a little longer, my lady,” Aragorn says, paying her as much attention as he can spare. “I will explain what I can when it is done.” He turned to the man in the hood, and took his elbow to guide him through the thick doors.

Faramir took a few steps to follow, but Imrahil called out to him.

“Nephew,” said the Lord of Dol Amroth. “Stay.”

Faramir glanced between his king and his uncle, clearly torn between staying and going.

Eowyn dismounted to stand beside the Steward just as Aragorn pulled the doors shut behind him.

The king felt a pang of guilt, shutting out both of his closest advisors, but he steeled himself for the present situation. “I’m sorry to have kept you hidden for so long,” he says, helping the nameless man to undo the hood over his face.

Silence fell over them all.

“How can this be?” Arwen asked, rising from her throne, and daintily stepping down the stairs to the marble dais. “You told me that this man had passed.”

The nameless man gasped in wonder as she did. “How strange,” he said, voice breaking with emotion. “I had thought to see the thrones empty.” He wiped away tears and shook his head. “Strange and wonderful that there should be a queen.”

“He died in my arms,” Aragorn agreed, his chest tight as he heard the words from their guest. “There was no mistaking it.”

Gandalf stood in wordless consideration. He passed his staff from one hand to the other, and took a few steps forward.

“I fear it is sorcery,” Aragorn said, his tone low and grave. “That I have brought him here merely to be destroyed.”

“Sorcery?” Gandalf asked distractedly, raising one white eyebrow. With his free hand, he touched the man’s face, studying the expressions there. “No,” he continued, lowering his hand, and leaning against the white staff. “This is not sorcery… it is mercy.” His other eyebrow lifted to join the first. “I doubt you are being rewarded, son of Denethor, but I think perhaps, your brother has reaped the seeds of his faithfulness. Few men can claim to have willingly refused the ring when it was within their grasp. You certainly cannot.” The White Wizard turned to address Aragorn. “Be comforted,” he said. “This is one fool who has cheated death.”

“Will I ever know who I am?” Boromir asked the wizard, dragging his eyes away from the queen of Gondor. 

“Your memories will return in due time,” Gandalf assured him. “You may yet wish they hadn’t. Only endure, and you’ll find that all is well again.”

The king took a few long strides forward and clasped arms with Boromir, not quite certain of what to say. “Welcome home, son of Gondor,” he said at last, releasing the other man’s arm, and taking a step back. “Would you meet your kin?”

“I would. I have met Lord Imrahil, but I would like to speak with him further and know about my family, and who I was,” Boromir smiled cautiously, tilting his head in a rueful way. “It is all so strange. I know this place, but it will not come to me.”

“If your memories were truly gone, you would not find this place familiar. They are there, though not yet awake,” Gandalf said, lowering himself onto one of the benches by the long, empty tables.

Aragorn crossed to the large doors and flung them open. “Faramir, Imrahil,” he called. “Come hither, quickly.” 

Again Faramir hesitated, glancing back at Eowyn, who was left standing alone.

“We’ll give them a moment to adjust,” Aragorn told her, choosing to remain outside. He sat down on a bench overlooking the courtyard

“My lord,” Eowyn said cautiously, lowering herself onto the bench next to him. “Such strange things have occurred. The army is still dispersing to their princes, and the Rohirrim are preparing to return home, yet you are not directing them yourself, when I know you would prefer to,” she said respectfully, tucking her chin in as she did when she was uncertain or nervous.

“She means to ask what goes on within that hall that should cause such a stir,” Eomer cut in, reining Firefoot in closer. “I must admit I am greatly curious.”

Aragorn fell silent for a moment, considering. “You told me once that as children, the sons of the Steward would visit with the diplomatic delegations,” he said slowly. “That you, Lord Eomer, were friends with Boromir?”

“I was,” Eomer confirmed. “And I was grieved to hear he had passed.”

“Then,” Aragorn said, his fingers steepling together. “I have joyous news to share with you.”

Chapter Text

Faramir could see the man, still dressed in the white cotton of Harad, standing in the throne room, gazing at the dais. He would not have called this person a stranger, but could not bring himself to admit that the bear-strength and broad frame seemed so achingly familiar, like he could reach out and touch his brother. The Steward turned back, but the doors had closed behind them, shutting Aragorn outside. He looked over at Imrahil for help, and then to Mithrandir, who had long been his mentor and friend. “Gandalf,” he said helplessly, and his voice broke.

Arwen took a step closer, concern flashing across her face.

The man in Haradric clothing turned, and Faramir felt like he had been struck in the stomach.

Every familiar gesture, every motion he had made, every moment they had spent traveling together, apart but so near through the desert, became suddenly clear, aligning perfectly with the identity of a man who had known him since before his birth. “Boromir,” he said, as if the name had been driven forcefully from his lungs. His next words were near a whisper. “Tears could not be enough.” He could not make himself move, nor cry, but stood only trembling, waiting for his older brother, or for the wonderful, terrible dream of the moment to end only in renewed grief. He wanted to believe his eyes and the vision they showed him, but the memory of the cloven horn stung his palms where he had held it.

Was madness not hereditary?

Boromir was standing before him, a strange look on his face, gazing at Faramir as if they were strangers.
The Steward took an unsteady step forward. “Why do you keep from me?” he asked. The sting of realization burned behind his eyes, threatening tears that would not come. “Why did you not come to me?”

Imrahil's sudden grip on his shoulder was the only thing steadying him.

They had been so close so long.

Was Boromir also now ashamed of him?

“Did you know?” he demanded, turning to face his uncle, only slightly ashamed of the hurt and anger that had entered his voice.

“I did,” Imrahil said gently, apparently unphased by his nephew's slight temper. “I wished so often to tell you.”

“Faramir,” Gandalf said, and in his tone there was a subtle warning. “His memory is not yet restored.”

“You do not remember?” Faramir asked, torn between relief and heartbreak. He wanted nothing more than to embrace his brother, but it seemed he could not, because his brother did not know him.

What kind of brother would feel relief to know he had been forgotten?

“We had to be certain there was no sorcery over him,” Imrahil said gently. “No one wanted you to have to mourn twice.”

Faramir nodded a few times, trying to convince himself that they had decided rightly for him; to face such pain again would have destroyed him, and yet...

“I do not need to remember to see that you hold me as dear to you,” Boromir said, setting his hands on Faramir’s shoulders, momentarily banishing his darker thoughts. “We are kin, are we not?” he asked.

“Brothers,” the Steward agreed. “The very closest.”

The big bear of a man pulled his little brother into a crushing hug. “Then let us not give place to this separation. I shall be your brother whether or not I remember.”

“I missed you,” Faramir managed, muffled by the hug. “I missed you greatly.”

“No longer,” Boromir assured him, holding his brother close. “I can feel that this is right, and I will not so easily let go.”

“Never again,” Faramir said sternly, pulling away to look at his brother again. “You have died once. That is all you are allotted.” Still, his thoughts pleaded for more. If you remember, don't cast me aside. Not you too.

Boromir laughed, almost ruefully, as if he had been told of an embarrassing foible and not the end of his own life, or rather, what should have been its end. “Did I?” he asked, shaking his head. “Very well, I accept your terms. Tell me… little brother,” he said in a way both familiar and new in the hesitation that took root in it. “Was I good to you? Forgive my selfish questions.”

Faramir almost gasped; Boromir was the only one, save Mithrandir, who had been a constant source of comfort in his life. That his brother should doubt that fact drove a blade into his heart, as though he had failed to speak the words he ought to have in time. Knowing that the memories of the past were gone was little comfort to Faramir's self doubts. “You were my shield from much anguish, and my captain when we were young. In and out of battles, ever were you my aspiration,” Faramir said wistfully. They were words he had long wished to speak to Boromir, but only had taken form in the grief of loss. He never did feel like he had caught up to his brother, and with Boromir’s death had come the certainty he never would. It did not lift with his brother’s return.

Gandalf quietly stepped away, leaving them to talk, and herding away both Imrahil and Arwen, though neither one looked quite willing to go.

Arwen's hand brushed by Faramir's arm before she went, and she spoke words he could barely hear. “Nanye siromë maurallen.”

"I will be here if you need me."

He nodded gratefully after her, though her back was turned. "Thank you, my lady."

When at last they were alone, Boromir’s face fell.

“Have I misspoken?” Faramir asked hurriedly, and the taller man shook his head.

“Not at all.”

“Then what troubles you so?”

Boromir sighed heavily and turned away, looking back at the thrones, at the empty seat their father had once held, and gazed up at the golden light streaming through the windows set high above them. “I had hoped to know what guilt dogs me. It nips and bites at me, this failure I cannot see. It lingers just beyond reach, a phantom in the mists of memories I no longer hold.”

Faramir ached, though he wasn’t sure why.

The return of Boromir was nothing short of a miracle.

He was relieved and overjoyed… and yet his spirit stung and churned with confusion, knotting up his stomach and setting a tense ache between his shoulder blades.

Boromir was hurting, and lost, and nothing Faramir could say could even begin to touch that pain, since his brother couldn’t remember enough to even be comforted.

“Let it be gone from your mind,” he found himself saying, his own words echoing things Boromir had said in the past. “You’ll find out eventually, and trouble will arise without your helping it.” In truth, he hoped his brother never did find the root of that shame; it ought to have died with him, but stayed dead. As far as Faramir was concerned, the debt for his mistakes had been paid in blood. He glanced nervously at toward the door, where he knew Aragorn was somewhere just beyond. Would he feel the same?

“Mmm… Wise words,” Boromir conceded, but he still looked troubled.

“They’re yours,” Faramir said, managing a smile. It was wan, and pale, but genuine. Despite it all... they were still kin- brothers, strangers, and sworn to the same king.

They spoke at length, but the Steward could not tell if anything of substance was expressed in their exchange. He could tell Boromir wanted, and so badly at that, to act as he should, as family should, but without any foundation, the two were as distant as Meduseld from Minas Tirith. Faramir could at least take comfort that in life, no distance was insurmountable, and Boromir had overcome the one boundary that might have kept them apart to the end.

Aragorn returned at last, regarding the two of them with a troubled expression.

Faramir could guess what was on his mind; the trouble of inheritance was very real. He no longer had any right to be Steward, and perhaps that was a relief and yet it was still a truth he dreaded. He should have been content to return to his rangers and fallen city and quietly lived out a soldier’s life, as he had always been raised to do, but somehow, the thought was bitter.

How selfish of me.

“I may be inviting some trouble soon, Faramir,” Aragorn said at last, coming to stand next to his steward.

“Not on my account, I hope,” Faramir replied, resisting the urge to wring his hands together in his nervousness. The ache in his back grew stronger. He stood a little taller.

“No, not at all,” Aragorn said hurriedly before going on. “Merethir told me that you once said you’d be happy merely to spend your days in Ithilien as a commander.”

Guilt bloomed in Faramir's chest, mingling with his nerves. He felt vaguely ill.

“-but I am afraid I must come between you and such simple bliss- I need you as my Steward. I have seen your skills, and those of your brother both, and I know that it is best for Gondor that you retain your post.” Aragorn tilted his head consideringly. “I may invite some reprisal for overriding the order of your inheritance, and for that I must also apologize to you.”

Faramir repeated the words in his head until they made sense. His heart lifted, but his stomach turned. “I can’t take my brother’s inheritance,” he said softly.

“Then let me give it to you, little brother,” Boromir said gently.

“Boromir,” Faramir protested softly. He couldn’t take such a gift, not when his brother didn’t even remember what he was giving up.

“Let me do this,” Boromir pleaded, folding his brother into one of his massive hugs. “Then I can know I have done something for my little brother.”

“You have already done more for me than I can say,” the steward said softly, into the large shoulder where his face was pressed. “How could I take advantage of you, with your memory gone?”

“That's not-” Boromir started to protest.

Aragorn cleared his throat, and the two brothers parted, returning their attention to their king. “If there is trouble over the matter when Boromir’s memories have returned, perhaps I will reconsider. Is that agreeable to the both of you?”

“It is,” Boromir said immediately. “Though I have no intention of changing my mind.” He hardly seemed like a stranger, speaking with such force. The unwavering conviction suited Boromir, just as it always had.

Faramir hesitated. He was still bothered by the decision, but he could find no reason such a ruling couldn't work. Beside that, the very idea of speaking against the king was enough to make the rising illness at his core nearly unbearable. (If he had eaten breakfast, he was sure he would have thrown it up.) If nothing else, Denethor had driven home the reality that the authority of hierarchy was absolute, and Faramir would always be at the bottom.

“Brother?” Boromir asked softly.

The word jogged the Steward out of his thoughts and he lifted his head to find both of the other men were looking at him, wearing mirrored expressions of worry.

“Are you well, melon nin?” Aragorn asked gently. He almost leaned forward, his head tilting as he searched the younger man's expression.

“Yes- Yes, of course-” Faramir began, perhaps a little too quickly.

“You have only recently recovered,” the king continued, eyebrows lowering. “And I know this has been quite a shock. If you are in need of rest, I will not keep you.” His tone was just almost an exortation, and Faramir almost felt poorly for not giving in right there.

At the news that his brother was 'only recently recovered' the worry on Boromir's face deepened a great deal.

“I am well,” Faramir insisted, though he could not keep the slightest tremor from his voice; it had been a shock.

Neither man looked convinced, but Aragorn sighed and let it go.

Boromir did not seem as inclined to.

“Very well,” the king said at last. “But I hope you would tell me if something is wrong.'

The pause that followed seemed impossible long, though it was merely seconds that passed.

Expectation was a weight always on Faramir's shoulders, and here, he felt that his king expected an answer. “I... am merely concerned there will be consequences,” he admitted, choosing his words carefully so as to cause no offense.

Aragorn looked surprised, and for a split second, the Steward wondered if he had misunderstood his king's intent. “There will certainly be consequences,” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “There will be objections, of course, citing Boromir's primacy, but that's not what will motivate any of them, not really. No snake has ever spoken a word that risked laying bare a secret desire. To these, the truth is a thing to be given in bits, pulled apart by the seams into convenient deceptions.” His face twisted momentarily with disgust, but the expression was short lived. “So it will always be in the court. Snakes are not only found in the east. Power invites the selfish.” His eyes darkened and he looked away, his expression distant. “So Frodo knows best of us all,” he said under his breath.

Faramir acted as though he had not heard. “Would it be better then not to invite trouble?” Especially over someone like me? He spoke tentatively, not sure whether he was hoping to change the king's mind or not.

Aragorn's attention snapped back onto him immediately, the short burst of sorrow gone from his gray eyes. “To invite trouble would be to leave the snakes to their own devices,” he said firmly. “I'll take every opportunity I can get to strike at them; who shows me their colors makes rooting them out easier.”

“Well enough spoken,” Boromir said, taking them both by surprise. “Best to have a blade to hand to cut the head off before it can strike you back.”

“Better to have two,” Aragorn agreed, clapping them both on the shoulder in a pointed manner. “We will face the trouble as it comes,” he added a little more soberly.

“Together,” Boromir said with a tight nod.

“Together,” Aragorn echoed him, a wry grin spreading over his features, making him more the ranger than the king.

Faramir looked away, searching for anyplace to look that was not at the faces of his king or his kin. His eyes wandered to the nearest winder, and beyond it.

The lancet arch in the white stone let through the glass a spear of gray light that fell at their feet, just short of where they all stood together.

There were dark clouds on the horizon, boiling with power and wind, harsh like smoke against the azure of the summer day.

Aragorn followed his gaze to the sky outside, considering it before he spoke. “A storm is coming.”