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The autumn sun had long since set and the woods of Ithilien had grown dark. Stars shone clear in the sky, winking like far distant eyes. A soft wind blew the branches of the trees near the Elven city of Galenost and on the ground beneath them, footsteps just as soft skimmed across the forest floor. Swift as shadows, the Elves Hadoriel and Valithar slipped through the trees, the former in the lead. At times they would stop and Hadoriel would stoop to inspect the ground. Valithar's gaze swept across the forest around them, keeping a wary watch and an arrow on the string of his bow as she did.

They were stopped in just such a way now. All about them, the woods were silent. So silent that when a creature moved, Valithar snapped his attention to it and drew back on his bowstring in surprise. He very nearly loosed his arrow, but saw at the last moment that it was only a woodland squirrel. Hadoriel paid the intrusion no heed, trusting to her partner's skill. She ran a hand along a rough disturbance in the ground.

"Definitely orcs," she said to Valithar, her voice low so that it would not carry, "it looks as though they are heading back eastward again."

"Why would they have come so far west in the first place?" Valithar asked.

Hadoriel nodded. "It is odd behavior for so small a group," she answered, rising to her feet and retrieving her duom from the ground, "they have a league on us, at most."

Valithar nodded and placed his arrow back in his quiver. Onward they went through the woods, following their quarry's trail. Soon, Valithar touched Hadoriel's shoulder and they halted. Valithar pointed forward and a little off to their left, then pulled an arrow from his quiver again and placed it on his string.

In the distance, dim and flickering, there was a torch among the trees. The two Elves could just make out the sound of voices, speaking low. As they moved slow and silent and crept closer, the voices became more clear. It was a strange mix of sounds. There was certainly orkish speech, but also a language neither of them had ever heard, filled with long, regimented words that never seemed to end in a hard sound. As they peered between the trees and the bushes, Hadoriel and Valithar saw a small group of orcs and three men, dressed in black and masked.

The two Elves exchanged a glance. There had been more and more reports of these men over the last year or so, venturing further and further westward into Ithilien. The first had been of a body found after the battle of Cormallen, more than five years prior. No one knew where they had come from and so far no one had been able to track them any further than the very shadow of Ephel Dúath. What these strange men were doing in Ithilien was simply another part of what was coming to be called the Great Mystery.

Hadoriel nodded to Valithar. They needed to learn what they could. They crept closer, hoping to overhear the few words that were spoken in orkish. Hadoriel had never cared to learn the tongue, but Valithar had picked it up somewhere, long ago. She had always suspected it was purely to tell them that they should run for their lives and then die tired.

They hid among the brush, listening for several minutes. Finally, Valithar placed a hand on Hadoriel's shoulder to get her attention. He mouthed some words to her in Sindarin:

"Theliar dagro."

They intended to attack, this odd group of orcs and mysterious men. Where and when was not obvious to Hadoriel and if Valithar knew, he would have to tell her later.

If Hadoriel had been with any other Elf, she would have needed to ask. But she knew what Valithar would want to do. She could see it in his eyes. He wanted to stop them.

"Nuitham," she mouthed back with a nod, setting her duom. Valithar nodded back to her, his fingers lightly running over the fletching of his knocked arrow. He drew back his bow string, taking aim carefully at the nearest of their foes, one of the five orcs. Hadoriel held up three fingers where he could see them, then two, then one.

The string of Valithar's bow hummed and the arrow released. It sailed through the air and struck true, burying itself in the back of the orc's neck and dropping it. The other orcs and the dark men all started and took to arms. The men were in motion immediately and it was very quickly that Hadoriel lost sight of them.

Valithar set another arrow on his string as Hadoriel moved forward to meet the charge of the other four orcs. She set the spear point of her weapon just as the orcs reached its range, landing a blow in the stomach of one of the orcs. She jerked it back with a twist, catching one of the others who was making for Valithar with one of the blades along the haft. She heard another fall to one of Valithar's arrows, but locked in battle with the one she had wounded. She focused on it, trusting to Valithar to take care of the one that remained.

Hadoriel skimmed the butt-end of her duom in an arc near the orc's feet as she backpedaled, trying to get out of its range. Dust kicked up around them. The orc swung wildly at her with its falchion and she caught the downward stroke with the haft of her weapon. With a twist, she sent to the orc off balance and drew one of the haft blades across its throat. It gurgled and fell.

Valithar had had a similar fight with the remaining orc and he had drawn his knives as the fight had moved to close quarters. He was just dispatching his foe as Hadoriel finished with hers.

"Where are the dark men?" she asked him, urgency in her voice. He shook his head, breathing heavily.

A low, wet laugh came from the first orc that Hadoriel had dropped, the one that had been skewered in the stomach. Quickly she went over to it and put her spear point at its throat.

"A slow and terrible way to die, is a stomach wound," she said to it with menace, "you will not rise again. But tell me what you and those men were doing here and what you are planning and I will make your end swift."

The orc laughed again. Blood gurgled up and bubbled out of his mouth. "Foolish Elves," he spat, "even your skills are out-matched by these men. Not even you will see them coming. The King of Gondor and the Prince at his right hand will be dead before you even know what is happening!"

The orc coughed and it rattled deep in his throat. It stopped a moment later and it was still. Hadoriel kicked its carcass with a curse. "The filth are after King Elessar and Prince Faramir," she ground out.

"No more," Valithar said from over her shoulder.

And suddenly it occurred to her that he was still breathing heavily, as if to catch his breath. It had been nearly a century since she had heard him breathing hard after a battle and certainly not one so minor as this.

She spun about to look at him and almost in the same moment found that she had to catch him as he sunk to the ground. There was a rough and dirty blade sticking into his shoulder, just above his heart and blood was seeping from the wound.

"No more of this," he mumbled as she lowered him to the ground, "I can take no more."

She needed to hear no further words. She knew the depth of what he was telling her. As she reached into her belt pouch for her healing kit, a weight settled upon her heart. And for the first time, Hadoriel knew a weariness unlike all others.

When a black ship sailed up the Andúin river and landed at Pelargir, it was nearly beset with arrows and trebuchets from the shore. If not for the sharp eyes of the garrison commander there, who saw the white pennant streaming from the ship's main mast, there might have been war. For three days the black ship from the south, its sail blazoned in red with a gold serpent, sat in the port within sight of Minas Tirith and men in Gondor wondered at it. What business did this ship of their vanquished foe have in their port? A messenger from the garrison at Pelargir rode to Minas Tirith and visited the court of King Elessar. A day later, it returned. And then, a day after that, a procession set out across the Pelennor. Soldiers of Gondor escorted them and they traveled under a banner like to the ship's sail, a white pennant set above it.

At the very center of the group, surrounded by soldiers of the southern men, a man of tallow skin rode atop a black horse. His hair was bound up in a headdress of wound cloth and he wore loose trousers and shirts of golden and red hue. Over all, he wore a long surcoat of black and red silks.

As the procession approached the gate of Minas Tirith, the man waved imperiously to his soldiers and the rest of his companions. Only one of his soldiers remained with him and their Gondorian guard escorted them through the gate and up into the city.

The road was lined with the people of the city, yet there was no sound save for the marching of feet and the clip-clop of hooves on stone as they passed. As this man from the far south entered into the Citadel, murmurs began that the enemy was once again camped before the city.

Elessar's court was filled with all the Lords of Gondor who were in the city. They lined the center column that led to the throne. The King stood before his throne and watched the man and his lone guard enter with a wary eye. Without hesitation, the southron guard slowly drew forth the scimitar at his belt and offered it, hilt first, to the two waiting Grey Company guard. Only then did the two of them stride forward toward the King's Presence. At the foot of the throne, the man dropped to his knees and looked down and the soldier dropped to his knees and lowered his face to the ground.

"Great King Elessar of the Northern realms," the man said, "I come in the name of my Emperor, Ari-Santi, of the lands far south of here. With great respect, I beg leave to look upon you and entreat with you."

"Your respect is returned in kind," said Elessar, "for it takes great courage to enter the court of one with whom you have warred. Diplomacy is always welcome in Our court. Rather than grant Our permission, We ask that you do Us the honor. Please rise and speak of your errand in Our lands. And We would know your name as well."

The southron rose to his feet, still maintaining a respectful distance, though he looked up at the King. His guard sat up, but did not come to his feet.

"I am Haman," said the man, "envoy from the Court of the Sun Emperor, sent to entreat with you and to make some overtures toward healing the wound that remains between Your realm and His following the Great War. My Emperor wishes to negotiate for trade between the realms of the north and of the south."

There was a soft rumble from the assembled court. Hushed whispers floated into the air and a number of them carried anger with them; what right did the vassals of the Enemy have to demand this of Gondor?

Elessar silenced them with a look and then slowly descended the stair from the throne. "We must ask what Our people will ask," he said, "why should Gondor have any dealings with the men who attacked her boarders, laid siege to her lands and to her greatest city, and sided with the greatest Enemy of the Third Age?" He now stood eye-to-eye with Haman, gaze boring into his.

The southron did not waver. "Because, great King Elessar," he said, "we do not live in the Third Age any longer."

Elessar gave a nod. "Your words do your Emperor honor," he said, turning away and returning to the foot of the stair, "We would hear more."

Haman nodded and continued. "A new age has dawned, not only in the north, but in the south as well. The sun has set on the reign of Emperor Ari-Kant and a new sun has risen in the reign of his son, Ari-Santi. My new Emperor believes that trade will help to ensure that war between our peoples will become disadvantageous to all."

Elessar raised an eyebrow and looked back at Haman. The southron still had not taken his eyes off the King. There was a determination in the gaze that could not be denied.

"It is an intriguing notion," Elessar said, once again climbing the stair back to his throne and sitting, "one which We would discuss with you at greater length. Whether or not this marks a new beginning between our peoples remains to be seen. But We will act in good faith. For now, you are welcome here. And you and your entourage are under the protection of the Crown. We invite you to make your camp outside the walls of Minas Tirith and to return to Our court in three days time, when we shall feast and talk of many things."

"I thank you, Great King," Haman said with a bow, "it shall be as you say."

With that, Haman departed King Elessar's court and left the city. Outside the boundary of Othram, the Haradrim raised a camp. The political workings of the court began at once and from that moment on, Haman's camp was eyed with deep suspicion. No one dared speak out against the King openly, but there were many who were displeased.

In the Citadel of Minas Estel, still unknowing of the workings of Elessar's court, Faramir stood looking out across the Andúin and toward Minas Tirith. He saw the Haradrim making camp and wondered at it. Worry grew in the pit of his stomach at the sight, but he knew enough to trust Elessar. Even now, he saw a messenger making his way on horseback toward Minas Estel, no doubt carrying word, even though the normal weekly messenger had only arrived earlier that day. Still, the idea of it disquieted him and brought to mind old aches he had thought long healed. At last, he found that he could stand the sight of it no longer and turned back to the goings on inside his own Citadel.

Elboron stood side-by-side with Bergil, both holding wooden waster swords in a basic guard. Beregond was near them both, pacing about them and watching Elboron with a discerning eye. He corrected Elboron's stance, pointing to Bergil as his example. Elboron's young face was focused and more serious than Faramir had ever seen. He took in Beregond's instruction eagerly, nodding quickly and correcting himself precisely. Nearby, on the ledge of the courtyard's stone fountain, Eldamir sat sulking and watching his elder brother receiving instruction. When he caught sight of his father looking his direction, he looked away quickly and made a show of playing idly with the water.

Faramir sighed and wandered over, knowing that there was damage control that needed to be done. He sat down on the edge of the fountain, next to his younger son and gave him a nudge.

"What troubles you, my little jewel?" he asked.

"I want to learn to fight, too," the boy said, sulkily.

"You are only eight years old, Eldamir," Faramir replied, "you're not ready yet. Elboron is older."

"I can be ready! I promise!"

"I'm sure you will be," Faramir answered, "when you are eleven, like your brother is now."

Eldamir looked further crestfallen and turned away from Faramir once again. He spun a hand through the water, making a little whirlpool. "It's just because Elboron is your favorite," he muttered, clearly unknowing of how hurtful the comment was.

Faramir paused, feeling the words deeply. It seemed to be a day for old aches. His heart cried out in a way he knew he could never show. He wished to be stern with the boy, to tell him how horrible he had actually been by saying that comment. But no, he knew that would do no good.

Instead, Faramir gently took hold of Eldamir's shoulders. He turned the boy to face him. "Eldamir, I will never have a favorite among my children," he said, "you three and your mother are all to me. And none of you are before the others. Just because you are younger does not make you any less in my eyes and it never will. Do you understand?"

Eldamir was still looking rather dejected, but gave a nod. Faramir pulled him close and kissed his head.

"One day, I will tell all three of you of your grandfather," he said, "one day, when all three of you are ready to understand him."

"Ada?"

"Yes?"

"You promised Elboron this afternoon, didn't you?"

"I did."

"Can we play Nine-Men-Morris when you're done?"

"Three games," Faramir answered, "after dinner shall be for you." As he said this, he spotted Léowine enter the Citadel courtyard, carrying a small satchel and sorting through several small missives and a couple of parcels. The weekly missives had been sorted. "Provided, of course, you can find your board and pieces," Faramir said to Eldamir, "why don't you go and find them now to be certain?"

Eldamir nodded and darted off toward the House of the Prince as Faramir left his place on the edge of the fountain. He wandered over toward the group that had been focused on training Elboron. Léowine had gone straight to Beregond and handed him one of the missives. The rest of the satchel he handed to Faramir as he approached.

"Good day, my lord," said the Rider.

"And to you, Léowine," Faramir said, taking the satchel, "a great deal this week, it seems. And it isn't over. I saw a rider from Minas Tirith on the Pelennor. Let Damrod know he is coming, will you?"

"Of course," Léowine replied, giving a short bow and turning to leave again.

Faramir set aside the satchel and returned his attention to Elboron's training. Beregond had wandered off to read his missive, but Bergil was still giving the boy some pointers. With some gentle nudges and some swift explanations, Elboron's form was corrected.

"You see, it all comes down to straight lines," said Bergil, using his arm to show how the wooden sword was now blocking Elboron's left, "right now, I cannot reach you from this side."

"Strong as a wall!" Elboron exclaimed to which Bergil nodded.

"And how is our young warrior coming along?" Faramir asked as he approached them.

"Very well for his first lesson, my lord," said Bergil, "already he understands controlling his lines."

"Soon I'll be able to kill orcs, father! Just you watch!"

Faramir gave a laugh and ruffled Elboron's hair. "I've no doubt of that, my star," he said.

"Father," Elboron whined, trying to put his hair back to rights.

Faramir then caught sight again of Beregond. The captain had wandered over to the wall overlooking the city and looked rather distressed. His missive was still in hand, held crumpled in a fist. His other hand scrubbed at his face as he looked to the sky.

"Well, keep at it," Faramir told Elboron and Bergil. He then left them and went over to Beregond. The captain was so lost in his own thoughts that he was startled when Faramir called his name.

"Yes, my lord?" he said, whirling around.

"You seem rather distracted, old friend," said Faramir. He indicated the missive still held in Beregond's hand. "Is it ill news?"

Quickly, as if to hide away its contents, Beregond folded the missive closed and tucked it into his tunic. "It is a personal matter, my lord," he said, "nothing to concern yourself with."

"If there's anything-"

"No," Beregond answered, all too quickly. He then seemed to catch himself and correct the behavior. "No, no, I'll see to it. There really isn't anything anyone can do." And then, he squared his shoulders and returned to the lesson he had been giving. Faramir watched them for a few minutes. Often, it seemed Beregond's eyes would drift to his son and a look of sadness would pass over him. But more than that, there seemed to be a doom hanging over him and a fear.

In the distance, Faramir thought he heard the clap of thunder. But when he looked to the horizon, the sky was still clear.

It was a busy day at the gate of Minas Estel. A trade caravan was entering the city and that meant a flurry of inquiries, trade inspections, security checks, and just plain insanity. Impatient travelers from all over grumbled at the delays and by the time they reached the front of the line were just plain irritable.

It was days like this that Damrod hated most about his position as Master of the Gate. When one of the gate guard could not satisfy an angry traveler, the complaint would always come to him. He had fielded ten within the last hour and was at wit's end. More than anything, he wanted to grab his most recent problem by the shoulders, shake him a bit, and point out that the time he had taken complaining about the trade inspection that was required was roughly the same as the time the inspection would have taken in the first place.

He had just finished dealing with the angry trader when one of the gate guards brought him still another traveler. This one was an old man, leaning on a pockmarked and worn wooden staff for support. His long hair and beard were tied into neatly kept knots and he seemed to squint at the daylight. His indigo garb was threadbare and worn and covered with road dust.

"Commander Damrod," said the guard, "this man asked to speak with you, sir."

"What?" the old man exclaimed, looking rather offended. "I most certainly did not! I asked you to take me to the man in charge!"

"I am Commander Damrod, Master of the Gate," Damrod replied, "I am in charge here."

The old man looked back and forth between Damrod and the guard. He took an extra long look at the guard as if trying to figure something out. "Oh!" he said. "Oh dear. Hummm... I seem to be slipping."

The guard looked nervously back at the irritable queue of travelers. "Commander...?"

"Go, Falborn, I will see to this," said Damrod with a wave and scrubbing his face with one hand. The guard gratefully went back to his normal duties.

"My fault, I'm afraid," said the old man, "I should have asked him to take me to the one in charge of the city."

The old man had said it so nonchalantly that Damrod was set reeling for a moment. All he could do was stare at him for a long space as he tried to find words to reply. "Prince Faramir is a rather busy man..." was what he at last settled upon. "Do you have... particular business?"

The old man shook his head, giving an odd, non-committal grimace. "Hum, no," he said, "I just wished to see him. Faramir, is that his name? Is he also the Steward of Gondor? I really must see him."

"Uh, yes," Damrod replied, feeling as though he was having a completely separate conversation, "are you expected, Old Master? What did you wish to see the Prince about?"

The old man waved a had dismissively. "Oh! No, no, no! It isn't about anything, I just need to see him." He pointed two fingers toward his own face. "You know, with my eyes. Where might I do that?"

Damrod was beginning to think the old man was senile. He still had an earnest, placid look, as if the conversation was not completely mad. And the way he spoke made Damrod feel as though perhaps he were the mad one. Or perhaps that he was as simple as a child. He realized he had been staring at the man confused for another long moment and shook himself out of it.

"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" Damrod asked.

"Oh, I didn't at all," said the old man, nodding enthusiastically.

Damrod waited. It became clear that no name was forthcoming. "Right," he said with a nod, "and your name would be...?"

"It would be Rómestámo," the old man replied, "so, does the Steward go about on walks, or, does he ever come down to the gate...?"

And that was just more than Damrod could tolerate. The entire situation was simply mad. The old man was either insane or nefarious. Either way, Damrod surmised, it was probably best not to let him too near the Prince.

He was just about to ask Rómestámo to come with him to be detained when there was further commotion from the queue at the gate. Several voices rose in anger, protesting being supplanted from their places in line. Above them all, a voice shouted for them to move and Damrod heard a horse whinny excitedly.

"Damrod! Damrod!"

The crowd finally parted and revealed the Elf Hadoriel, astride a horse, disheveled from what had obviously been a hasty ride from Galenost.

"Let her pass," Damrod cried to the guards at the gate who obligingly moved aside as she cantered through and dismounted only a few feet from him.

"There is danger," she said, "I must speak to Prince Faramir and Captain Beregond, immediately!"

"Falborn!" Damrod called to the guard again. "Take Captain Hadoriel up to the Citadel, quickly."

"I would keep a wary eye on the city's defenses," Hadoriel told him, "an attack may be coming and it may come with subtlety." And with that, she swept away with Falborn into the city.

"Borogil, call in the second watch," Damrod ordered, "post them to the lookouts along the city wall. Falsach, find Commander Léowine and ask him to send out Moon-Riders to scout the city's surrounds. The rest of you, step to it and get these people inside the wall so we can make safe the gate. Quickly, now!"

The Gate Guard scrambled to follow Damrod's orders and the chaos increased. He could already see arguments about the queue popping up as Hadoriel's disruption had moved several of the travelers out of the line. He trusted the guard to sort it out, by and large, barring the few obstinate ones. So he turned to finish dealing with Rómestámo.

The old man was gone. In the swirl of activity that the gate yard had become, Damrod spun about, looking for the distinctive knot of white hair. There was no sign of it.

With a long-suffering sigh, Damrod resolved to search the area. An old man such as he could not have gone far, leaning so heavily on his walking stick as he had been. At least the search would give him a break from the angry travelers.

The line at the gate had been long and it had made Higéthryth irritable. But as she walked through Minas Estel on her business, she was afforded some time to reflect on it, she came to understand the insanity a little better. She had not been what one would call polite to the guard who had finally granted her entry. She would need to return to apologize later.

Minas Estel was different from Minas Tirith. For one thing, it was smaller and the streets pressed in a little more. But it wasn't as crowded and there was more green space scattered among the stone work. Trees and gardens seemed to be of special importance to the denizens of Minas Estel. There was a small patch of greenery outside the door of nearly every dwelling.

Stopping several times to ask for directions, Higéthryth wound her way up through the city until she reached the sixth circle. There, she found the Ithilien Houses of Healing and entered. It was not a busy day in the houses. She could see only one patient in the healers' care; some sort of minor illness, though she did not pry.

As she wandered the hallways, she came across one of the healers and halted them. "I seek the Matron Ioreth or the Lady Éowyn. Are they here?"

"Certainly," the healer replied, "they are overseeing our weekly day of cleaning. I can take you to them, if you wish."

"Please," Higéthryth said.

The healer brought her to an open garden overlooking the lower levels of the city. It reminded Higéthryth very much of the garden in the Minas Tirith Houses of Healing. She had heard the story of how the Lord and Lady of Ithilien met, in the darkest days of the War of the Ring. In her mind, she could picture them overlooking this same view in the same way and she thought it no coincidence.

In one corner of the garden, the Matron Ioreth was draping wet laundry over a line strung between two stone columns. Not far off, the Lady Éowyn was calmly sweeping near one of the building entrances, a beautifully carved stonework arch. Ioreth was chattering away and Éowyn seemed to be only half listening, with the patience of one long-practiced.

"And that was when my father told the young man what he thought of him," Ioreth was saying, "he said to him, 'young whelp, if you bring that mule near my horse again, I will show you what a tree and stars looks like, first hand!' And mind you, I've no doubt he would have done it, sure enough! And the young man knew it, too! All one needed to do with my father was look him in the eye to know when he was telling the truth! The truth is easier than a lie, or so he always said. Most honest man I ever knew, my father!"

With an imploring look at Éowyn, the healer made a show of clearing his throat when Ioreth paused for a breath. Clearly grateful for the break in the endless stream of words, the Lady jumped at the opportunity.

"Yes Candaith?" she asked.

"Forgive the interruption my lady," said the healer, "but this young lady wished to speak with you and with Matron Ioreth."

Now under the scrutiny of both the Lady and the Matron, Higéthryth found herself fidgeting somewhat. As swiftly and invisibly as possible, she straightened out a stray hair and smoothed the front of her dress. "My Lady," she said, giving a respectful courtesy.

"Thank you Candaith," said Éowyn wandering over to them. Candaith took his leave as she did so. "Higéthryth, yes? From the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith."

"And Edoras, of late, as well, my lady," she replied.

"You have grown much," said Éowyn with a warm smile, "I remember a little girl always following at the heels of the horse-trainers with her mother following behind, aghast, waving a hairbrush."

"Perfect!" Ioreth exclaimed. "I never did care much for women that are called well-behaved."

"What brings you to Ithilien?" Éowyn asked.

"Well, my lady," Higéthryth murmured, shifting uncomfortably, "I'm certain that you have heard that I have been studying healing in Minas Tirith."

"Oh, yes of course!" Ioreth exclaimed, a look of realization suddenly dawning, "you looked after our young Bergil that one time, didn't you?"

"If you mean Captain Beregond's son, then yes," Higéthryth answered, "though he made more than a small nuisance of himself, to be frank." Her eyes grew wide as soon as she had finished the sentence, as if fearing for the words that had tumbled from her mouth.

With a small chuckle, Éowyn gave a knowing smile. "He's been doing that since he was ten. I'm sure you had your hands full."

In relief, Higéthryth allowed a smile to light on her face once more.

"But that was some years ago, now," said Ioreth, "I can't imagine you came all the way to Minas Estel just to relive that young troublemaker's time in your care."

And just as easily, Higéthryth's smile vanished. She steeled herself to come to the point. She was here for a reason, after all and it wouldn't do to flounder about and not come to it. It was time to be decisive.

"Yes," she said, "well, as I stated, I have been learning in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith for some time. But, I feel as though I have learned what I can there. As things stand in the white city these days, I do little more than treat minor scrapes and broken bones and the occasional illness requiring bedrest. I am given to understand that there is far more to be learned here in Minas Estel."

"Meaning things are more exciting around here?" Éowyn said, her look sobering somewhat, but still maintaining a little bit of a mischievous glitter. "A little less safe?"

And once again Higéthryth was struck dumb in the fear that she had misspoken. "Well, no, not as such. I'm certain the White Company keeps the city and all of Ithilien well safe. I meant only that... well..."

"It's all right," Éowyn said, placing a gentle hand on Higéthryth's shoulder, "Ithilien has a great many enemies and her boarders are not entirely safe. And you are correct, there is more healing to be done here. In fact, Ioreth was just saying the other day that we could do with some extra hands around here."

"I was?" Ioreth asked, the soul of innocence.

"Yes, you were."

Ioreth shook her head in confusion. "I don't remember-"

"You were, Mistress Ioreth."

"Well, if you say so, my lady. We have been a little overwhelmed of late, so I suppose you're probably right."

"It's decided, then," said Éowyn, turning back to Higéthryth, "what say you? Do you care to join me in learning from the Matron Ioreth?"

The light that broke on Higéthryth's face could not have been more clear. She smiled with the excitement of a young child opening a gift. "That would be most welcome, my lady. And I would be most honored to learn from you, Matron."

Ioreth held up a finger in front of Higéthryth's face. "Mind you, I'm not an easy teacher," she said, "it will be no walk in the woods, that's certain. But I will make you one of the best healers that Minas Estel has ever seen, I will! You can start tomorrow."

Higéthryth gave another courtesy to both, taking an awkward step back toward the entrance she had come from. "Thank you Matron, my lady! You will not regret this!" And with that, she beat a hasty retreat, still looking nervous. Éowyn and Ioreth watched her disappear around the corner into the hallway on her way out only to pass the door going the other direction another moment later.

"By the Valar!" Ioreth exclaimed after she had gone. "You did right to move that along. I thought she would never come to the point. She just stood there babbling!"

Éowyn gave the matron a wry look. "Best to get back to it. I've still got plenty to do."

"You'll do no such thing," said Ioreth, "this sort of work should be done by students, not healers."

"What?" Éowyn asked, in puzzlement.

Ioreth placed her hands on her hips, pertly looking at Éowyn. "Did I not make my myself clear, my lady?" she asked. "This is students' work. And it seems that we have a student again, so it should keep until tomorrow."

Éowyn was struck dumb for a very long moment and looked at Ioreth as though she had grown horns and had begun to spark hellfire. "I don't understand."

A smile spread across Ioreth's face as she dropped her gentle teasing. She took Éowyn's hand in hers and looked upon her with a gaze that held both kindness and pride. "My lady, you have been doing the work of a healer in your own right for several years, now. There's not much more that you can learn from me. I've not felt right calling you my apprentice for some time, now. And with a new student... well, I'm not as young as I used to be, you know. I'm not ready to step down from my duty as a healer just yet, but it's time you learned how to pass on the knowledge as well."

"You expect me to teach Higéthryth?"

"Not on your own just yet, of course," Ioreth answered, "teaching is as much a skill to be learned as healing. But I hope that you will help me to teach her, what with you being a healer yourself, now."

A long moment of silence passed between them. For a space, the only sounds nearby were the buzzing of honey bees and the gentle breeze in the trees and the rattle of dried leaves as they swirled about. All at once, it was ended when Éowyn threw her arms around Ioreth.

"You've no idea how much this means to me, Ioreth," she said, "you are the best healer I have ever known. That you would call me a healer as well brings me joy."

For her part, Ioreth was surprised by the embrace and rocked back on her heels for a moment. She laughed and gave Éowyn a gentle push to break them apart, once again clasping her hands. "I've never had a student quite like you, my lady," she said, "you will be an excellent teacher."

Above the Houses of Healing, in the Citadel of Minas Estel, Faramir stood at a westward-facing window, looking out across the distance to Minas Tirith. He still saw the Haradrim camp outside the city and still wondered at it, though he had by now heard of its purpose in Gondor. As a boy, he had heard his father mutter about the Haradrim and the difficulties that Faramir's grandfather, Ecthelion, had had in negotiating with them to keep a tenuous peace. At last, that peace had broken down not long before Denethor had become Steward and Faramir had always heard his father mutter about them, saying that they were little more than brigands willing to take advantage of an aging and infirm man. Denethor had cautioned his sons not to show weakness with the Haradrim and Faramir had witnessed the cause of that warning first hand during the war.

His shoulder still ached at the thought of it all.

Shaking himself free of those dark thoughts, he turned back to the conversation happening in the great hall of the House of the Prince. There, clustered around the table holding a map, were Beregond, Mablung, and the elf Hadoriel. Bergil was standing watch near the door, a troubled look on his face, though he was trying hard to look stoic.

"Here," Hadoriel said, indicating a spot on the map, "we finally caught up with the Dark Men here. There were orcs also, speaking to them. I think that it was some sort of a meeting between the two, messengers. We were not able to catch any of the Dark Men, but the orcs' tongues loosened a little before they met their ends." As Faramir approached the table, Hadoriel looked up at him with urgency. "Prince Faramir, one of them said there is a plot afoot to murder both you and King Elessar."

At once, Beregond straightened and spun his gaze to Bergil. "Go and inform Damrod. I want at least half again the number of guards patrolling the city at all times. Double at night."

"Yes, Captain," Bergil said, straightening to attention, then excusing himself.

"Beregond, that isn't necessary," Faramir said.

"I disagree, my lord," Beregond, "and with respect, I will take my own advice on doing my appointed duty, particularly in this instance."

Mablung and Hadoriel both straightened, as if a boundary had been crossed. They looked to both the Captain and the Prince as if waiting for the ax to fall.

Despite the heavy atmosphere in the room, Faramir gave the Captain a small smile, an eyebrow raising in amusement. "Good heavens, my friend, no offense is intended," he said, "only this. If myself and the King are the intended targets then guarding Minas Estel against this particular threat will become a moot point very shortly. The King has called me to Minas Tirith for trade negotiations with the Haradrim." He paced to the head of the table and lighted in the high-backed chair reserved for him.

"My lord, are we really going to begin trade with the southrons?" Mablung asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked as though he wholly disapproved of the very idea of it. "After all that has happened, how can we trust them?"

Faramir pondered his response for a moment. He certainly shared Mablung's disapproval, having fought against the Haradrim himself during the war. The Steward had no doubt that such feelings were probably shared by a great number of Gondorians, particularly those who had been soldiers during the war. But it was a decision for the King, in the end, and not the Steward. He could only advise Elessar of his misgivings and those of his people.

"How do we know they are not behind this threat?" Beregond put in. "My lord, I recommend that we send a messenger to Minas Tirith and inform the King and the Grey Company of this threat immediately."

"No," Faramir answered without hesitation. "Any such missive would need to be presented to the King in public. The Haradrim would most certainly hear of it."

"What difference does that make?" Mablung asked. "If they know that we are aware of the threat, perhaps it will lessen."

As the conversation went on, it did not go unnoticed by the Prince that Hadoriel wandered away from the table and to the window that Faramir had been standing at earlier. Her gaze drifted not west, but northward as she leaned against the window casement. Her part in the debate, it seemed, was over.

"The appearance of strength is all to the men of Harad," Faramir stated, bringing his gaze back to those near the table, "Elessar must appear to be unconcerned about threats if the negotiations are to go smoothly."

"That assumes that we want them to go smoothly," Mablung muttered, darkly.

Faramir turned a piercing gaze upon the Ranger, leveling his sternest countenance against him. "I assume that the King does," he admonished, "else why would he suffer them to camp outside the white city? I will not have anyone from the White Company undermine His Majesty's wishes. Am I clear, Mablung?"

Thoroughly admonished, Mablung dropped his gaze to the table top, looking apologetic. "Yes, my lord, of course."

"Regardless," Faramir said, getting to his feet again, his steps bringing him to the same side of the table as the Ranger and the Captain, "we will need to inform the King of this threat. And, as he has called for his Steward, I see no reason not to tell him of it myself, away from prying ears. Much will be on the shoulders of the White Company until then. We will see to this threat, discreetly, until the King can direct his Grey Company likewise. I intend to leave for Minas Tirith before day's end. Keep our company small, but the very best of the best from each branch of the White Company. The life and reputation of our King are at stake."

"To say nothing of the life and reputation of our Steward," Beregond put in, as he and Mablung gave a bow and took their leave.

Hadoriel had remained behind, still in her chosen spot, looking out the window, toward the north. Her eyes also wandered westward from time to time. She did not seem to have noticed that Beregond and Mablung had left or indeed that Faramir was still there at all. Quietly, the Prince approached her, stopping several feet away.

"It is a magnificent view," he commented, casually, "I spend a great deal of time pondering it myself."

"It is not the view that I ponder," Hadoriel replied, finally dragging her gaze away from the landscape to look to Faramir.

"I gathered as much," Faramir stated, "you seem as though you are mulling over some great decision."

Hadoriel gave a sigh and looked westward again. "I am uncertain you would understand. Have you ever felt pulled in two directions?"

Faramir gave a non-committal nod and wandered closer to lean against the casement opposite Hadoriel. "From time and time," he said, "not all decisions are easy, after all."

"Mine is... rather permanent."

"You are pulled west?"

"I am pulled west, at last," she affirmed around a long breath, "though not of my own desire. I am pulled west by another who is himself pulled west. He in turn pulls me."

Faramir gave a hum of understanding. As if to change the topic. "You know, it occurs to me, I do not believe I have ever seen you without Valithar by your side. Yet, he is not with you now."

"He was wounded in the orcs' attack," she said, "he remained behind in Galenost. I do not think he will ever leave again but to make his last journey westward. He is spent."

"It is he who pulls you west, then."

Hadoriel did not answer at once. "We have been together for a very long time. It is not love, as you or any mortal man would understand it. It is not physical, nor is it lustful. It is simply... companionship. We met in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, you know. In the battle beneath Barad Dur, he came to my aid against a troll and we defeated it together. Ever since then, traveling together and one of us going wherever the other went seemed as natural as breathing or as the flow of a river."

Faramir gave a smile. "Over three-thousand years together, then," he said, "that is not something to set aside lightly."

"But my own time in Middle-earth is even longer," she said, "I remember hearing of the death of King Elros in Númenor, though I was young, then. And there are still things in Middle-earth that concern me. This Great Mystery in the east; do I dare depart and leave it unsolved? What right have I to be a harbinger of doom and then flee?"

Faramir gave a nod, looking westward himself. "Well, at last I know something of your age. I find I cannot fathom it. I know not if my counsel is adequate. But, I can tell you that I would follow my own, without hesitation, were I in your shoes. I would ask myself which I would most grieve to be without."

No response seemed to be forthcoming from the elf. After a long moment, Faramir removed from his tunic a pin wrought in the shape of Ithilien's star-leaf. He placed it on the window sill.

"Whatever you decide," he said, "know that you are a friend of Ithilien and you go with the admiration of her Prince." Leaving her to her decision, Faramir turned and left the hall.

If he had remained, he might have seen Hadoriel take the pin in hand, still looking westward.

Bergil wasn't yet aware of all the specifics, but his assignment on the next patrol of Rangers leaving for Henneth Annun had suddenly changed. Mablung had spoken to him only briefly, informing him of the change and giving him a list of things to attend to. He had been able to piece together a little from his list of tasks. It was rather clear to him that the Prince and the White Company would be departing, and very soon. Given the events he could see unfolding on the other side of the Anduin, he thought that perhaps it was related to the camp that was set outside of Minas Tirith.

Whatever was brewing, he would be able to ply his father for information later. Oh, Beregond would resist at first, citing propriety and eschewing favoritism. But Bergil knew how to make his father talk. The key was to make the Captain think that it was his idea to tell his son the details.

And so, secure in the knowledge that he would be in the know soon enough, Bergil went about his appointed tasks. The market of Minas Estel was crowded that day and he had had to push his way through to speak to the grocer that he had selected as the most likely candidate who could get the supplies he needed. It wasn't a long trip from Minas Estel to Minas Tirith, but he needed supplies for a single day for fifty men and the Prince's family. There weren't many grocers in the market who could get those kind of supplies on such short notice, but this one could.

Unfortunately, the rest of the market knew it, too. The grocer was crowded with patrons all trying to get his attention and make purchases. Even making his Ranger's livery as visible as he could, he was pushed out to the edges of the crowd without much mercy.

Bergil vaguely wished for his sword. But no, he was told to be as discreet as possible. He was just about at the point of saying "blast it all" to discretion and shouting for the patrons to make way for the White Company when he heard another voice raised, somewhere across the street. It was a woman's voice and one he thought he recognized, but could not place by ear alone.

He was nothing if not curious. So, hoping that the crowd would thin out enough to allow him to complete his business later, he turned to find the source of the voice.

Two figures stood at the door to the Star and Flower Inn. One was the rotund figure of the inn-keeper, scowling down at the shorter and much more slight figure of a woman carrying a bag and wearing a cloak. He was for a moment confused as to why he should recognize this woman's voice, but mainly that was because he did not expect to see Higethryth of Edoras outside of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith.

"As I said, I wish I could help ya' lass," said the inn-keeper, "but I just haven't any room. The inn's full-up, I'm afraid."

"I'm not asking for a room," she replied, "staff quarters would be all right."

The inn-keeper gave an exasperated sigh. "And like I said, lass, the staff quarters are for staff, not guests."

"That's perfect," said Higethryth, "for I wish to be a part of your staff. I intend to work for my lodging."

"And I said before, I don't need any more staff right now. And you also said that you intended to learn the art of healing. If I don't need any staff, I surely don't need any part-time staff."

"But if I could just-"

"No is no, lass," said the inn-keeper, "and that's all I have time for just now. Be off with you." With that, the inn-keeper retreated inside his establishment and then closed the door, leaving Higéthryth outside standing on the stoop, looking forlorn and a little lost.

Bergil wasn't certain why, but he felt an inexplicable need to find some reason to break down the inn-keeper's door. Perhaps he had heard a rumor of ill-gotten trade goods or that the keeper was housing an orc.

Higéthryth turned about, looking around as if unsure which way to go. As she scanned the market, her eyes landed on Bergil with recognition. She colored a little, then looked away quickly, picked a direction and began to move quickly away from him.

Quickly, Bergil gave chase, calling out to her. She continued onward with as much dignity as she could muster, ignoring him until he caught up with her and fell into step next to her.

"Please, wait," he said, "Lady Higéthryth, I never expected to see you in Minas Estel."

"Well, it seems as though I will not be remaining in Minas Estel," she replied, "so there is no need for the White Company to trouble themselves with me."

"Well you must have come here for a reason," Bergil pressed, "I had thought you were learning healing in Minas Tirith. In fact, I was going to look in on you the next time I was there and-"

"No need to find me there, either," she said, bitterly, "it seems the only place left to me is to run back to my father in Edoras."

"I don't understand. I'd like to help, if you would only slow down and explain."

"I owe you no explanations!"

"No, and I owe you no help, but I'd like to give it anyway, if I can."

Finally, Higéthryth stopped and gave a sigh, letting her bag fall off her shoulder to rest on the ground. "Why?" she finally asked, sounding tired.

"Because Minas Estel is the City of Hope and you look like you could use a share of it." Her eyes slid away from him and he moved himself back into her vision, trying to give her his best smile. "Please?"

"Oh, all right," she said at last, looking back up to him, "help, if it will make you feel chivalrous and useful."

"Great!" Bergil exclaimed, sweeping an arm low and scooping up her bag. "I know a small garden away from the market where we can talk." He ushered her down a small street off the main road that wound through the city. The buildings pressed in around them in all directions until at the end of the street, it suddenly opened up to a bright, green space, filled with trees and flowers. A pair of song birds sat at the top of a tall bush, singing to each other. The noise and press of the marketplace melted away.

"I had no idea this was here," Higéthryth said, lighting on a small stone bench, some of the tension she had carried leaving her.

"Ithilien is the Garden of Gondor," Begil replied, setting her bag down next to her, "there are gardens like this all over the city." He leaned against a tall stone planter across from her. "Now then, shall we start again? What brings you to Minas Estel?"

"Well, as you know, I am learning the art of healing," she said, "and after a discussion with the Master of the Houses in Minas Tirith, I decided that I may be able to learn more here in Ithilien."

"But the Master of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith is the best healer in Gondor. What could you learn here that you could not learn there?"

"Well, in truth, I say 'discussion' and mean that I disagreed with the Master on a course of treatment for a patient. I turned out to be right, by the way. But the Master didn't take kindly."

"Oh," said Bergil.

"Oh," Higéthryth echoed.

"So, he turned you out on your ear?"

"In truth, I didn't mind. I honestly do think that I can learn more here in Minas Estel, anyway. But, I had grown comfortable in Minas Tirith and didn't see fit to take my chances leaving the Master's tutelage. I really do want to help here. This was just the kick I needed I suppose. And Matron Ioreth has already welcomed me as her student."

"I see," said Bergil, "so what has you running back to Edoras?"

"Plainly put, I cannot pay my way any longer," she replied, "my father wished me to learn from the Master in Minas Tirith and was paying for my lessons. Now that I have insulted the Master and said I wished to study here instead, my father has withdrawn his support."

"That isn't fair!" Bergil exclaimed. "You're a very talented healer! Gondor needs healers of skill!"

"None the less, he wishes me to give up the entire venture, if I'm not to learn from the best."

"So you're trying to go it alone, in spite of him," Bergil said with a smile, "and you're right to."

"But the last of my stipend from my father was spent just to get here," she said with sad sigh, "and no one will take me on as worker when most of my attention is on healing."

"You could ask Matron Ioreth if she could-"

"No! I couldn't! She's already doing me the kindness of taking me on simply for the sake of study! I couldn't ask her to shelter and feed me as well! What sort of healer could I be if I cannot even take care of myself?"

"All right, so you have your dignity," Bergil said with a shrug, "and you don't want to be embarrassed in front of Matron Ioreth. But maybe... what about someone else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there are many Rohirrim among the Moon-Riders. And the White Company respects healers for their own sake." He gave a wry smile. "We know we will likely find ourselves in your care at some point, after all. Perhaps we could find a family willing to... sponsor you, I suppose you could say."

Higéthryth gave another sigh, thinking it over, still looking a little doubtful. "Well... I suppose it may be my only hope," she said, looking back up at him, "who do I start with?"

"We should speak to Commander Léowine," Bergil replied, pushing himself up from the wall and pacing back toward her, "but I have tasks in the marketplace, first. If you would do me the honor, I would show you our garden-city at the same time and then accompany you to see the Commander."

"Ah, so now the truth is out!" Higéthryth replied, taking the hand he offered and coming to her feet. "It is my company you wish, after all."

"My lady, I would call you friend, if you would but consent."

"Then consent I shall."

It was at day's end when Faramir found himself gazing down into the city from the westward facing porch of the citadel courtyard. The sandy-colored stone was made warm by the orange light of the setting sun. As he watched, the city gate closed for the last time before night fall. Just before they were shut, a figure astride a horse rode forth, her blond hair streaming behind her as she galloped away northward; Hadoriel, making for Galenost. A wind, strong and inevitable, yet gentle and warm, seemed to press her onward.

Faramir felt rather than heard the figure who came up beside him, following his gaze. "I feel a great loss," said Beregond as he, too, watched the elf ride away, "but somehow not a sad one. We will not be seeing her again."

"No," Faramir affirmed, "Hadoriel has made her decision. She will sail into the uttermost west with Valithar. It is a fate not granted us and thus it is also a choice that we are spared. It is the nature of men and elves, to be apart until the end of all things."

"Leaving is not... as easy for us men, is it?"

Sensing a curiously dubious tone in Beregond's voice, Faramir pulled his gaze from the landscape and looked to Beregond. "Something on your mind, my friend?"

Not taking his eyes off of the sunset, as if trying to savor every moment of it, Beregond pulled the missive he had received earlier from a pocket inside his livery. He handed it to Faramir. "I've tried to keep you out of this," he said, "but with the Company riding for Minas Tirith tomorrow... It is bound to come up at the King's court. Maelruth plans to petition His Majesty for a reversal of his judgment of me. I have taken counsel with a master scholar in the Archives in the White City and I am told that such a thing is possible. If Maelruth gathers a certain number of lords as signatories on the petition, even the King's judgment can be over-ruled. Evidently, it dates back to the days following Castamir and the Kin-Strife. The lords at the time feared too much power in the hands of the King and this was instituted as a check."

Faramir scanned the missive quickly. It verified everything that Beregond was telling him. "I know of the law," he replied, "it takes more than two-thirds of the lords of Gondor as signatories to achieve it. Maelrúth has never had such support before."

"And yet somehow now, he does," Beregond said, "Maelrúth is expected to bring the petition before the King within the week. And when he does, me and my house will likely be sent forth from Gondor as punishment for my deeds at Fen Hollin."

"You and Bergil," said Faramir.

Beregond shook his head. "Would that I could spare him this," he said, bitterly, "he was a boy during the siege of Minas Tirith! He should not suffer dishonor for the deeds of his father!"

"And you should not suffer dishonor for the sake of an angry man's pride," Faramir replied. He handed the missive back to Beregond, "I'll not see this unfought. If Maelrúth wishes to take the Captain of my company from me, he will find me a most formidable obstacle in achieving it."

"Not for me, but for Bergil," Beregond replied, "I would choose death rather than depart Gondor and your side, my lord. But if I might not be saved this fate and Bergil may, I beg you take whatever step is needed, regardless of what may befall me."

"Beregond, your son has grown," said Faramir, "he is in no small measure capable and strong. Were he to fall under this as you fear, I have little doubt that he would follow you into exile and gladly if to save your life. And were the choice between exile for both of you or death for only one, I would choose the exile for both for no reason other than to save your lives and see this injustice undone. But I will do what I can for his sake, for you need only ask. I don't see a way to protect him and yet spare your life, but if such a measure exists, I will take it."

There was a long, companionable silence between them, then, as they both gazed westward toward Minas Tirith.

"Southrons at the gate and men of Gondor are sent from their homeland," Beregond mused, "if I had not lived to see the end of the war myself, I might have thought that we were still living it."

"Indeed," Faramir agreed, "with the war over, I had hoped for some peace. But it seems peace will be for our children rather than us."

No further words passed between them as the last rays of the sun disappeared behind Ered Nimrais. Stars winked into existence one by one, a cold light in the endless black of the sky.

The next day saw the White Company cross the Anduin and make their way across the Pelennor Fields. Mid-afternoon, they entered into Minas Tirith and Faramir and the closest of the Company went to the Citadel. Éowyn and the Steward's children went to the House of the King, there to be greeted warmly by the Queen and the Prince Eldarion. Beregond, Mablung, Léowine, and Bergil went with Faramir into the Citadel and Bergil was given the task of holding the Steward's banner before the door to the Tower of Ecthelion. The rest of the Company spread out across the city, most having been ordered to simply wear their livery to represent the Steward. Some of the most trusted among them, though, had been specifically told to discreetly seek for anything unusual in the city and to watch for any unknown entries.

King Elessar was within the Tower of Ecthelion when Faramir and the commanders of the Company entered. They halted at the entrance to the King's Hall only long enough to be announced by the herald.

As they entered, Faramir saw several men of the south, dressed in fine silks of red and black. It gave him a half a moment's pause and he could not help but check to see if any of them had any weapons. Thankfully, he saw none. He knew not what he would have done had the Haradrim been so brash as to be armed in the Court of King Elessar.

Faramir led the way forward. At the front of the hall, the King was sitting in his throne. A small chair had been set to the throne's left and in it sat the emissary. As Faramir approached, Elessar finished a quiet, companionable conversation with him and looked up with a smile. As he entered the Presence, Faramir bowed low. The Commanders of the White Company each dropped to a knee.

"Ai, na vedui, Arandur!" Elessar exclaimed, rising and coming forward to clasp arms with Faramir. "Welcome, welcome! Too long have We missed your counsel." By now, the emissary had also come to his feet and offered Faramir a bow of his own. Elessar gestured to him. "Prince Faramir of Ithilien, Steward of the Kingdom of Gondor, We present Prince Haman, Lord-Ambassador from the Court of Emperor Ari-Santi of Haradwaith."

Haman immediately dropped to his knees and offered his hands to Faramir, palms up, looking down at the floor.

"Lord Steward Faramir," he said, "I have been told of a grievous wound that was inflicted upon you by one of my people. If my blood might pay for yours, then I offer it in hopes that you will forgive my people their acts upon you."

Faramir hesitated, his gaze flickering over to Elessar for a moment. The King seemed as surprised as he was at Haman's plea. Faramir looked back to Haman who had not yet moved or looked up from the floor. There was a familiar twinge in Faramir's shoulder and the chill of memory ran up his spine.

Yet, though he did not trust this man, he felt no anger. So Faramir reached one hand out and grasped on to one of Haman's in a grip of friendship.

"Those acts were done in war, by one soldier upon another," Faramir replied, "rise and fear no retribution from me. You have the protection of my King. And I am not in the habit of punishing one man for the deeds of another."

Slowly, Haman rose, still gripping Faramir's arm. When he stood at his full height, he gripped Faramir's hand in both of his and touched it to his forehead. "You show the great wisdom and mercy that was written of your ancestors. I thank you for affording me such honor."

Elessar gave Faramir an approving look, then beckoned to the Presence again. "We and Prince Haman were just talking of many things in advance of our trade negotiations. Did you know that his caravan brought a fabric from the south, smooth as silk and hardy as linen. What did you call it?"

"Cotton, Your Majesty," Haman supplied.

"Ah, yes! Cotton! We look forward to seeing this marvel. But what news have you from Ithilien, Lord Steward?"

"Ithilien is much as it has been of late," Faramir replied, "but I do bring a message from Captain Hadoriel of Galenost on behalf of herself and Captain Valithar." He looked over to Haman for a moment, deciding that this was word not for his ears. "She says Le hannon ar Namarië! Lacho and i glaur o Gondor!"

The King's face sobered and he nodded his understanding. He allowed himself a moment of silent reflection. "Bado na sídh a Valinor, Hadoriel, Valithar," he said a moment later, just loud enough for a fortunate few to hear. "The news is not wholly unexpected, but not wholly sad, either. Please tell Legolas that he has any support he needs from Gondor."

"Of course, Majesty," Faramir replied with a nod, "I have already sent one of the Moon-Riders to Galenost to confer with him."

"I see the legendary foresight of the Stewards of Gondor is as they have said," Haman broke back in on the conversation, "you seem to know your king's mind well, your Excellency."

"There are days that We believe only Our Queen knows it better," said Elessar with a light chuckle, clapping one hand on Faramir's shoulder, "Lord Haman and Ourselves were just about to retire to the feast hall for a meal. Would you care to join us?"

"Alas, Majesty, I'm afraid I must see to my company," Faramir replied, "my men are quite road weary and I would not leave them un-housed."

"Of course, of course" said Elessar, "another meal, then. And We dearly wish for your input during the negotiations. But We suspect Lord Haman will be taking up a great deal of Our time in the next few days."

"Only as much as your Majesty is gracious enough to allow," Haman put in, "I would not hinder the normal business of your kingdom."

"We can see why your Emperor chose you to come to Our court," said Elessar with a chuckle, "We would say that We had never met a more polite man of Harad except that We have never really met one at all."

This drew a kind laughter from Haman. "I hope to be but the first," he said.

Faramir couldn't help but smile at that. This man was very different from the scant few Haradrim he remembered from his childhood. Granted, they were vague memories of his father and grandfather and their tense and outright hostile interactions with men who would rather war than trade. But even so, the image of the violent and untrustworthy Haradrim was forefront in Faramir's mind. This man standing before him was a mystery.

"I must take my leave, Majesty," Faramir said, giving a bow.

"Of course," said the King, "it is good to see you again, my friend."

The Commanders of the White Company rose as Faramir turned to leave. They followed him out, only a few steps behind. Out of the corner of his eye, Faramir caught a look exchanged between Beregond and Bergil as they passed the White Tower's entryway. The captain's son was clearly curious as to what had happened. Beregond's sharp glance in return warned him to hold his tongue for now.

Once they were well outside, into the Court of the Fountain, Faramir stopped and turned back to Beregond, Mablung, and Léowine.

"What do we do now, my lord?" Mablung asked as they gathered close, his voice low.

"Tell the White Company to remain vigilant," said Faramir, "and set a discreet watch on all the ways in and out of the city, in shifts. Until I can tell the King of this threat, we are all that know and all that will be on watch."

Mablung and Léowine both gave bows and took their leave of the Citadel, leaving Beregond to linger with the Prince.

"I'd rather see to it that a guard is with you, my lord," said the Captain. But Faramir shook his head.

"It would raise too many questions," he replied, "and we need as many as possible to guard the city." Beregond hesitated for a moment as if he wanted to say more. Looking skyward and giving a fond, quiet laugh, Faramir looked back to him. "All right, let me have it."

"I beg you don't forget that you have been named as a target as well," Beregond pleaded, "your concern for the safety of the King is admirable and I share it, but-"

"Beregond," Faramir said, stopping his friend's tumble of words, "Prince and Steward I may be, but forget not that I am a soldier also. And I am alert and watching just as the rest of the White Company. Let us focus upon those who are unaware and unable to fight."

"And the Lady Éowyn? And the children?"

Faramir gave a sigh, allowing his eyes to close for a moment as he considered. Eowyn could use a sword, true, but of his children, only Elboron had had any lessons and not many at that. But having a guard shadow them at all times without reason would call too much attention.

"One guard," he said, "with them on a pretense. Bergil, once his shift at the tower is done. We can say that he has been assigned as the Lady's aide."

"And I can say that it is on your orders, my lord?" Beregond asked. "Because the last time I suggested something like this-"

"I'll speak with her myself," Faramir said with a knowing smile.

"Thank you, my lord," Beregond said, relief clearly visible on his face.

"Go see to the Company, you coward," Faramir replied, laughing and giving Beregond's shoulder a playful cuff.

With a smile, Beregond gave a bow and took his leave, exiting the Citadel.

Faramir turned toward the House of the King, more than ready to return to the company of his wife and children. He had barely made it five paces across the yard when he spotted a figure hurrying his way; a short stout man with greying hair, dressed in his finest clothing for appearance at Court. He moved with purpose, not a motion wasted, and wore a scowl. All vestiges of Faramir's smile vanished as he recognized Lord Maelrúth of Ethring.

"Prince Faramir, I must protest!"

"Ah, Lord Maelrúth," Faramir said, attempting to continue on his way even as the irate noble fell into step along side him, "something has upset you. What a surprise."

"Beregond! In the White City and within even the Citadel!" the lord snapped back at him. "How dare you allow such a thing?"

"The King has allowed it," Faramir replied, still not breaking stride, "that is how."

"It is hardly appropriate!" Maelrúth shot back. "His status is to be a matter at Court before the King a few days hence. He should be locked up until that judgement may be passed!"

Faramir stopped in his tracks and whirled on Maelrúth, looking down at the shorter lord, his irritation over-boiling at last. "Judgement has long since been passed upon Captain Beregond," he growled, "the King spoke His doom in the days after His coronation. It is your own judgement you seek to enforce!"

"As is my right as a Lord of Gondor and the Reunited Kingdoms," Maelrúth bit back in kind, his stance showing no indication that he had been cowed by the Steward's tone.

"Your right it may be to speak," said Faramir, "if any will bother to listen. But you remain one lone voice in a crowd. I know the minds of the other Lords in this and they have accepted King Elessar's judgement happily. You have not the support to overturn it."

"The law is the law," Maelúth snapped, "for commoner, soldier, Lord, and King! I need only a petition with signatures of Lords under the King's authority, numbering two-thirds the number of the Lords of Gondor."

"You have not the support of the Lords of Gondor!" Faramir replied, his voice raising. "So unless you intend to defy the will of the King, in which case I would strike you down where you stand for treason, you will simply have to accept it!"

There was a long pause and Maelrúth remained firm, glaring up at the Prince and yet somehow seeming to command his attention, rather than the other way round. The corner of his mouth twitched up into a tiny, obsequious smirk for just a moment.

"The world has changed, Lord-Steward," Maelrúth said, nearly purring with self-important menace, "I have changed with it. Have you?"

And with that, the Lord of Ethring turned smartly on his heel and walked away, toward the Citadel entrance to take his very unhappy leave. As he watched him, Faramir felt his teeth grinding together, an ache beginning to form at his temples. Taking a deep breath and a moment to gather himself, he continued on toward the House of the King and the solace of his family.

Léowine couldn't help but feel as though he was riding into the belly of the beast. He slowed from a canter to a slow trot as he approached the edge of the Haradrim camp astride his black stallion, Windmane. The old horse's temperament had softened as he had aged, but even so, Windmane's ears pricked forward and he grew restless as the camp loomed closer.

The Haradrim camp lied near the outside wall of the city on the south-east side. A decided perimeter had been set about it, lengths of red and gold fabrics hung on posts to create a sort of a wall. Within, tents and caravan waggons were grouped. The outskirts of the camp were largely the warriors who had been sent to guard the caravan and Prince Haman on their way. Two of these stood near the gap in the cloth fence on guard. They stood taller as Leowine approached and regarded him warily. Léowine's hand itched for the blade that was at his side, but he resisted, instead bringing his horse to a halt several yards from the two guardsmen.

"Good evening, to you," he said, summoning as much light into his voice as he was able, "may I approach?"

The two guardsmen flicked looks toward each other momentarily and Léowine could see their hands tightening on the grips of their spears.

"First dismount," said the elder-looking of the two, his voice heavy with an accent and the words halting.

Léowine gave a nod and dismounted. Leading Windmane by the reins, he walked up to the guardsmen as non-threateningly as possible. "Thank you," he said, "nice evening tonight, eh' lads?"

"Name," said the guard again, "business."

"Right," Léowine said with a nervous chuckle and a clearing of his throat, "Commander Leowine of the White Company of the Steward Faramir. I bring word from the Steward for his excellency the Prince Haman."

The guard, apparently the only one with a voice, gave a nod and held out his hand. Léowine looked down at it questioningly.

"Word," said the guard, giving him a face that clearly said he thought Léowine was a complete simpleton, "I give to Prince."

"Oh, no," Léowine replied, "it isn't written." The guard looked at him again, looking confused. Clearly, speaking Westron was not this guard's strongest skill. "I must speak the message."

"Ah," said the guard withdrawing his hand, "speak. I repeat."

Léowine gave a nervous smile. "Perhaps it would be best if I were to deliver the message to his Excellency himself, personally."

Another look of confusion from the guard. Yes, he needed to speak to Prince Haman directly. At this rate, he and the guard's inability to communicate clearly was going to result in renewed warfare between the realms.

"I am to deliver the message to Prince Haman only," he said, hoping that would get the idea across. When the guard looked at him with annoyance, he gave what he hoped was an apologetic grimace.

The guard sighed, then looked over to his partner. He spoke quickly in a language that rolled off the tongue in waves like sand dunes. The other guard nodded and turned toward the camp, making his way inside.

"We wait," said the guard.

"Of course," Léowine replied with a nod.

The two of them stared at each other in awkward silence. Nearby, Windmane stomped the ground impatiently. After another couple of uncomfortable minutes, Léowine began to pace a little and found himself straying back to the pack on his saddle. Feeling a bit peckish, he reached inside to find one of the pieces of herbed bread he had on hand. The guard shifted forward a little, watching him sharply.

"Just a bite to eat," Léowine said, holding up the hunk of bread, "would you like some?"

The guard looked at him suspiciously. Léowine ripped a piece off and popped it into his mouth. This seemed to put the guard more at ease.

"Here," Léowine said, tearing free another piece and holding it out to the guard, "Gondorian specialty. I rather like it. Try some?"

Curiosity peaking on his face, the guard shifted his spear from his right hand to his left and took the proferred bread. He sniffed at the aroma of the herbs for a moment before taking a bit and chewing thoughtfully. He gave a small sound of appreciation.

"Is not bad," the guard allowed, "hmm... dull, maybe."

Léowine raised an eyebrow at this. "You want dull, you should try what we get in the field," he muttered, feeling a little bit slighted.

Getting a little bit of a gleam in his eye, the guard reached over to a small table on which some supplies had been set. From a small metal plate, he took a small, rolled up piece of flat bread and handed it to Léowine. There was some sort of filling inside, giving a very strong scent that the Moon-rider couldn't identify. He gave a shrug and bit into it.

It was fine for the first few seconds, even enjoyable; a strong vegetable taste. But then Léowine found that his mouth was set on fire, the sensation spreading as he chewed and a pungeant aroma invading the back of his throat and his nose. He found he could not suppress the small cough that it induced, but soldiered on, his eyes beginning to water.

The guard gave a chuckle.

"Well," said Léowine as he forced the burning mass down his throat, "that's certainly strong."

The guard gave a merry laugh and cuffed him on the shoulder. "Clears breathing," he said, "and curls pale hair."

He had to admit; that much was certainly true. And, as the burning wore off, Léowine found he didn't hate it.

"It certainly does at that," he replied to the guard around a laugh.

Their unlikely shared mirth was broken off when the other guard returned, following a steap behind the Prince himself. The first guard stood straighter to attention and then gave a bow as the Prince approached.

"Ah!" Haman said. "Commander Léowine, yes?"

"Yes, your Excellency," Leowine gave a bow of his own, "I apologize for the interruption."

Haman gave a imperiously dismissive wave of his hand. "Nonesense," he said, "the company of Steward Faramir is welcome in my camp. I was told he sent word for me. Come, come! Walk with me." He beckoned Léowine into the perimeters of the camp and began to make his way back toward its center.

Léowine hastened to walk beside him, noticing that the second of the guards continued to hover near by, close but discreet. As they walked through the camp, several of the south-men rested their eyes upon them, some looking on-edge, some looking a little bit like hungry wolves.

"What can I do for the good Steward?" Haman asked as they walked.

"Well, as I'm sure you know, the King relies quite heavily on the Steward's counsel," Léowine asked, "this is is something that my lord Faramir takes quite seriously. In the matter of opening trade with your people, he prefers to be as informed as possible."

"Ah, yes, I had expected as much," said the Prince, "I have been assembling a report for him and for the King going into greater detail about the nature of trade with my people; customs, available goods, that sort of thing. I hope it will meet with his approval."

"And Prince Faramir appreciates your efforts, Excellency," Léowine replied, as graciously as he could without sounding patronizing, "but it is the matter of available goods which is of concern to him at the moment. He asked me to make a cursory inspection of the goods you have brought, so that he might better be able to appraise them for fair trade."

"He wishes to ensure that our goods are not, as my people say, worth less than a dry snake."

Léowine wasn't entirely certain what the Prince meant by that. He suspected that it lost something in the translation from the original Haradric.

"I'm certain he meant no offence, Excellency," said Léowine.

"Of course not," Haman said with a jovial laugh, "I had the opportunity to see your people's goods on my trip into the city. It is only fair that one of your people gets to see ours. My purpose here is open and fair trade. I shall show you a selection of what we have brought. And then I shall show you my camp and introduce you to some of the merchants who journeyed with us."

They came to a halt by the opening of the largest tent in the camp, set in the center of everything with a gold-trimmed pennant high atop its peak. Haman turned to a nearby servant and spoke to him quickly in the same rolling tongue that the guard had used earlier. The servant bowed and disappeared into the crowd of the camp on his errand.

"First, our food and drink," said Haman, clapping Léowine on the shoulder and steering them both toward the opening of the tent and leading them inside.

The Prince's tent was furnished lavishly, carpets covering every inch of the ground and a low table surrounding the tent's center pole. Cusions were scattered about the table, large and plump and rather inviting. The table held a number of bottles and carafes and plates of foods that Léowine had never seen before. At the table's head, a stack of parchments and a quill and ink looked to have been somehwat hastily set aside. Likely, it was the report that the Prince had mentioned.

"Please sit," said the Prince, gesturing to one of the cusions and settling into the one at the head of the table. He reached for a carafe and filled a goblet. "Would you care for some sekanjabin, commander?"

"I'm afraid I am not allowed alcohol while on duty, Excellency," Léowine replied, somewhat awkwardly settling onto another of the cusions.

"Then you may drink sekanjabin," Haman said, "it is a sweet syrup infused with mint and vinegar. It is mixed with water to your taste." He reached for a smaller bottle and poured a thick, pale amber liquid into the goblet that he had just filled with water. He swirled it around a little, then drank. "Keeps well for travel and reinvigorates the body." He offered the smaller bottle to Léowine.

The Moon-rider gave a shrug and poured some into a goblet that was in front of him, then filled the rest with water. Tentatively, he took a drink. It tasted cool, but sharp and the back of his nose felt clear and cold. The Prince was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for Leowine's assessment. The Moon-rider gave an agreeable noise and a nod, then went back for more. He wondered if all of the south-men's food was concocted to clear the airways.

Over the course of the next hour or so, the Prince showed Léowine a veritable parade of goods; cloths, preserved foods, goods and tools of wood and metal, salt, spices he had never dreamed of, glass, and all manner of things. It was all quite impressive and there was not a dubious piece in the whole lot of it.

Though, in truth, it was not the trade goods that Léowine was actually there to see. It was everything else about the Prince and his camp full of soldiers and entourage. Beregond had called together the commanders of the White Company some hours earlier to try to find a way to root out the assassins that might have been in the city. And as much as they hoped that the Haradrim envoy was here in good faith, they just couldn't shake their suspicions. So Léowine had volunteered to venture into the dragon's maw to see how things appeared.

But the longer he was in the camp, the less suspicious he found himself becoming. Everything about the Prince suggested that he had come to Gondor in good faith and with enthusiasm for better relations between their peoples. Indeed the camp even looked to be only lightly armed, with not a sword, spear, or shield unaccountable for a soldier and not a weapon to be seen among the merchants and servants. This was not a camp preparing for a fight and even if one happened, they were not likely to survive it. The more people he spoke to - or rather, had Haman translate for - the more he found that these were all people hoping for something better and willing to risk all for it.

The Prince and his men had come north to the very seat of power of a king who had once warred against them, not knowing what their reception would be or if they would ever return home. It was the diplomatic equivalent of offering someone your wrists and Léowine couldn't help but admire their bravery. Suddenly, walking into their camp didn't seem so terrible.

Beregond had bade Mablung to have the Rangers make a discreet sweep of the city, paying special attention to all the ways in and out. The Commander had returned to him with a report in the late afternoon. They had spent a couple of hours in the sitting room in Beregond's old house in the Sixth Circle, planning how to keep an eye on all of them. The Rangers, they decided, would go about the city in plain clothes in turns, blending in with the populace. He left it to Mablung to decide the rotation.

Now, as the Sun was setting over Minas Tirith, Beregond made his way to the passage under the city's great stone prow in the Fifth Circle, called the Sages' Neath. At the half way point of the tunnel, set into the stone and flanked by lit braziers, was the door to the city's Old Archive. It delved into the stone of the mountain like a Dwarven mine, but the treasures contained within were of a different sort altogether. The Old Archive held some of Gondor's oldest surviving documents and original manuscripts and copies of books from all over Middle-earth. It was said that some even dated back to the days of Númenor, having been brought there by Islidur and Anárion. Beregond had never seen such documents himself, of course, but marveled at the very idea.

Faramir had left word for Beregond that he would be found here. Checking with one of the archivists, the Captain was directed to a far-flung chamber in the north-east corner of the Archive. There, sitting in a chair by a fireplace with a large tome in his lap and a thoughtful expression, Beregond found Faramir. There was a stack of similar volumes sitting on a table nearby.

Faramir looked up as he entered and gave Beregond a nod, indicating that they could dispense with formalities. He then glanced back down at the page he was reading to finish a sentence.

"What news?" the Prince asked, indicating another nearby seat for Beregond to take.

"So far, all seems quiet," Beregond replied, sitting and leaning his elbows on his knees, "Mablung has the Rangers seeing to all the ways in and out of the City, public, secret, or... otherwise."

Faramir gave a wry smile, setting his book aside. "He's sent someone crawling through the cisterns, hasn't he?" he said.

Beregond gave a shrug. "I don't envy the poor soul who has that task," he said, "but with entrances on both the First Circle and the Fourth, best to keep an eye on it. Besides, they never were able to confirm the rumor that Orcs had found a way into it during the War. Meanwhile, I sent Léowine to the Haradrim camp to survey the situation there. He's not returned yet and I suspect he will be some time."

"On a pretense, I hope," Faramir said.

"Of course," Beregond replied, then gave a sigh, leaning back in his chair, "I know His Majesty wishes the talks with the Haradrim to go smoothly, but I just cannot silence the fear that their presence is not a coincidence."

"It would seem to be an obvious possibility," Faramir admitted, "you do well to look into it. I have considered one less obvious one, however, and it concerns you directly."

"Maelrúth?" Beregond asked.

Faramir nodded, grimly. "The man is frighteningly single-minded," he said, "I don't like to think that even he would go so far as to stage a revolt against the King, but... he has grown ever more determined and desperate every time I have crossed paths with him in the last few years."

"Can he really have that sort of support?" Beregond asked. "To overturn the King's judgement is one thing, but to move against him would take even more."

"Which is why I gave thought to the possibility that he simply desires to do away with the King entirely," Faramir explained.

"But would that not simply put the Prince Eldarion on the throne?" Beregond asked.

"With the Steward of the Realm as Regent," Faramir said, "making me a target as well."

Heavily, Beregond stood up from his seat and wandered toward the fireplace, setting a hand on the mantlepiece and leaning against it, gazing into the fire. A look of darkness was on him, as if he was weighing two horrors and trying to decide which was the larger evil. He felt Faramir's presence next to him, also standing near the fire and gazing into it. They were both silent for several long moments.

"I have a feeling that I know what you're thinking," Faramir said at last.

"If all of this is for my sake, I'll never forgive myself," Beregond replied, shaking his head.

"It is a far-fetched theory," said Faramir, "and I'll not have you acting upon something that is as unlikely as this. Am I clear?"

Beregond gave a long sigh, closing his eyes against the heat of the fire. He nodded somewhat reluctantly.

Silence passed between them again for several long moments as they both looked into the fire. The wood was beginning to burn low and hot, a pale blue flame licking at the center of the fire.

"You can take some comfort in this," Faramir said, "I cannot fathom how such a plot would benefit Maelrúth. Even if the King and I were both killed, the next in line for a Regency would be the Master of the Keys. Lord Hurin is of like mind. It would benefit Maelrúth very little indeed. There would have to be a fair amount of blood on the steps of the White Tower before such violence achieved his goal."

"Which would, of course, mean that he would need considerable support for his little revolution," Beregond said with a nod, then gave a bitter laugh, "I know he has the ear of the Lords of Arnor, but that would be an awful long way to come on his behalf. I imagine they would demand more than just the Hobbits' lands in exchange for waging open war on their own King and kinsman."

Faramir looked over at Beregond, his brow furrowing and his mouth hanging open for a moment as if to say something. He looked back to the fire, putting a hand to his chin in thought.

"The Lords of Arnor," he mused aloud, turning away from the fire to pace the room. He leaned against the edge of the table where his volumes were stacked, as if pondering their contents. But his gaze was far away. "He said that the world has changed and he has changed with it." He gave a sigh and let his head fall forward. "I am a fool!"

"My lord?" Beregond questioned.

"The Lords of Arnor, Beregond," said Faramir, "how many do you think there are?"

"I'm not certain," Beregond replied with a shrug, "I imagine in Elendil's time there would have been as many as here in Gondor. But the numbers have likely dwindled over the course of history. I would doubt there are as many as there are in Gondor today."

"Two-thirds, perhaps?" Faramir ventured, turning back to Beregond with a meaningful look.

The implication of it was not lost on Beregond. "The petition against me," he said, "but Maelrúth needs two-thirds of the lords of Gondor, does he not?"

"Specifically, a number of the lords under the King's authority numbering two-thirds or more the number of the lords of Gondor," Faramir replied, "and the Lords of Arnor are under the King's authority. Maelrúth has their ear."

"Certainly when that law was written, it wasn't intended to include..."

"The original intent does not matter," Faramir said, shaking his head, "it is the letter of the law that must be adhered to. The world has changed and the law has not changed with it. That is his plan. That is how he is going to achieve his end."

"Well, then, can the law be updated?" Beregond asked, a spark of hope.

"Yes," said Faramir, still sounding grim, "but we speak of a law to over-rule the King. The King himself cannot simply change such a law. The case for changing it must be taken to the Lords of Gondor. The process would take months. Years, perhaps. Maelrúth is set to deliver his petition within the next few days."

Running a hand down his face, Beregond turned back to the fire, hoping to hide his despair and knowing he was doing a miserable job of it. "Well," he said bitterly, "at least we can strike Maelrúth off the list of potential assassins."

"I'll not give up on this," said Faramir with renewed conviction, "even if he succeeds with this petition of his, I will see it undone."

"I don't see how," Beregond replied with a sad sigh, "exile seems to be my destiny."

"Even if it is so," said Faramir, "you need not flee from safety entirely. I will write a letter to King Éomer asking him to grant shelter to you and Bergil. He knows you to be an honorable man. I've little doubt he'll refuse."

Beregond glanced back up at Faramir for a moment and then nodded as the Prince once again joined him by the fire. No further words passed between them as they watched the fire become blue-hot coals, its light growing dimmer.

The sun was setting orange over the peaks of Ered Nimrais in the west, shadows lengthening in the Citadel and casting a golden glow on the white stone. Éowyn sat atop a blanket in the small patch of green that surrounded the fountain, feeling the warmth of the last rays of the sun on her face. Feeling a gentle tug on her sleeve, she looked down to her youngest, sitting next to her and holding up a clumsily-crafted ring of flowers woven together at their stems.

"Like this, mama?" Fréodgyth asked and she replied with a bit of praise. Next to Éowyn's own ring, it was certainly novice work. But for a toddler it was quite well done. She was beginning to find that the little girl was quite clever, a remarkably observant child. Anything she saw her elders doing, she attempted to mimic and she had showed signs of understanding the world far faster than her brothers had.

Of course, with her brothers ever-present, that sometimes proved to be a source of trouble.

Éowyn cast her glance over to the boys, chasing after each other around the open spaces of the Citadel, the young Prince Eldarion joining in the merriment. The three had concocted some sort of a game, though Éowyn found she could not quite discern the rules. But as they chased around with reckless abandon, she gave a moment to be thankful that Fréodgyth had found something quieter to occupy her time, for a change.

The scene was almost enough to allow her to forget the cares of the day. She found her worries had drifted away for a few blissful moments. The only thing that broke the wonderful illusion was the figure standing near the Citadel wall, looking down over the Sixth Circle with a thoughtful frown upon his face. Bergil had one hand on the hilt of the sword at his side and she could see, even from this distance, that he was gripping it as if to assure himself that it was there.

With a troubled sigh, Éowyn came to her feet. "Stay here, Hwðulíoe," she said to Fréodgyth. The little girl gave an absent nod, still engrossed in her project.

Éowyn went over to Bergil and stood next to him, looking out over the Sixth Circle. "There is something troubling you," she said to him.

Bergil gave a stoic nod. "Rath Dínen, my lady," he replied, keeping his voice low, "the White Company is patrolling the city, but only the king's family and the steward's family are allowed past Fen Hollin. The street extends back into the mountain. It is unlikely, I will admit, but, if someone were to climb the mountain and come down into the Silent Street, there would only been the one guard at Fen Hollin standing between them and entering the city."

"That does sound rather extraordinary," said Éowyn, "but now that you say it, I find my own unease growing."

Bergil gave a nod. "Were I determined enough and had the skill to climb the mountain, it is how I would attempt to enter the city. And an assassin, trained to move and kill silently, might be able to do away with the guard and enter the Sixth Circle with the rest of the city none the wiser." Still frowning, he looked up at her. "My lady, has the King been made aware of the threat?"

"No," Éowyn said with regret, "he has been kept busy with the Haradrim prince. And I've not yet been able to tell the Queen, either." She gave a thoughful sigh. "Perhaps I should go see to it."

Bergil straightened a little, giving a nervous grimace. He seemed as though he wished to say something, but was weighing his words.

"Oh, there is the look you inherited from your father," she said, "speak your mind, Bergil. I'll not bite."

Bergil cleared his throat a little, his eyes drifing away for a moment as he chose his words. "Due respect to the slayer of the Witch-King, my lady," he said, hesitantly, "for I know you have skill with a blade. But for the wife of the Steward to enter Rath Dínen armed... and forgive me, but... it has been some time, has it not?"

For a moment, Éowyn felt a hot indignation rise in her. However, hearing the sound of her sons and the Prince Eldarion playing not far away, it was cooled. She gave a defeated sigh, placing her hands on the embattlement of the Citadel wall. "I see your point," she admitted.

"Neither I nor any of the White Company may accompany you, my lady," Bergil went on, "and I doubt either the Prince or my father would thank me for leaving you undefended where I suspect there to be danger. Nor would I forgive myself, to be frank."

Éowyn gave him a gentle smile. "You concern for me is quite gratifying," she said, taking hold of one of his hands, "and your candor even more so. Particularly when you are correct. I will speak to Faramir of this as soon as I may. For now, I am well-guarded in the Citadel. Go and find Beregond or Mablung and ask them to keep a watch on Fen Hollin until then."

Bergil's tension evaporated and he inclined his head in a respectful acknowledgement before taking his leave.

"And Bergil," Éowyn called after him a moment later. He turned back to her expectantly. "You have come a long way from the young boy I first met running errands for the healers during the Dawnless Day," she said, "it pleases me greatly to see the young man you have made of yourself."

Bergil gave a shy smile of thanks and another bow before hurrying on his way. She watched him go for a moment before returning to Fréodgyth near the fountain. The little girl showed her another aspect of her work and Éowyn tried to give her the attention she was asking for. But her mind was pulled ever toward Fen Hollin with unease.

Faramir remained in the Archive late into the night until he had utterly exhausted all of the legal documents concerning the King's judgement that he could find. Though he had found several different records that gave precidence to the different sorts of cases the ancient Kings of Gondor had made, he found nothing that would allow the law concerning its overturning to be stopped. Finally, wearied and heartsick, when his eyes could no longer keep to the words on the pages, he returned to the Steward's residence in the Citadel.

His sons and daughter had long since been put to bed. Briefly, he looked in on each of them, kissing them on their heads one-by-one in their sleep. None of them so much as stirred. At last, he came to his own room to find Éowyn fast asleep in a chair, a candle on a table nearby burning low and an open book resting in her lap. It was well past the time she normally would have been asleep as well. Something had kept her up, waiting for him.

Faramir began to make his way over to Éowyn, intending to wake her gently. However, he found his sight drawn to the candle flame. It sputtered on its short wick, surrounded by a pool of melted wax threatening to snuff it out. Faramir's tired eyes were transfixed by the flickering light, flashes of light dancing across his vision, turning to lightning, their brilliant lances striking the ground all about. There was a figure there, a man, standing against a growing darkness. With a mighty rumble, the lightning struck at him, the report becoming the roar of a great beast.

He was started from the vision by a painful burst of heat on his fingertip. He shook the vision away, pulling his hand away from the flame of the candle and stumbling back, colliding with another chair and causing it to rattle. Éowyn awoke at the sound, startled. Seeing her husband attempting to gather his senses, she rose and went over to him.

"Healsgebedda," she said, gently taking his arm and leading him to the edge of their bed to light, "what have you seen? Beregond again?"

Running one hand over his eyes and resting his other over hers on his arm, he gave a nod, his breath shaking. "Oh, my dear one," he said, resting his head against hers, "I am helpless. He is going to be cast out of Gondor and there is nothing that I can do to save him from this fate. I have failed him and his son as well. And I fear I will not be able to defend Ithilien and the west from the darkness without him."

"You've not failed him yet," Éowyn replied, "he is still the captain of your company, still by your side. You will find a way to keep him in Gondor."

"There is something coming, looming in the shadows and waiting to strike," said Faramir, "and I cannot see what it is or where it will come from. But I know it will come soon. And my heart tells me that this envoy from Haradwaith will play some part, though I cannot see how."

Éowyn gave a soft sigh of regret. "I wish I did not have to say this, but there is something more," she said, pulling away to look at him directly, "a concern that Bergil brought to me and that has been playing on my mind for several hours, now."

And then she told him of the Silent Street and the foreboding she sensed from it and Bergil's worry. They spoke at length of what they could do to make Fen Hollin safe without arousing suspicion. But try as they might, they could think of no way to do so, short of what was already done; having the White Company keep a discreet eye on the door. But still, they agreed, it was the city's weakest point.

Éowyn rose from the edge of the bed and went over to the wardrobe that held Faramir's clothing and belongings. She opened it and from it took his sword. "Perhaps, with everything," she said, "you might wear full military dress to the official introductions at court tomorrow."

Faramir shook his head, standing to join her. He took the sword from her and looked at it with a sigh. "Would that I was able," he said, "but these are talks of peace. The King will not be armed and as his right hand, I must follow suit." He set the sword back in its place inside the wardrobe, then placed his hands on her shoulders. "I have the utmost faith in the White Company," he said.

"But they are as yet the only soldiers who know of the threat," she replied.

"I know," said Faramir, "but I put my fate in their hands and gladly."

"Then I will simply have to worry for the both of us," said Éowyn.

The next day was clear and bright when, in mid-morning, the Lords of Gondor assembled in the throne hall of the White Tower, murmuring to each other and speaking of the strange happenings of the last few days. The King had called a general court to begin more open talks among them all for the allowance of trade with Haradwaith. Already factions within the lords were forming; those for trade and those opposed to it. Debate had begun between several of them as they assembled and waited.

At last, the herald announced the arrival of King Elessar. The crowd parted to clear the way to the throne and the assembly all bowed as he walked forward. One by one, the herald then announced the Steward, the Prince of Dol Amroth, and a few other notables, inviting them into the court itself. And finally, last of all, came the Haradrim envoy.

"His Majesty invites into his court His Excellency Haman, envoy from the court of the Sun Emporer Ari-Santi of Haradwaith, The Prince of the River's End, and he who speaks for the Haradrim."

The room was silent as Haman entered and came forward, holding his head high and not meeting the gaze of any of the lords as he passed them. To the surprise of many, he came forward entirely alone, his guard having been left at the step to the White Tower as a sign of humility and trust. At the foot of the throne, he bowed low to the King.

"Mighty King Elessar," he said, "on behalf of my Emeror, I thank you for your wise consideration and your generous hospitality. To your court, I bring greetings of peace and hope that this will mark a new era for our peoples."

"Your greetings of peace We receive in kind," said Elessar, "and your hope We also take up as Our own. Please, take your ease, everyone." Taking his seat upon the throne, the King gestured to an empty seat at the far left of the court. This had been set aside for Prince Haman.

For his part, Faramir took his rightful place in the Steward's seat on the King's right, the White Rod across his lap. He cast his gaze about the room, catching the eye of several members of the White Company who were placed throughout the hall. Beregond, too, was present, near the wall to Faramir's left. Several members of the Grey Company were there as well. Mablung, he knew, also had a contingent outside the Tower, guarding the way into the court.

The buisness of the Court began when Elessar bid Haman to adress the assembled lords. He spoke at length, once again making his case for trade between the kingdoms. After he was finished, several of the lords came forward to ask questions or speak their piece. The lords of Gondor's southern holdings were particularly sharp with their words and observations. Faramir offered his counsel and assisted with answering their questions as best as he could, but it was the King and Haman who directly addressed most of the concerns. All the while, however, a dread grew on Faramir's mind and he found himself glancing to all of the entrances to the hall often.

Nearly two hours had passed when Faramir saw movement along the side of the hall. Mablung had quietly entered and made his way over to Beregond, whispering something to the Captain. Beregond looked alarmed in response and gave a swift reply that sent the Commander back out of the hall, keeping himself as calm as possible but hurried all the same. Faramir then caught Beregond's eye and motioned him over.

"The guard at Fen Hollin was just found dead at his post," the Captain reported, his voice just loud enough for Faramir alone to hear, "it appears he has been for several hours."

"How is it that no one noticed?" Faramir asked.

Beregond gave a distastful swallow, as if holding back bile. "He was... posed," he replied, "to seem as though he was still on guard. He was only found dead when his replacement arrived. The Rangers are scouring the City anew as we speak."

Faramir gave a grim nod. "Remain at the highest alert," he ordered, "should something come of this, the first and only priority is to protect the King."

"Aye, my lord," Beregond said with a nod before returning to his place near the wall, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

The Court continued. Presently, it was the Lord Maelrúth who was speaking. He spoke, unkindly, of the horrors done against Gondor during the War of the Ring, placing the blame for much of it at the feet of Haman's people. Few seemed at all swayed by his words and some even remarked that perhaps he had gone too far. But he persisted, stirring up unease in the Court. At last, two factions among the lords began to openly argue, ignoring decorum entirely.

In their voices, Faramir could swear he heard a great storm, thunder clapping through the hall as if from some far-off place. It echoed in his mind like the rattle of spears. Something drew his eye back to Beregond again. The Captain was tense, his right hand on the hilt of his sword now. At first, it appeared that he was watching the conflict among the lords, but then Faramir noticed that his eye was beyond that, at the great door to the White Tower.

"Enough!" Elessar intoned sharply, his voice raising over the unruly crowd as he came to his feet. "Enough! We will have peace in Our presence! Enough!"

Finally, the lords began to still. But Faramir saw that Beregond was in motion toward the back of the hall. He noticed next that there was a cacophony at the door. Slowly, as they realized that another conflict was brewing, the assembled crowd all turned to look toward the back of the room. Loud clashing of blades were sounding.

"To arms!" Beregond shouted as he ran, drawing his sword. "The Tower is attacked! To arms!" The rest of the White Company soldiers were following him quickly. The Grey Company was not far behind.

Faramir came to his feet, his grasp tightening around the White Rod. Elessar descended the stair from his throne and stood next to him.

"What is happening?" the King asked, moving to go toward the back of the hall.

"I don't know yet," Faramir replied, laying a hand on the King's arm, "you are unarmed, Majesty. Best remain here."

For a moment, Elessar looked as though he would shake himself free of his Steward's advice. But he relented when he saw Beregond and the captain of the Grey Company returning to the front of the hall, two more of the White Company following behind them. The Lords all parted for them, pressing up against the walls of the hall with uncertainty as the sounds of battle continued outside.

"Five men, cloaked and masked, all in black!" Beregond reported. "They fight like demons!"

"Protect the King!" Faramir shouted.

The four soldiers began to form a rough line before the throne. But almost before they could take up their positions, four more forms dropped down into the hall from above, clothed all in black, giving war cries. Each held two hooked swords in thier hands and made directly for the front of the hall. A cacophonous melee broke out in the throne hall, the sound of metal on metal echoing off the stone walls.

Faramir kept his place just before the King, keeping a wary eye on the chaos of the fight, watching for an indication that any of the attackers might break through. He heard Beregond give a cry from the line and looked to it. While still striking at an enemy, the captain was wildly gesturing to a figure perched on the edge of one of the tall statues that stood at the side of the hall. Faramir looked to it and saw still another dark figure, taking aim with a short bow, readying a shot meant for the King.

"Aragorn!" Faramir shouted in warning, pushing the King aside and placing himself between him and the attacker. There was a sharp lance of pain in the arm he had thrown over the King's chest only an instant later and an arrow sprouted from the wound. Faramir gave a cry, staggering back into the King who caught him up in his arms as they both dropped to the floor. By the time Faramir came back to his senses, he saw the black archer now on the floor before them, aiming once again with his bow.

The archer was just drawing back the string when something struck him in his forehead, squarely between the eyes. As the attacker fell, Faramir saw the ivory handle of a small knife. He and the King both looked to the side and saw Haman just finishing a follow-through with his right hand, a matching knife held in his left at the ready. As soon as he was certain the attacker would not be rising, he cast a gaze to the King and the Steward and gave a nod. Faramir acknowledged it in kind.

Seeing the fall of their comrade, the four attackers fighting Beregond and the others rewnewed their attack. On the left side, one of the White Company soldiers fell, a gaping wound across his neck. One of the dark attackers broke through the line, making his way to the King and Steward in a desperate flight, swinging his blades up and preparing to let the fall on his prey. Desperately, Faramir stopped their fall by holding up the White Rod. He gave a cry as the wound in his arm protested. It was about to give way under the assault when Beregond barreled into the attacker from the side, knocking him away, sending one of the attacker's blades clattering across the marble floor.

Beregond placed himself between Faramir and the attacker, bringing his blade to bear and intercepting a number of vicious attacks from the dark figure. Beregond gave ground under the assault, taking several steps back before he determined that he could give no more and dug in, only feet from the Steward and the King.

What happened next passed within the blink of eye, but would forever be burned into the memory of the Prince of Ithilien. A cruel overhead attack came down against Beregond and he raised his sword to block it desperately. It sent him off balance, leaving his left side open to a renewed attack. The horrible hooked sword of the dark man found purchase in the captian's side with a sickening sound of rending flesh. Giving a cry, Beregond clamped his left arm down upon it, lodging it there as he struck out with a riposte of his own, his blade meeting the dark man's chest, pushing clear through to the other side. The two stood there motionless for a moment before the dark man fell to the floor and did not move, leaving his blade behind in Beregond's side. Beregond sank to his knees and fell backward, Faramir only just leaping forward in time to catch him.

"Beregond!" Faramir cried, taking up the captain's face in his hands, ignoring the sharp throb in his arm. The King was next to him a moment later, checking on the blade in the captain's side, looking grim.

"Well," Beregond gasped out, "t'was always expected I would fall in battle. But I never forsaw that it would be within the throne-hall of the White Tower.

"Speak not of passing," Faramir commanded, reaching for the blade.

"Nay leave it," Beregond said with a cough, grasping on to Faramir's wrist, "it has pierced my lung, I can feel it there."

Desperately, Faramir look to Elessar. The King looked back up at him and shook his head, sadly.

"I regret not my actions, my lord," Beregond said, calling Faramir's attention back once again, "and I would that you do not either. It only pains me that I pass with my honor in question."

"I will not see it thus," Faramir replied with a shake of his head, resting a hand on Beregond's shoulder and feeling tears come to his eyes, "I will see your honor restored. You have discharged your duty well this day and I will see that all of Gondor remembers it."

Beregond nodded. Even through his pain, a small smile came to him. "Did I not say I would choose the hour of my passing? This I deem a worthy cause; to save the life of my lord... and my friend."

"Father!" Bergil's voice rang out from the entrance as he rushed inside, the rest of the battle having ended. He joined his lord at his father's side, taking up one hand. "What evil has occurred here?"

"Bergil," Beregond gasped, "it comforts me to see my son at the last."

"I would not have you leave!" Bergil pleaded, nearly sobbing.

"Weep not for me," Beregond replied, reaching of his son's face, "for we shall meet once more ere the breaking of the world." He then reached for Faramir's hand and placed it in that of his son, closing his own hands around them both. "I give to each of you that which is dearest to me. To my son, I give the charge of protecting on lord. And to my lord I entrust the life and fate of my son."

Faramir and Bergil looked to each other for but a moment, each unable to find words. When Beregond's hands left theirs, they once again looked to the ailing captain. Tears came to each and it was Faramir who found his voice.

"Be at peace, son of Gondor," he said, "and may the Valar sing you to the halls of your fathers."

"Farewell my lord, my son," said Beregond, "now I go to my wife, who I have missed long. But I shall miss you both." And with that, Beregond went still and his eyes went cold.

"Father!" Bergil cried once again, reaching to rouse the captain. But Faramir caught him up in his arms and pulled him away.

"Nay, Bergil! He is gone! Stay your hands! Stay! Weep for him instead."

As if in pain himself, Bergil gave a short wail, then grasped on to Faramir. The Steward wrapped his arms around the youth, pulling him close. They remained thus for a long moment before King Elessar approached, speaking gently.

"Grievous has been this day," he said, "but more grievous will it be if that is not tended to quickly." He indicated the arrow still lodged in Faramir's forearm.

It was then that Faramir remembered his own wound. Looking at the dart over Bergil's shoulder, he found it dripping with his own blood. The color left Faramir's face and strength left his knees. As he sagged to the floor in a swoon, Bergil grasped on to him and lowered him the more slowly. As Bergil and the King leaned over him, darkness overtook him and he fell into a grieving slumber.

In due time, the arrow was removed from Faramir's arm and he regained consciousness and the wound was bound. In the days that followed many momentous things happened, but none of the White Company had the heart the celebrate them.

The beginning of a strange sort of peace came between the realms of Gondor and Haradwaith with the beginning of trade. A single port in the south of Gondor, along the Andúin river, was opened to the Haradrim. All trade passed through there, checked and stamped before being sent on. There were strict limits on the amount of trade to begin with. But the amount would increase with time, contingent on the two kingdoms remaining peaceful and the arrangement profiting both.

The Prince Haman sat long in counsel with the King and the Steward. The Haradrim had heard something of these dark men and Haman shared what he knew, though he had never seen such men himself. Indeed, even in his own land, seeing men such as those who had attacked Elessar's court was nigh unheard of. But descriptions of men from lands far to the east, beyond even Mordor, had been passed down among the Haradrim. Those descriptions were very like to the men they had seen. However, the culture and workings of such men, or any reason they may have had to attack Gondor, were unknown. For the menace of Sauron had kept those men sundered from all others for more than a thousand years.

With heart still heavy, Mablung took up the captaincy of the White Company, leaving vacant the office of Master of Arms. Faramir gave long thought to who should be named. Certainly it was proper that it be someone from the Rangers of Ithilien, as the Master of Arms was their head. Had this been ten years before, Faramir might not have had difficulties naming a successor. However, the Rangers had long since not been under his own command and he found he did not know them well enough to make a decision. He would need to speak to Mablung about it at length.

It was while he had this dilemma on his mind that he was approached again by Lord Maelrúth in the courtyard of the Citadel.

"Lord Steward I will be silent no longer," the Lord ground out, "nor will I fail to act. I request your presence in the King's court momentarily and I demand that my case be heard to remove Beregond and his house from the kingdom."

Faramir turned to Maelrúth in anger, hitting the stone patio with the end of the White Rod. "Who are you to demand such a thing?" he railed. "The King has chosen to grant him honor. Who are you to go against the King's judgement?"

"T'was not the King's kinsman Beregond murdered at the door to Rath Dínen!" Maeruth exclaimed. "Nor yours! T'was my cousin he killed in the place where no blood should ever be spilled! By the Valar, I will not see it unpunished!"

"Beregond is dead," Faramir growled, fury overtaking him as he came as close as he dared to Maelrúth, "what more would you have?"

"That his house remains in honor is an affront!"

"All that remains of his house is his son. You will not move against him or you will find future dealings in Minas Tirith to be harsh indeed!"

"I care not," Maelrúth growled back, "a messenger from the North Kingdom has just arrived in the city. He bears with him a petition for the king with the signatures of my supporters upon it. The King will not be able to ignore it, nor you hinder it. Before the sun sets this day, the House of Beregond will fall."

"Then you have made a bitter enemy this day," Faramir answered, glaring at Maelrúth. With that and nothing further, he took his leave of the old lord, his anger showing in his gait.

"You can do nothing!" Maelrúth called after him. "The boy will be banished in reparation for the fell deeds of his father!"

Faramir did not heed him, his feet instead carrying him to the entrance to the White Tower. Bergil had been appointed as the White Company's guard at the door for the day and stood to one side, opposite his Citadel Guard counterpart.

"Bergil," Faramir called on his way past, not breaking his stride.

"Yes, my lord?" the youth asked in confusion.

"Come with me," Faramir commanded.

"Yes, my lord," Bergil acknowledged with surprise, falling into step behind Faramir after giving the Citadel guard an uncertain glance.

Faramir came to a halt in the antechamber of the throne hall. He spoke a few words to the herald there before turning back to Bergil once again.

"A petition is about to be brought before the King," he said, "demanding the banishment of your father's house; you." Bergil looked up at him in fear and he placed his hands on the youth's shoulders. "Would that I could stop it, but I cannot. I am taking an action now to protect you, as I promised your father. But it does not mean that I will abandon the fight to restore his name."

"Never will I think such, my lord," Bergil answered, his voice shaking slightly.

"Good," Faramir said, sighing bitterly, "thank the Valar you are not just a year older than you are or this would not be possible."

The doors to the White Tower opened again to admit a messenger just as the herald announced Faramir's entrance. The herald then hindered the messenger while Faramir and Bergil entered the throne hall to be greeted warmly by the King. Faramir gave a bow and just behind him, Bergil came to one knee, dutifully following suit.

"My saviors! My friends!" Elessar exclaimed. "I would say that I am happy to see you this day if not for the troubled looks I see upon your faces. Please, rise and tell me your quandary."

"Aye, Majesty," said Faramir, flicking his eyes back over his shoulder at the waiting messenger. Maelrúth was there with him, looking on. "It is a matter of some urgency." He saw then that the King understood. "It concerns young Bergil."

"Yes, I see," said Elessar, growing stern and rising from his seat. He descended the stair and came forward, fondness and sadness in his eyes. He came to Bergil and grasped his hand. "We have not had the chance, else We would have sent for you," he said to the youth, "but it is no excuse. We grieve with you for your loss. Our heart carries a great debt that can now never be repaid."

"T'was my father's honor to serve, Majesty," Bergil replied, swallowing his grief, "he held much love for you."

"Still," said Aragorn, lowering his voice so that only Bergil and Faramir could hear, his eyes softening for a moment, "you have my deepest thanks in his stead."

Bergil met Aragorn's eyes for several silent moments and Faramir watched. He saw an understanding come to Bergil, that the King's tone had changed and not without reason. The youth put his free hand over his heart and inclined his head in thanks, tears welling up once more. Aragorn placed a gentle hand on Bergil's shoulder before turning away slowly to return to the stair. "So, my Lord Steward," said Elessar, "what is young Bergil's dilemma?"

"My King, the death of Beregond has left Bergil kinless," said Faramir, "he is orphaned and by the laws and customs of this kingdom, he has not yet come of age. Therefore, I would have it that he be brought into the House of Húrin as my own foster-son and kin."

Bergil's face snapped around to look at Faramir, no small amount of shock writ upon it. The Steward cast a glance back to him, giving him a gentle and reassuring smile.

"And what say you to this, Bergil?" Elessar asked a moment later.

Tears were in Bergil's eyes anew. As he answered, he spoke more to Faramir than to the King. "I say that I am honored to join my lord's house," he replied, haltingly.

"Then We shall witness," said Elessar.

So, Faramir took the White Rod in hand and solemnly stood before the youth in the King's presence. "Kneel Bergil of Minas Tirith," he commanded. And when Bergil had done so, he touched the golden nob of the White Rod to his head. "And rise Bergil of the House of Húrin."

"And so it is done and so it shall be," said Elessar as Bergil came once more to his feet, "by the witness of the Crown of Gondor and the Scepter of Annúminas."

Then Faramir took up his place by the seat of the Steward, facing those assembled in the throne hall, though they were few. Maelrúth had entered, his messenger close at hand and a vile look in his eyes. Faramir's gaze lighted upon him, flashing an angry challenge that was not met by the lord. Maelrúth looked away first, grinding his teeth.

"Let it be known," said Faramir, "from this moment forth that Bergil is my kin. He shall be protected as any other child of my house and his honor or dishonor bound to mine and no other."

Silence followed for several long moments. Finally the noise of Maelrúth's angry footfalls echoed through the hall as the angry lord stalked out of the throne hall.

With that concluded, Faramir knew that the King would have no choice but to take up the matter of Maelrúth's petition. Seeing that Bergil was already at the end of his rope, confused and half-stunned by what had just occurred, he sought to remove him from the hall for the messenger's presentation. He therefore turned to the King once again and bowed. "That you for your audience, Majesty."

"You are most welcome, Arandur," Elessar replied, "and you, young Master Bergil. You both have tasks I assume?" He gaze flickered to Bergil for a moment before resting on Faramir once again.

Faramir gave a thankful nod, seeing that the King was of a same mind. "Aye, Majesty," he replied.

"Then go and see to them," said Elessar, before leveling a withering gaze at the hapless messenger who clearly wished that he were anywhere else, "We shall see to matters more... base."

Faramir nodded, gave another bow and then exited, Bergil following closely behind. Once they were again under the noonday sun, Bergil's energy seemed to leave him and he slowed to a halt. "My lord?" he inquired, bringing Faramir to a halt as well. When the Steward turned to look back at him, he found that Bergil was searching for words, relief and guilt wrestling within him. Unshed tears remained in his eyes.

Faramir slowly covered the distance back to him, placing a hand on the youth's shoulder. "Once," he said, "it was said to me by a very wise man well acquainted with the sorrows of partings, not all tears are an evil."

Still, Bergil's voice failed him, but the tears in his eyes were words enough. Faramir led him by the shoulder to his office in the House of the King, sending away the page on duty. There, Bergil wept with none but the eyes of the Steward upon him and the bells chimed the next hour before he was finished. All that time, Faramir sat with him in silence, shedding some of his own tears.

"I am truly thankful, my Prince," Bergil said when he had reclaimed his voice, "I did not wish to leave Gondor. The very idea brought me great fear. Gondor is all I know."

"I will not have you sent away," said Faramir, "not on the whim of an angry, vengeful lord of some small, western hut-manor."

"Have... have I abandoned my father for my own comfort?"

Faramir shook his head. "Nay. As long as he stays in your thoughts, he will have your loyalty. The world of matter and politics do not hold sway over the heart."

"What am I to do now?"

"Return with me to Minas Estel," Faramir replied, "it is where you belong. For you are as my kin, now, and also still a member of the White Company." He gave a wry smile. "Long have I thought that Elboron had need of an elder brother to teach him some humility."

"Then with you I will go," said Bergil.

"As it should be," agreed Faramir.

Another week passed in Minas Tirith before the business of commencing trade between Gondor and Haradwaith was concluded. Then, at last, it came time for the Steward and the White Company to return to Ithilien and Minas Estel. Faramir and his family took their leave of the King, the Queen, the Crown Prince, and the two young Princesses before the Company went out from the city and began to cross the Pelennor.

The body of Beregond they bore with them, members of the Company carrying the Company's banner before the wagon in unspoken turns. The journey was long and their hearts heavy.

Faramir rode at the head of the procession. And to one side, astride a black horse and clothed in deep reds, the Prince Haman rode with them. Few of his guard had come with him, for he had sent the rest southward with their returning caravan. When Faramir had asked Haman why he wished to accompany him to Minas Estel he had replied that it was to honor what he had seen of the Captain of Faramir's company.

"There is strength in peace," he said, "and the highest honor in defending it. Your Captain Beregond was a man such as this. It would be a stain upon my soul if I did not pay my respects to that honor."

The two Princes spoke of many things on the journey and Faramir began to see some of the man behind the envoy at last. It soon became clear to Faramir that the removal of the shadow of Sauron and the rise of the new emperor had sparked something of a rekindling in the men of the south. Younger lords, such as Haman, were beginning to gain political ground and no longer did the men who wished for war hold power. They were turning instead to the advancement and well-being of their people, which had been sorely neglected for a few generations as war and terror ravaged their lands.

When they had returned to Minas Estel, arrangements were made to have Beregond laid to rest in Caras Faerath, in the space next to his brother, Iorlas, who had died in the defense of Ithilien years before. There, on a sunlit afternoon, beneath the branches of a tree flowering with white blossoms, they said their final farewells to their beloved friend.

And Faramir stood apart from the rest of the mourners for some time, contemplating the view out over the hills of Emyn Arnen, though he did not really see it. And it seemed that a voice whispered in his ear a song, low and mournful.

Beware the two who are sundered,

Their light shall overcome all.

A storm in the east has thundered,

And stars in the west shall fall.