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Chapter Text

The aged white walls of Minas Tirith glowed pinkish gold in the early morning sunlight, the banners of its highest towers fluttering gently above the city's seven levels as its citizens began their initial stirrings in the streets below.

Some, accustomed now to the air of peace that had come to the kingdom now that the Dark Lord Sauron had been defeated for over a year, grumbled at the prospect of having to be about when the day was yet so young, and squinted with sleepy eyes at the brightening summer sunshine in drowsy irritation.

Yet there were others to whom every quiet morning such as this one was a miracle for which to be profoundly thankful, and it was one such heart that now stood by the wall near the stables on the upper level, drinking in the warmth of the newborn day with a wide and grateful smile.

Faramir drew a deep breath as he looked out over the wide expanse of the Pelennor Fields spreading before him, allowing the air to slowly leave his body in a marveling sigh.

"I'll never tire of this," he thought to himself, his blue eyes drinking in the gleaming white walls and fertile fields of his home below, his long reddish-gold hair waving slightly in the wandering morning breeze. A smile once more graced his handsome face as he leaned upon the wall on his elbows and folded his hands, his head lying back just a little so that the warm sunlight spilled over his face.

He then closed his eyes and drew another deep breath, enjoying the fragrances of the wildflowers and growing things that rode upon the wind. Having grown up with his beloved older brother Boromir playing among those fields, and later studying their plants and crops endlessly, Faramir felt as if he could name every scent now carried to him.

Opening his eyes, the young man looked down upon the people now bustling about in the levels below him, the smile remaining on his lips. What a wonder this ordinary morning seemed to him, as had every ordinary morning seemed since the destruction of the Dark Lord and the end of the War.

It had not been so long ago, he mused as his gaze lifted to the mountains lying in the east, that Minas Tirith lay beneath the great Shadow, the morning sun hidden behind a dark unmoving cloud whose darkness threatened all of Middle-earth. Not so long ago, the Pelennor drank of the blood of scores of heroic men, of Gondor and its neighboring kingdom Rohan as they battled the mighty armies of Sauron. Once the now-tranquil fields shuddered under the merciless advance of countless Orcs, bloodthirsty Haradrim and vicious Easterlings. Once, it had seemed impossible that a morning such as this one would ever come to Minas Tirith again.

Faramir's expression turned somber as he thought of that time. He had grown up under the War, witnessed the finest of Gondor's sons, including Boromir, and their uncle Prince Imrahil of the southern fiefdom of Belfalas, drawn into its insatiable demand for men. He had seen his father, the Steward Denethor, hardened and embittered before his time beneath its crushing weight. He himself had been compelled to put aside the books and music he loved to become a soldier and leader of men, had been fired in the crucible of blood and death-dealing and suffering, driving back the forces of Mordor for what seemed like years without end.

And it had all been for this, he thought, as he observed the men and women of the city calmly going about their business beneath the broad blue morning sky, their children laughing and running beside them. Peace had finally come to Gondor, a peace so many had suffered and died for.

Idly, Faramir fingered the silver ring he wore upon his right hand, his fingertips lightly tracing over the intricately carved band and the large faceted ruby set at its center. It was the Ring of the Stewards, worn by his ancestors down to his father. Since he could remember, this Ring had decorated the hand of Denethor, destined to one day sit upon Boromir's finger as Steward and caretaker of the realm.

Sadness then stole over Faramir's heart. That day had never come, for Boromir had been lost during the Quest to destroy the Ring of Power, and their father had perished by his own hand, overtaken by grief and madness in the midst of Mordor's siege on the city. Now Faramir wore the ring, serving as Steward to King Elessar, whose return to the throne of Gondor had signaled the beginning of this new era of peace.

The melancholy lifted from Faramir's spirit as he studied the ring, turning it little so that its gem winked and danced in the sunlight. He had never expected or desired to be Steward, never begrudged Boromir his role as heir. All he had ever wanted was the knowledge that he had done all in his power to make certain that Gondor and its people would be safe. As a soldier, he had satisfied that need as far as he was able. And now...

Faramir sighed, his eyes roaming over the glistening white walls and towers of the city and the rolling green fields beyond its walls. Now the duties of the Steward were his, and he had accepted the title without fear, knowing that he could only do his best. His first year in the role had not been easy, assisting Aragorn in dealing with the endless demands of rebuilding the kingdom and trying to persuade the Council of noblemen and elders to agree with each other. But the rewards were undeniable, for he had seen his home begin to rise anew from the ashes of war.

'They have left this to me,' he thought as he looked over the sunlit streets and contented people moving about below him, oblivious to his gaze. The peace they had struggled and suffered to gain lay newborn in his hands, his and the King's. Faramir knew well how fragile this new peace was, as vulnerable as a helpless babe; they were still contending with bands of Orcs who prowled the borders, and renegade bands of Haradrim and Easterlings, allies of Sauron who were not willing to surrender. Much work remained to be done, and it was possible they may yet face difficulties scarce able to be imagined now.

Faramir thought of all this, and gazed solemnly upon the city and lands he had loved since childhood. Peace had been a cherished notion to him since he could remember; he had known so little of it all his life, and he knew well that the people of Gondor were even less acquainted with its blessings. Now that it had at last graced their kingdom, he was determined to savor every precious moment of it, recalling every day the valor and sacrifice that had made it possible. The keen yearning he had carried in his soul had been answered, and now Faramir felt a fierce resolve swell through his heart, to do all in his power as Steward to safeguard this peace, in the memory of those he had loved and lost. He could think of no better way to honor the legacy bequeathed to him.

The sound of light footsteps behind him stirred Faramir from his reveries, and he turned with a smile, knowing who he would see crossing the sun-drenched courtyard behind him.

Approaching him was a beautiful woman some years his junior, clad in a gray-green riding gown. Her long golden hair flowed behind her, secured only by a loose braid about her temples, and a lighthearted gleam was in her eye as she returned his smile.

"I see you have arisen with the sun again, my Lord," she said as she drew near. "After all this time, you still follow your soldier's ways."

She entered his open arms, and he swept her into a warm embrace. "I trust the Lady Eowyn will forgive me," he replied before imparting her with a kiss. "The anticipation of introducing you to the place we shall build our home today was such that I could not lie abed another minute."

His wife laughed a little as she returned his embrace. "I could scarcely sleep for the excitement, myself," she admitted, giving him one more quick kiss before looking out over the wide plains. "Show me again where it will be."

Faramir put one arm around her, and with the hand of the other pointed towards the greenest patch of forest across the great river Anduin far in the distance. "It lies amongst the most beautiful hills in Ithilien, just below that towering peak," he explained. "They are called Emyn Arnen. Legolas and Gimli are probably there right now, arguing over the best place to build the house."

Eowyn laughed again and squeezed him once before stepping away. "Then we had best go meet them before there is another war, this time between Elf and Dwarf," she declared, gathering her thick skirts and walking towards the stables. "It was most gracious of them to offer the assistance of themselves and their people in this task, but I fear the keen competition between them may result in bloodshed before the first hammer falls."

"Alas, it is probably too late to prevent that from happening," sighed Faramir with a grin as he followed her. "Doubtless that warm breeze we feel has been born from the heat of their discussion."

They had reached the barn now, where two horses stood saddled and prepared to ride. Eowyn checked the leather straps securing a large closed basket to her mount and pursed her lips. "Then it is well the kitchen staff and I packed such a large amount of food for today," she noted. "I am sure they will have both worked up a large appetite by the time we get there."

She paused and relaxed a little, smiling over at her husband. "I truly cannot wait to see it, Faramir. Minas Tirith is grand, but I do long for a home away from stone city walls."

He climbed upon his steed with practiced grace. "I take no offense at that, my love," he assured her, looking at her as he picked up the reins of the bridle. "Your home in Rohan lay in wild, open spaces, so I would not expect your heart to be satisfied in a City, however magnificent. Ithilien is not Rohan, I will admit, but it is my hope that you will come to love it for its own manner of beauty."

She had long since settled herself in her saddle, with the easy skill of a child of Rohan's horse lords. As she tossed her long hair away from her face, she smiled at him once more, her gray eyes aglow.

"Where you are is my home," she proclaimed softly.

He returned her smile, the deep affection in his expression echoing the sentiment.

She smiled at him a moment longer, then glanced back over the wall across the Pelennor. "Just below that tall peak, you said? Within that large patch of green?" she asked with a small nod.

Faramir turned his head to ascertain where she was looking. "Correct, my Lady," he affirmed, turning back to her with an amused expression, as if he knew exactly what she was going to say next.

Eowyn's smile grew wider. "Then come," she said in a merry voice. "I shall race you!"

With these words, she spurred her horse out of the stable and went quickly galloping through the street to the gate leading into the lower levels of the city.

Determined not to be outdone, Faramir urged his mount quickly after her, his heart soaring with excitement and joy as he rode after his wife. In the dark times of the War, had he ever dared to think that one day he would know such happiness, sharing a bright summer morning with a woman he loved more than life itself, riding out to his beloved Ithilien to see the place where he would share the rest of his life with her?

As he hurried to catch her, all thoughts of future concerns flew away; for Faramir, there was only this brilliant summer morning, and his beautiful wife, and the humble thanksgiving for these blessings flowing through his soul, coupled with the profound desire that this peace won by himself and his people might last forever.

That desire would be tested soon enough.

Some distance to the south of where Faramir was exulting in Ithilien's beauty, another young man was having an entirely different reaction to the land surrounding him.

"Trust *us* to draw the most boring duty in all of Gondor!"

There was no mistaking the weary disgust in the stout young soldier's voice as he plodded on his horse down the dusty forest road. Everything about him signaled a particular lack of enthusiasm for his situation, from the slumped aspect of his shoulders beneath his Gondorian plate armor to the dissatisfied expression he bore upon his plain, slightly pock-marked face. He carried his helm in his arm, allowing the wind to ruffle through his short blond hair. His gray eyes squinted against the bright sunlight, gazing with pronounced ennui at the spare bushes, scraggly trees, and large, dust-covered rocks that comprised his environment.

His riding companion was another young warrior of Gondor, noticeably taller, thinner, and more alert, if only slightly. His face bore a longer, leaner appearance, marked by a particularly large nose, beneath which languished a closely trimmed black mustache. Long black hair trailed under the back of his helmet, and at the sound of his comrade's words, this man turned annoyed black eyes to the fellow and gave him a disapproving scowl.

"It's too hot already today to have to listen to any more of your complaining, Henvain," he warned. "Besides, this isn't so bad, and you know how important it is to patrol the southern roads coming from Harad."

Henvain snorted and rubbed his short, sharp nose. "Important it may be, Faelor, but did you notice none of the other soldiers volunteered for this duty? The captain had to assign it. To *us*." He sighed and huddled down in his saddle. "Typical."

"Oh, since the day you joined up you've done nothing but grouse," Faelor noted in a sour tone. "I don't mind a bit of quiet, myself, after all the ruckus I saw at the Black Gate during our final battle with the Orcs."

Henvain shot him a look of annoyance. "I asked you not to talk about that!" he snapped.

In reply, Faelor put up one hand in apology. "Oh! Sorry, sorry, Henvain. I forgot."

His comrade muttered and looked back down the road.

After a few moments of silent riding, Faelor felt brave enough to venture, "You know, you're going to have to stop being so sensitive about that. Many soldiers had to miss that battle, I'm sure, and many more probably wished they had. It was *not* a pleasant experience!"

Henvain scowled at him, though not as angrily as before. "I know, but..." He sighed. "Sorry, Faelor, you're a good fellow and all, but you know what it was like at my house when my brother came home from the Black Gate."

The other man nodded. "Well, I certainly recall you talking about it when you came back to the unit. It was all you *could* talk about, it seemed."

"Mother couldn't stop going on about him," mumbled Henvain, spurring his horse along. "For days it was Turwaith this and Turwaith that, how Turwaith saved ten men in his company and slaughtered fifteen dozen Orcs and even helped save the life of one of those little Hobbits. Turwaith the Hero, you know. I was happy he survived, of course, but you should have heard him when he found out why I didn't ride with the company to the Gate."

"That's nothing to be ashamed of," said Faelor in a reassuring tone. "Lots of soldiers get dysentery."

"Not before the biggest battle in the history of Middle-earth, they don't!" Henvain cried in exasperation, before slumping back in his saddle. "There I am, flat on my back in the Houses of Healing, that old Ioreth pouring foul-tasting remedies down my throat while my company rides out to glory. And then, having to endure Turwaith's goading on top of that." He adopted an exaggerated air. "'Oh, and Henvain would have gone too, except-well, now I don't remember why, what was it again, brother?' As if he didn't know! Does it every time Mother tells the story, I swear."

"But he did do some remarkable feats that day, you know," Faelor observed as they guided their horses around a rock in the road. "Well, I think we all did, really, but you shouldn't be so sore about missing it. Being completely surrounded by Orcs and thinking I was going to die was not the happiest thing that's happened to me in my military career."

"But you've got the story to tell your children," pressed Henvain miserably. "An' your wife, too, she can now go the rest of her life married to a hero of the great Last Battle."

One corner of Faelor's thin lips twitched. "Don't know if she was all that awed by it," he admitted. "I mean, she was glad for me to come home safe, but it's hard to be a hero to your wife when you still have to turn out the chamberpots every morning. Besides," he went on sharply, looking at Henvain, "what do *you* care? You don't have a wife you have to impress."

His friend grunted. "Good thing, too, because it'd be impossible for me right now," he replied. "Stuck out here on the Harad border, riding around endlessly staring at sand and rocks...and...trees...Faelor, do you see that?"

Henvain's voice had slowed in surprise, his face slackening in confusion as he stared down the road to the South. He spared a glance at his comrade, who was wearing a remarkably similar expression as he, too, gazed in wonder into the distance.

Far up the road, but growing nearer to them with every moment, was a dark group of figures, indistinguishable save for their obvious numbers. They were coming fast.

"What do you make of it?" gasped Henvain, clutching his helmet and coming to a complete stop.

"It's not a rock or a tree, that's for certain," replied Faelor with determination as he jammed his helmet onto his head.

Henvain positioned his mount beside him, doing his best to sit tall and look threatening, although his expression still denoted a distinct desire to be somewhere else.

The mysterious riders were now much closer. There appeared to be five, with one clearly leading the way, and even from a distance they could see a mass of billowing black and red cloth and the pronounced flash of weapons shining in the bright sun.

"Haradrim," breathed Henvain in a tone of weary disgust. "Oh, bugger."

They could see the lead rider plainly now. He was a tall man clad in the traditional black and red garb of his people, his head hidden in a mass of carefully wrapped back cloth. As he neared, they could see the glint of gold on his fingers and at his neck, enough to denote a personage of importance. Of his face, only the eyes were visible, and against his swarthy skin they looked very sharp, black and hard.

Beside and behind this man rode four heavily armed Harad warriors, each carrying a large spear, elaborate swords hanging from their sides. Despite Henvain's nervousness, the swords remained sheathed, and instead of moving to attack as they came within twenty feet, the new arrivals slowed down, coming to a full stop not ten feet away.

The two groups eyed each other very carefully for a moment. Overhead somewhere, a hawk screamed.

At length, Faelor cleared his throat. "I am Captain Faelor, of the Army of King Elessar," he said in as loud and authoritative a voice as he could manage. "State your business in Gondor."

The lead Haradrim peered at him, the black eyes looking much sharper now. "Some of us say that it is you who are in our land, Gondorian," he replied, in a deep, smooth voice heavy with the accent of the South and muffled by the wrapping.

Faelor blinked, looked quickly over at Henvain, slightly thrown. Henvain simply shrugged, eyes wide. Perhaps there would be a fight after all.

Faelor paused, then turned back to the Haradrim, resolutely pursing his lips. His heart was hammering, but he knew his duty.

"I should warn you," he said as firmly as he could, "that as soldiers of our King, we are sworn to defend this road to the...last." He hefted his sword and did his best to look determined. Beside him, Henvain did the same, watching the Haradrim warriors closely for any sign of attack.

The Haradrim's dark eyes shifted back and forth between them. "I am certain you are both brave warriors," he said, and Faelor thought it sounded an awful lot like he was smirking beneath that black covering. "But it is your swiftness, rather than your courage, that you will need this day."

With those words, he reached into a large leather pouch hanging at his side. Both Gondorian soldiers immediately sat up, gripping their swords, prepared for the worst.

The Haradrim looked up, appearing to eye them as cautiously as they were studying him, and very slowly removed something flat and rectangular from the pouch. It was wrapped tightly in long strips of dark blue cloth and bound in the middle with a golden cord, the knot fastened with a red wax seal.

"My name is Jadim. I bear a message from the leader of my tribe to your King of Gondor," he proclaimed, holding the small package aloft. "If you are true lovers of your land, you will deliver this to him. In one week's time I will be here to receive his answer."

He held out the parcel and waited.

Faelor stared at the object warily, then moved his suspicious glance up to its bearer. "How do I know you won't attack me as soon as I come over there?" he inquired slowly in a voice deep with suspicion. "You get off your horse and bring it over here, if you please."

The Haradrim's eyes flashed. "And what proof do I have that I will survive such an action unharmed?" he replied sharply. "There may be many more of you Gondorians hiding in the trees, waiting to trap us. It is a favored trick of your people."

Faelor frowned, an insulted retort on his lips, when Henvain coughed and sat straighter in his saddle.

"Well, now," said Henvain, a confident smile now appearing on his pale face, "that's something you really can't be sure of, now can you? So you'd best do as my friend here says, unless you want to take on maybe half a troop of us."

Jadim's eyes scowled at him, and the other four soldiers shifted their spears in their hands, clearly irritated.

They sat silent for a few moments, each side glaring at the other, unwilling to move.

Finally one of the Haradrim soldiers spoke something in their own tongue. The lead rider glanced back at him, then looked back at the two Gondor soldiers, and gently tossed the mysterious package into the duty road. It landed squarely between the two groups with a gritty thud.

"If you would rather retrieve it from the dust than my hand, so be it, men of Gondor," the Haradrim announced, his brow dark with anger. "In one week's time, I shall await the answer here."

He barked out a loud order in the words of Harad, and all five men whirled and tore back up the road towards their kingdom in a cloud of dust, flowing robes, and the clattering of arms. Within moments, they were lost from sight.

Faelor and Henvain watched them go, bewildered, until the Haradrim warriors were gone.

"Whew!" breathed Henvain finally. "They were an odd crew, weren't they?"

"I've never spoken to a Haradrim before," his comrade breathed. "We were always too busy killing 'em. How do you suppose he knew the common tongue?"

Henvain shot him an annoyed look. "Who cares? Probably forced some poor captive Gondorian to teach it to him, so's he could spy on our troops." His eyes drifted down to the package, now lying half-covered with dust in the road. "Do you...do you think it's safe to pick it up now?"

In response, Faelor slid from his mount. "Unless they've got someone who can throw a spear or shoot an arrow half a mile, it is," he said, walking over to the object.

Henvain's lip twitched. "You never know," he said, casting a careful eye up the road. "I've heard those Haradrim are full of tricks and magic. Turwaith says you can't trust 'em unless they're dead."

"Listening to your brother all of a sudden, are you?" muttered Faelor, picking up the package and brushing it off before quickly returning to his horse.

"You're in luck, Henvain," Faelor said as he remounted and hurriedly tucked the message into his saddlebag. "Since we'd best get this message to the King as quickly as possible, it would seem you will no longer suffer from boredom, at least on this day."

"Hmph," the other man sniffed as they wheeled their horses around, his expression unconvinced. "Something's telling me I'm goin' to wish I'd stayed with the boredom."

Faelor laughed, and soon the two men left the dusty road to Harad far behind them as they quickly sped their horses, themselves, and the mysterious message back to Minas Tirith.

"Allow me once more to express my appreciation for your assistance today, my friends."

A warm early-summer breeze whispered through the dark green leaves of the Ithilien forest, pausing briefly to stir the hair and clothes of the curious group now reclining in leisure and enjoying a light repast upon one of the area's wide, grassy clearings. The day was growing late, and the waning afternoon sunshine drenching the glade cast their differences in stark contrast, and the wind could be forgiven its curiosity, for rarely had such a gathering ever been seen in Ithilien.

At the center of the group lounged Faramir, with Eowyn by his side, her own face wreathed in a wide smile as she ate some bread and cheese and listened to her companion speak. Behind her, and just as attentive, were two final figures whose appearances bespoke a countless host of contrasts.

One was tall and slender, clad in woodland greens and browns, every line of his form delineated with otherworldly elegance. The light of ancient wisdom glowed in his mild blue eyes, and the sun seemed to glow even more brightly against the silk-like golden hair that lay braided over his pointed ears and cascaded down his back. As he sat cross-legged on the grass, this lithesome being was holding his half-eaten bread in one hand and poring over some sheets of parchment paper, upon which were elegantly drawn the plans for a large house.

The personage sitting on a rock next to this ethereal being provided an opposite impression in almost every respect. His stature was broad and quite short, the top of his head barely reaching his taller friend's chest. Thick leather armor covered with wondrously worked metal covered his stout frame, and his face was all but hidden beneath a mountainous, coarse brown beard, portions of which were gathered in elaborately woven plaits. On the ground by his feet lay a sturdy-looking helmet of intricate design, doffed in the heat of the day. rather than eating as the others were, this imposing figure was calmly smoking a pipe, and seemed to be studying the woodland surroundings with a skeptical light in his brown eyes.

"I still fail to see," announced this small figure in a genial but curious tone, "why you both would prefer to build your home out in this drafty, dirty forest." His voice was deep and rough, spoken with a good-natured growl.

Faramir and Eowyn, smiling, while the taller figure's expression took on the aspect of slight pique and took a rather aggressive bite from his bread.

"They have but to say the word," he continued, emitting a large puff of pipe smoke for emphasis, "and we Dwarves will carve a home for them within the mountains that will be the envy of every noble in Gondor!"

The couple laughed and glanced at each other, sharing their amusement.

"I suppose they *might* be envious," allowed the taller figure in a smooth, melodious voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm, after swallowing his food, "assuming they could stop chattering from the cold and damp long enough to take note of their surroundings." He cast a sideways glance at the Dwarf that was not devoid of humor.

"Bah! Such concerns might trouble a frail Elf princeling such as yourself, Legolas," was the fond but dismissive response. "But I'd wager my beard you'd find more warmth before a roaring hearth of stone than among the cold mud and wet leaves of the woods."

The young Steward shook his head, still smiling. "I am sure it would be a most magnificent dwelling, Gimli," he said in a measured, gentle voice, "and from what I have read in my studies, there are few kingdoms indeed upon all of Arda that may rival the fabled, ancient halls of the Dwarf-lords."

Gimli gave the Elf a small, somewhat smug grin beneath his beard.

Then Faramir looked up into the trees, their leaves shimmering like emeralds in the sunlight, and a calm smile touched his lips. "But my heart, I fear, has long been given to the wild beauty of Ithilien, and it is here among the long-neglected hills and rivers of Emyn Arnen that I would make our home." Then he smiled again and turned to Eowyn, putting his arm around her shoulder. "With the consent of my Lady Eowyn, certainly!"

She laughed softly and took his hand. "Such consent she gladly gives," was the affectionate answer before she looked around. "It does not have the windswept openness of my native Rohan, it is true, but this land possesses a splendor of its own that still soothes my heart. And, I believe I know an excellent area for the stables and paddock!"

Faramir kissed her hand. "It shall be as you desire, my Lady," he promised, returning her wide smile before looking over at the Elf.

By now, the sun had set, and night was beginning to gently fall. Reluctantly, the party rose and began to prepare for the return journey to Minas Tirith.

As he strapped his saddlebags back onto his mount, Faramir could not resist glancing once more around the clearing. High above them wafted the music of the majestic trees as their leaves softly rustled in the evening breeze; along the edges of the forest, he could see the heather and wildflowers growing in untended carpets upon the ground. He sighed and leaned upon his horse for a moment, closing his eyes and inhaling the fragrance of the land, the warm air thick with the scents of wild roses, lilies, and hyacinths. From the depths of the forest, he could hear the night birds and crickets beginning their evening songs.

He stood still and listened, wondering that he was now able to do such things in Ithilien as stand and hear her nightly chorus. There had been scant opportunities to do so when the fair realm had been torn apart by war; now, as he allowed himself to be swallowed by her presence, it almost seemed possible to forget there had been a war, or that there was anywhere on Arda but Ithilien.

For a few moments he listened, then sighed again and opened his eyes. Three feet before him stood Eowyn, who was watching him with a gentle smile on her face.

He simply smiled back, unashamed. "It has been too long," he said in explanation.

In reply, she stepped forward and took his hand. "We are ready, but I did not want to disturb you," she said, her grasp warm. "You looked so content."

He straightened; it seemed to have grown even darker now. "Yes, I suppose I was," he said, drawing a breath as he looked around. Lightning bugs were now blinking from the shadows of the trees, dancing yellow stars against the blackness. He sighed once more and looked at her, returning her touch. "Wild as it is, Ithilien has always calmed my spirit, somehow."

She nodded and turned, resting her back upon his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. Together, they both watched the night continue to settle around them.

"There is no mystery to that, my husband, " she said quietly as they looked over the land, her hands placed over his where they clasped around her waist. "Minas Tirith has its beauty, but there are times when the soul yearns to share its breath with that of the earth."

Faramir nodded slightly, his face nuzzling her golden hair. "That is my thought as well," he murmured as he drew her closer to him. "It eases my heart to know that this land suits you, my love. I want so much for you to be happy here."

"I am sure I will be," she promised, leaning back into his embrace. "It has made me happy already, just to see the comfort it brings you." She settled herself and sighed. "And this place shall be a shelter for us, and our children, for as long as Gondor endures."

"Hmm," her husband said in response, a slight smile touching his lips as this future unfolded in his mind. Their children, and every generation thereafter, playing in peace beneath the ancient boughs, the wild lands gentled into the Garden of Gondor once more, and each child learning to love Ithilien as he did, so that it would never again be neglected.

"Faramir! My Lady!"

Legolas' shout brought him sharply out of the reverie, and he stood up, still clasping his wife to him as he turned and looked behind him. Legolas, already mounted, was riding towards them, Gimli hanging on behind him. Even in the gathering dusk, Faramir could see that the Elf's eyes were wide with urgency.

In a few seconds, the Elf reined in his horse, skidding to a stop only a few feet away.

"You must come at once," he exclaimed, "to the Morgul Road!"

---------------------

"You say the Haradrim leader gave you this?"

Faramir turned the small, heavy package over in his gloved hands, then glanced up. Before him, two armored soldiers of Gondor sat on the ground beside their horses, the men drinking from water-skins while their steeds gulped refreshment from a roadside trough. Both men and mounts were thoroughly exhausted and covered with dust.

The taller and darker of the two soldiers left off his drinking, catching his breath as his nodded. "Yes, sir, that's the truth," he said. "We met them down near the Poros Crossings. He didn't say what it was, but he said they'd be waiting on that road for an answer in a week. We've spent the whole day riding so we could fetch it to the King just as quick as we could."

He paused, his expression becoming regretful. "It's been a long ride and mighty hard on our horses." The warrior shook his head. "I don't think they can make it to the City."

Faramir nodded. "You all deserve a rest, from the looks of it," he replied, glancing over them both. "I shall deliver this to the King myself, and make certain he knows of your valiant effort."

The soldier blinked and nodded. "We'd both be very grateful for that, sir," he gasped. "Thank you, sir."

"The Elf and I can look after these two, lad," said Gimli. "You'd best get your lady home, and that message to Aragorn, as fast as you can."

In one quick movement, Faramir carefully placed the package into his saddlebag and looked up at Eowyn as he climbed into his saddle. She was beside him, already upon her horse.

"It appears another race is in order, my lady," he said, settling himself quickly and gathering the reins. She nodded, her urgent expression matching his own. Without another word between them, they spurred their horses forward towards the crossing over the river, leaving those behind to ponder the mysterious message, and what its contents might mean for the future of Gondor.

---------------------

The silence in the King's chamber was deafening.

As Faramir sat at a nearby table, watching Aragorn read the Haradrim's message, the only sound to be heard came from the hissing and popping of the fire in the room's large stone fireplace. Before that fire stood the King, who had not moved or spoken since unwrapping the message and reading its contents.

Weary after the hard ride made by himself and Eowyn, Faramir was content to sit quietly and await his sovereign's response. From time to time he took a swallow or two of the drink at his elbow, but otherwise, he sat, one hand on his hip, the fingers of the other wrapped about his chin and mouth, in an attitude of somber studiousness.

Faramir had learned from experience that his liege was not an easy man to read from mere observation alone. Aragorn had been a Ranger before ascending the throne, a man well accustomed to solitude and secrecy. As the long-lost heir of Isildur, he had been hunted by the forces of the Dark Lord, and had thus learned from the time of his youth how to hide his thoughts. As the crowned King, he had shed none of his private habits.

As long and as hard as he stared, Faramir knew he could hope to learn nothing from the expression on Aragorn's handsome, weathered face. He would simply have to wait.

Outside, night had fully fallen, the only illumination in the room now coming from the fireplace. Its glow danced over Aragorn's fine but simple clothing, touched his long curled raven locks with glints of fire, glittered in his hazel eyes. After reading the message several times over, the King looked up into the fire for several moments, deep in thought, then turned to Faramir.

The Steward found his sovereign's calm expression inscrutable. "Is the message to good purpose or ill, sire?" he finally inquired.

"To good purpose, I would say, my Steward," was the King's answer as he walked over to Faramir with measured steps, "though I trust there are some who may take it ill. How is your Haradric?"

Faramir pursed his lips a little as he considered the question. "My tutor claimed I had some skill at it," he allowed.

"Then pray read this aloud for me, if you would," replied Aragorn, handing him the roll of parchment. "Your talent with that tongue is doubtless greater than mine, and I wish to make certain I have read it aright before deciding what action to take."

With a bow, Faramir rose and obeyed the request, taking a few steps over to the fire and bending the paper towards its light to better read the florid letters. The missive was artfully inscribed upon a scroll of parchment, attached at both ends to a heavy brass roller.

"'To Aragorn Elessar, King of Gondor, greetings,'" he recited, going carefully over every word. "'I write this letter to you in the hopes that you will be agreeable to a meeting between us on behalf of my tribe, for the purpose of securing an agreement of peace..." Here Faramir's words trailed off in surprise, and he looked up at the King in astonishment for a moment before continuing with the letter. "...between the men of Harad and the men of Gondor. It is my desire to come to your city and speak to you. If it is possible, I would ask that the King of Rohan be present as well, as we have also met the men of that land upon the field of war. If this meets with your approval, kindly inform my messenger, and we shall proceed. It is the greatest hope of my heart that the war that has sundered our peoples should end. With honor to you, Mahrid Adir, Chieftain of the Seventh Tribe.'"

Once he had finished, Faramir could not help reading the letter over once or twice to himself, an expression of amazement upon his face. At length, he raised his eyes to where Aragorn stood by the fire, one hand to his lips in thought.

Coming out of his reverie, the King nodded to Faramir. "My thanks, Faramir, that was my understanding of the words as well," he said. "Now that we agree as to what they say, we have only to decide what to do about them."

"A unique dilemma, to be sure," the Steward remarked, still poring over the note. "To my knowledge, no Harad Chieftain has ever offered to discuss peace with Gondor since the recording of our history began."

"Hmm." Aragorn slowly walked over to chair by the fire and seated himself, still considering. "I regret that my experience with the Haradrim has been scant, at best. They seldom ventured as far north as my travels took me. Have you heard of this Mahrid Adir?"

"Oh, yes," was Faramir's firm reply as he took his former seat and placed the letter aside. "He is one of that region's most venerable leaders, a great warlord of cunning and skill. He was commanding troops of Haradrim in the days when my father began his rule as Steward; I recall hearing his name often from my father's lips, sometimes coupled with a colorful phrase or two." He smiled a little and shook his head, glancing over at the letter. "It seems remarkable that he should be the first to seek peace with Gondor, after fighting us for so long."

A pensive light came into Aragorn's eyes. "Perhaps he has simply grown weary of war," he suggested quietly, "and does not wish to continue fighting to extinction, as the other Haradrim tribes are doing."

"That would seem to be their aim," sighed Faramir, leaning forward and folding his hands. "It does not seem that a month goes by without some skirmish with Harad riders. As with the other former allies of Sauron, they are reluctant to accept his demise, or their defeat."

"A peace agreement with one of their most respected leaders may change that situation," offered Aragorn, rising from his seat and pacing before the fire. He was silent for a short time, marking out a few strides back and forth, before turning to his Steward.

"Summon the Council to convene tomorrow morning," he requested. "We shall draft a response agreeing to meet with the Haradrim, and settle the terms of the treaty."

Faramir rose. "As you will, Sire," he said with a nod," but...as a friend, I should warn you, there are those on the Council, and indeed among our people, who will not be agreeable to this. The Haradrim have been in league with the Dark Lord and our loathed enemies for centuries, and there are those who feel that extinction would be the preferred choice for their kind."

Aragorn contemplated this, then lifted his green eyes to gaze at his comrade. "And what is your opinion, my Lord Steward?"

There were a few moments of silence as Faramir formed his answer. At the end, he met his King's look steadily.

"I have lost many a dear friend to their blades and arrows, Sire," he admitted in a quiet voice, "and never would I advise a meeting such as this without the utmost caution. But if there is even a chance that this may lead to peace between our peoples, I would say we must seize it. There is no telling when it may come again."

Aragorn studied his face for a moment, then nodded slightly.

"Those are my thoughts precisely, my friend," he said with a sigh, squaring his shoulders as if preparing to shoulder the coming burden. "We can only hope the Council shares our views."

"Absolutely NOT!"

The infuriated voice of the elderly Lord rang through the Council Chamber, setting the ancient timbers and stones to vibrating with its force. As the well-dressed gentleman stood at his place beside the large wooden table among his eight fellow Council members, he banged his fist upon the structure's sturdy surface to emphasize his point, to the approving shouts of several of his fellows and the declaiming cries of many others.

On a raised chair at the head of the table, Aragorn sighed and rubbed his eyes as the chamber erupted into heated debate for the fifth time that morning. Beside him, clad in his formal court attire, Faramir silently eyed the fracas with stolid amazement, as if he could still not believe the vehemence of the argument no matter how many times he had witnessed it.

"For the Haradrim to even suggest such a thing is an insult to all of our sons who have perished upon their swords and spears," the Lord continued, his blue eyes blazing. Despite his passion, not a hair of his long white mane nor a stitch of his costly robes was out of place. "One does not negotiate peace with barbarians who have long allied themselves with the Lord of all darkness. They must submit to our rule without question, or face extinction!"

Half of the Council exclaimed agreement as the speaker resumed his seat, smiling at his supporters. The other half rubbed their chins and exchanged glances, knowing their chance to persuade was approaching.

"That is a harsh way of dealing with such matters, Lord Tuornen," offered Aragorn in a firm tone. "Subjugation or death is a choice I would expect of Sauron, not of Gondor."

"There is no other manner with which to deal with the men of Harad, my King," insisted another noble, younger than the first, with long brown hair and sharp green eyes. "They have been attacking our people for countless years-how can we trust them now?"

"This may all be a trap!" added a third councilman, a stout dark-haired nobleman of Aragorn's age.

"That possibility has not escaped our attention, Lord Beleg," Faramir assured him, fixing the nobleman with a steady gaze. "You may be certain that all necessary caution would be taken in our dealings with the Haradrim. The safety of Gondor, and the King, would never be in question."

Subdued mutterings filled the air.

"Well, I, for one, am curious to hear what they have to say," offered another noble on Faramir's side of the table, a thin-faced, blonde young man no older than the Steward clad in flowing blue robes. "So long as all is secure, there can be no harm in hearing them out. Should their terms be unmanageable, we can always refuse them."

"The very fact that they want to negotiate at all is encouraging," said an older gentleman to the blonde man's right. "From all I've seen, the Haradrim normally let their weapons speak for them. It shows they're as anxious to avoid any more bloodshed as we are."

"*If* this is not some sort of trick," stressed Beleg ominously.

"The message sent to us contained their terms for meeting," answered Faramir lightly. "Their delegation will consist of but thirty men, including the Chieftain. We shall be sure to far outnumber them in all dealings, both in men and arms, and thus any movement towards treachery on their part would be foolish at best, suicidal at worst."

"You won't be letting them into the City, will you?" a tall, gray-haired member nervously inquired. "They will still have the capacity to spy, and I highly doubt the people will tolerate a contingent of Haradrim riding through their streets!"

Aragorn shook his head with a smile. "I have been told there is an excellent location in the foothills of the mountains near the City that will be suitable for our needs. I do not think the Haradrim would desire to expose themselves to the wrath of our people, and I will not allow them within our walls until they have proven themselves worthy of that trust."

"Permitting the negotiation may aid us in achieving an end to hostilities with the rest of Sauron's remaining allies," suggested yet another noble, a white-haired man with sharp features. "If the Easterlings we've been having trouble with along our northern borders see that they have choices other than fighting us to the end, they may lay their weapons down as well."

"Easterlings?" scoffed Lord Tuornen. "Ha! You'll never see them take the peaceful road."

"A year ago we would have said the same of the Haradrim, yet here we are," replied the thin-faced young blond man in a mild tone. "Should this offer be a true one, it may signal the real end of the War."

"My hope precisely, Lord Adanion," echoed Faramir.

"But is it not a dishonor to our fallen soldiers who perished beneath their blades?" protested the brown-haired Councilman. "Last year these same Haradrim were spilling the life's blood of our sons and brothers. Is it fitting that we should now treat them as friends to be bargained with?"

"I believe our departed kin would want nothing more than to know that no more of our people would ever have to face their fate," was Aragorn's ringing answer. "This proposed meeting is not intended to pardon the Haradrim for their past hostilities towards us, nor disregard the lives they have taken. It is only to ensure that no men of Gondor will fall to the swords of this tribe in the future."

There were more mutterings among the Councilmen.

"What does the Steward say to this idea?" inquired the stout dark-haired nobleman, turning to Faramir, who looked up from his writings at the mention of his name. "Lord Faramir, you with your Rangers have often met the men of Harad upon the field of battle. Think you they may now make worthy allies?"

Faramir mulled over this question for a moment. When he answered, it was with a firm voice.

"From what I have seen, the Haradrim are a fierce, proud people, skilled in battle and lacking not in courage," he replied. "Should we make such men our allies, they would prove, I feel, most valuable, in both persuading others of their kind to lay down their weapons, and securing our eastern borders against the remaining Orcs and Uruks that still haunt that region. They have erred grievously in their old allegiances, but I have never seen cause to doubt their valor. We shall need allies such as these if Gondor is to be truly safe and whole once more."

The chamber fell silent for one of the few times that morning, as the members considered these words. The King and Faramir eyed the members cautiously, waiting.

"Well," said Lord Beleg, after drawing a long breath, "as long as they are closely guarded, and we weigh with the proper care *everything* they say, I suppose I would give my support to such a meeting."

Aragorn gave him a nod of appreciation.

"I cannot support it," snapped Lord Tuornen, the long, jeweled fingers of one hand nervously drumming the table. He looked at the King. "You may do as you will, my Liege, we are here only to advise. Still, I must say that this proposal bodes ill to me. The blood upon the Pelennor is yet too fresh for such alliances."

"I am aware of your concern, my Lord," replied Aragorn with respect, "as I am of all you have each offered me this day." He paused, then directed his firm gaze around the table to every member of the Council. "As one who has borne battle against this foe, I carry no illusions that the negotiation will be swiftly or easily concluded. Yet for Gondor's sake, I shall risk this venture. I would see her borders made safe, and all the people beneath her care able to pursue their lives in peace. This may be the first step to that end, my friends - a small, cautious step, to be certain, but one I am willing to take."

He stood, and at once a small rumble filled the room as every other man took to his feet as well.

"The message of acceptance shall be sent," announced the King, "and we shall hear what the men of the South have to say to us. Should it prove unsuitable, our situation will at least be no worse than now. But if their intention is honorable, we may count their allegiance as a sign of hope that the healing of Sauron's long reign of evil over the men of Middle-earth has truly started."

----------------------

Six days later, the sun shone again upon the Harad Road beside the Poros River. Once more, a group of Haradrim riders clad in black and red sat beneath the midday sun, led again by Jadim, the sharp-eyed man with gold rings upon his fingers. As a group, they watched the wide, dusty lane before them, and waited.

Presently there came to their ears the sound of approaching horses. At once the small band became alert, spears flashing in the sun as they sat straighter in their saddles. At the front, the sharp-eyed man peered at the oncoming riders, his gaze narrowing, the slightest flicker of anxiousness in his eyes.

Down the road came two armor-clad soldiers of Gondor, Henvain and Faelor, looking far more confident now than during their first encounter with the men of Harad. Behind them rode a few more soldiers also in armor, one carrying the banner of Gondor mounted on a long staff.

At an appropriate distance, the Gondorian soldiers reined in their mounts, each group studying the other closely.

Once the dust cloud from the new arrivals had settled, Faelor cleared his throat. "We have your answer," he announced.

From behind his black cloth wrapping, Jadim seemed to smile. "There seem to be a few more of you this time," he noted in an amused voice.

Faelor seemed a little uncomfortable with the new protocol. "The last time we were just on patrol," he explained. "But it's a diplomatic mission now, so we have to do things, um, a little differently."

Henvain gave a quick, nervous sigh. "Get on with it," he muttered, his pale eyes watching the Haradrim uneasily.

"Right," was Faelor's half-smothered reply as he looked down to his side and pulled out a small folded parchment bearing Aragorn's waxen seal. Looking up, he drew himself up in the saddle with an air of unfamiliar importance and said, "Our King has accepted your offer."

Behind Jadim, the other Haradrim soldiers could be seen looking at each other, perhaps with surprised expressions beneath their black facial wrappings.

"His terms are within this message," continued Faelor, "and he asks that you would be so kind as to let us know if they meet with your approval."

He held the message out.

Jadim eyed him keenly for a moment, then gently spurred his horse forward.

After a pause, Faelor looked over to Henvain with uncertainty. "I, er, suppose I should ride out to meet him, shouldn't I?"

Henvain glanced at him and shrugged, not taking much care to hide his cluelessness. "This is my first diplomatic mission, too, you know," he whispered back. "But if we're going to try and be friends with them now, I suppose it couldn't hurt."

"Mmmhmm," hummed Faelor to himself in affirmation, and urged his own horse forward. They met halfway, and the Haradrim warrior carefully took the missive from Faelor's hand.

"My thanks," he said with a bow. "I do not believe that was easy for either of us."

The Gondorian stared at him for a few seconds before managing to say, "You're welcome."

Silence fell as Jadim broke the seal and looked over Aragorn's terms. Henvain and Faelor waited, their expressions wary as they looked over their Haradrim counterparts. From the Gondorians' expressions, they were clearly still adjusting to the idea of becoming allies with men they were so used to hating. The black cloth coverings made it impossible to read the thoughts of the Haradrim soldiers, but their eyes seemed to regard the men of the West with equal wariness.

"I am certain these terms will meet with Mahrid Adir's approval," Jadim declared, lifting his head from the parchment. "As he requests, our delegation shall join an escort from your city upon this road in three weeks' time, and proceed to the place of meeting."

"We shall inform the King," pronounced Faelor with a smile; he seemed to be getting more comfortable with his role as envoy now.

"And I would suggest," the Haradrim added, "that your escort come heavily protected. I would advise fully armed soldiers, if it is not too much against the customs of your people."

Faelor's smile quickly evaporated.

Behind him, Henvain blurted, "Fully armed soldiers? Protection? I thought your people were looking for peace with us!"

The Haradrim's black eyes grew even darker, and almost sad.

"Not all of us," he said in a somber voice, "and I ask the protection for our delegation as much as yours. But do as you will-we shall meet again in three weeks' time."

Jadim nodded once more, and turned his horse around, riding back down the Harad road to the south. His men followed, leaving the Gondorians to watch them disappear into the dusty sunshine, their expressions bewildered and not a little worried.

---------------------------

Some few days later, the ground of Arda thundered beneath a very different rider, on a very different mission.

The stark, rocky surroundings that enveloped the Orc as he rode his panting mount over the crags of Mordor offered nothing in the way of a pleasant environment, but the brute creature cared little for that. In fact, he preferred it.

His mind was scarcely on enjoying the ride anyway, as he drove the snarling Warg onward down the barren, dusty trail through the forbidding peaks. Above him loomed a gray, cloudy sky; it always seemed cloudy here, not that he'd ever really noticed. Sauron was gone, and his black cloud with him, but there were still places in Mordor that never seemed to see the sun.

It was to such a place the Orc rode now, and as he turned a corner in the road and crested its peak, he gave a gasp of relief to finally be at his destination, punctuated by a softly sworn Orcish curse.

It had been a long, hard ride, but he knew the Prince would want to hear the news he carried.

Before him, in a long valley rung by tall, sharp mountains, spread a sight few Orcs had ever hoped to see since the fall of their Lord. To one side of the valley stood a large citadel and several smaller stone buildings, a vast complex built in ancient times by the fathers of Gondor, then abandoned and forgotten.

But it was not abandoned now, thought the Orc with satisfaction as he spurred his mount towards the Citadel and its tall round tower. The entire valley, well hidden from prying eyes of the new Gondor King and his men, was crawling with Orcs, some four thousand survivors of the last War. They had been scattered after the Dark Lord's death, hiding in the forests and mountains, desperate for revenge but without a guiding hand.

The Prince, of course, had changed all that. Now, these Orcs had a purpose. Now, they had help; among the Orcs in the valley could be seen the black and red robes of some two hundred Haradrim men, giving them directions and orders. New siege towers were rising above Mordor's desolate plains, and soon, thought the Orc with glee, their presence would be felt among the world of Men.

But first, he had to tell the Prince his information, and that, he knew, would not be as pleasant.

Eager to get it over with, he pulled his Warg to a stop before the long stone steps of the Citadel, leapt off and scurried up the stairs as quickly as his bulky form would allow. The Haradrim who guarded the door let him pass; they knew him, and possibly even what he came to report. Little stayed hidden here.

Inside, the Orc hurried up to the top of the Tower, along long winding stairs whose darkness was scarcely helped by the spluttering torches lining the walls. Whatever touch of light or grace this fortress might have held had long disappeared, dissolved by time and the Dark Lord's oppressive shadow. Now the very stones seemed steeped in evil, the air suffused with the wicked intents of those now in control of the walls around it.

At least, the Orc might have noticed this, had he any sensitivity to such things. However, none of the unsettling aspects of the Citadel concerned him; he was used to it.

At last he reached the top, and before him loomed a great wooden door held fast by two armed Haradrim and two Orcs, each holding large battle axes. At this Orc's approach, his fellows let out a grunt of recognition, and one swiftly pushed open one side of the huge double doors.

"'Bout time," he barked as his comrade hustled by. "He's been waitin' for you!"

"Go spike yourself," was the snarled response. Then he was inside, and the door closed.

It was a large room, obviously a lookout point at one time, evidenced by the gigantic open windows that ringed the circumference of the circular chamber, separated from each other by thick stone columns. Peering out of these windows with his back to the Orc stood a slender Haradric figure, clad in rich robes of gold and red, his hands clasped behind him. He wore no head covering, his shining black hair curling in thick waves over his ears and frothing at the nape of his neck.

At once the Orc rushed to the figure and dropped to his knees, ignoring the few other Orcs, Uruks and Haradrim who stood about the room amid tables piled with maps, charts, and papers.

"My Lord Prince Karil," he gasped in greeting, puffing from his hurried flight.

The slender figure did not move, and for several moments the only sound was the wind blowing through the windows, and the Orc's haggard breathing.

Finally from the regal figure came a single, sharp word, spoke with harsh impatience: "Well?"

"Your suspicions were correct, Lord Prince," gasped the Orc, who still had not regained his breath. "Word is spreading even now throughout all of Harad. Your father Mahrid Adir rides in nineteen days' time to Gondor to talk to them of peace."

There was a sight murmur throughout the room as the Orcs, Uruks and Haradrim absorbed the news. The slender figure, however, only chuckled and shook his head, still looking out of the window.

"So he has lost none of his foolish delusions, then," he said in a smooth, almost gentle voice dripping with contempt. "My brother Jadim rides with him, too, no doubt, a fine pair of fools on a fool's errand. Going to beg peace from those Gondorian dogs who have besotted the earth with the blood of our people and defied the might of Sauron."

Now he turned, showing to the Orc a strikingly handsome face, touched by no more than twenty years, without a hint of beard and accented with large, sharp, gold-hued eyes, their depths keen with cruelty. A chilling smile was on that youthful countenance, a smile only barely tinged with humanity.

"Well," he said pleasantly, "we'll see about that."

"All I'm saying, sister-husband, is we must use the utmost *caution* in this matter. And if that proves futile, our swords and bows."

The morning sun streamed brilliantly through the wide windows of the Citadel's dining hall, causing its white-marbled walls and polished wooden floor to glow with warm radiance. The long wooden dining table that occupied the center of the room was mostly empty save for a small group clustered at its end, composed of Faramir and Eowyn, both in casual attired befitting the early hour, and a handsome, sturdy-looking young man whose age appeared to fall between theirs, and who was approaching both his morning meal and the conversation with equal appetite.

Faramir was in the act of raising his mug of tea to his lips while listening to the young man's words, and as the newcomer consumed a bite of his breakfast, took the opportunity to speak.

"Aragorn and I shall be most wary in this matter, I assure you, Eomer," he said in a serious tone. "Neither he nor I have forgotten the Haradrim's acts when they were our foes in the War. But if they are prepared to offer to speak of peace now, I see no reason to delay meeting them, as long as the proper safeguards are in place."

"Hm," was Eomer's thoughtful reply as he looked up, taking a moment to push several straying locks of his long, blond hair back over his shoulder where they belonged. "I can think of many reasons, most of whom are buried now beneath the simbylemine of Rohan. I do not know what the widows and orphans of Gondor say, but those among my people feel it is too soon to trust the men of Harad."

Faramir peered at him, his blue eyes attentive, as he silently drank his tea and listened.

"Let them prove their devotion to peace by wholly ceasing their attacks against our people for three or four years," continued Eomer, sitting back and laying his utensils upon his plate, "before being treated as honorable men to be bargained with."

"Yet in that time, men may die who would otherwise have lived, had we honored their desire to negotiate," observed Faramir as he picked up a piece of buttered bread from his plate, calmly eyeing his brother-in-law. "And Harad's people will have suffered without Gondor's aid or protection, when they might have enjoyed newfound hope and healing."

Eomer studied him, his dark eyes sharp, before turning to Eowyn with a sigh. "Dear sister, you have married a very stubborn man."

She smiled at him. "It is a trait I find admirable in you both," she replied warmly.

"It shall make the first day of negotiations next week interesting, at any rate," said Faramir as he began to cut his breakfast meat, looking at Eomer without a trace of ill-feeling. "Fear not, my brother, all opinions shall be heard, and you must know that there will be many there who share your views. If all goes well, swords and bows will not be needed, no matter how spirited our discussions become. I might advise a swift dousing in the Anduin for some of our more passionate Council members, however..."

"I have found a bucket of cold water works just as well, nephew!"

At this new voice, all eyes turned towards the large wooden doors that stood at the end of the dining hall. A tall, broad-chested man was walking towards them, a smile upon his square-set face. Black waves of thick hair fell down his back, a few strands of which had escaped the band that bound them back from his face and were now falling about his high, wide cheekbones. His large hands were undoing the clasp of the dusty cloak that hung around his shoulders, and an affectionate gleam was in his sea-gray eyes as he walked to meet the group.

All three diners smiled to see him, and Faramir arose at once with a delighted smile, joyfully exclaiming "Uncle!"

Eowyn and Eomer stood as well, watching with pleasure as the two men fondly embraced.

"I am well pleased that you arrived safely," said Faramir with great relief, after he and his uncle had parted. "Was your journey from Dol Amroth a pleasant one?"

Imrahil finished undoing his cloak, removed it and draped it over a nearby chair. "Pleasant enough, and even if it were not, it would be no hardship to bear, knowing that I should find you, and your family, at the end of it. And how fares the Lady Eowyn this day?"

"Quite well, Uncle," she said lightly, as he took her hands and kissed her cheek in greeting. "You do not know how happy you have made Faramir by your presence here, he has spoken of little else but seeing you again these past days."

"No greater than my happiness at being here, particularly if our aim is met with success," noted Imrahil. He gently released Eowyn's hands and turned to her brother, executing a graceful bow for one so tall and powerfully built.

"Hail, Eomer King," he said, in a more formal tone than he had employed all morning. "The people of Dol Amroth send their official good wishes to the kingdom of Rohan."

Eomer bowed in reply, his face solemn although an anxious light danced in his eyes. "And they are returned, Prince Imrahil," he said, in a voice just as measured.

Imrahil straightened, relaxed a little, and reached into a pocket of his cloak. "And in an unofficial capacity," he went on, his tone considerably more casual as he withdrew a letter from the cloak, "my daughter Lothiriel bade me deliver this to your hand myself the instant I arrived, and made it known to me that if I failed in this I would not be allowed to return to hearth and home. So if I desire to see my sons and daughter again, I suppose I ought to fulfill my pledge."

So saying, he handed the letter to Eomer. The young man accepted it, the anxiousness now replaced with a far more agreeable excitement, and with a bow excused himself to read it, blushing furiously all the while.

Eowyn watched her brother depart before turning to Faramir and Imrahil, a merry light in her blue eyes. "That should lighten his mood, after all of this morning's talk of treaties and negotiations," she remarked with satisfaction. "Pray sit yourself and rest, Uncle, and I will see that some food and drink is sent for you at once."

She dropped a small curtsey in respect and farewell and went out of the hall. As soon as she was gone, Imrahil looked at Faramir.

"Arguing with your brother-in-law so early in the day, nephew?" he asked, as they both strolled back to the table. "Please, sit and eat, don't let my arrival interrupt your meal. With all that lies before us, you're going to need your strength."

"it was not an argument," Faramir insisted as he sat down, with his uncle taking the chair opposing him. "It was...a healthy debate. I fear Eomer does not feel so optimistic about this matter as Aragorn and I do."

He picked up a nearby mug, filled it with steaming tea from the pot, and handed it to Imrahil.

"After what Rohan suffered at the hands of the Haradrim, that does not surprise me," stated the Prince, accepting the mug. "Some of my advisors feel the same way, although most agree with me, that we should at least hear them out before deciding the proper course to take."

Faramir crossed is arms, leaned on the table and looked away, his blue eyes distant and pensive. "Our Council is evenly divided, it seems," he said with a tinge of disappointment. "Half are willing to listen, the other half determined that it is all a trick of some kind." He sighed and bent his gaze back to his uncle. "I fear the way to peace with Harad will not be swift, or easy."

The older man regarded him carefully. "Yet, my nephew, you are willing to walk it."

There was no hesitation as Faramir firmly nodded. "No matter its length or diificulty," he declared. "If we may indeed forge a true peace here, that will make all obstacles all the way seem small, and benefit the people of all kingdoms and races beyond what we see today."

Imrahil smiled at his nephew before saying softly, "I believe your mother, and Boromir, and your father would be very proud of you this day, Faramir."

An appreciative smile lit the young Steward's face.

Imrahil took a sip of his tea, then sat in silence for a few moments.

"But you still may want to have a bucket of cold water at hand," he added, "just in case."

----------------------------

A fair summer wind was blowing across the Pelennor, setting the many-colored banners decorating the seven-layered city of Minas Tirith aflutter in the bright June sunshine. The White City gleamed beneath the radiant sky, its winding road lined with hundreds of excited citizens gathered together. The air on every level was full of talk, the voices rising and falling, some speaking in in loud excitement, others in nervous whispers.

"Do you really think they'll come?"

"If they want peace, they will!"

"King Elessar shouldn't even let 'em near the city. We should be killin' 'em, not signin' treaties with 'em. It's like he forgot they followed Mordor."

"But the war's over now, and their leader says he wants the fighting to stop..."

"Yes, but he's only the leader of one tribe, and it's not like you can trust what any Haradrim says, now can you?"

The buzzing voices continued all morning, reaching from the splendid courtyard on the first level all the way to the Steward's apartments of the utmost story. There, Faramir was standing before a gilt-edged mirror and examining the formal yet comfortable-looking suit of riding clothes covering his sturdy frame.

After a moment, his long, slender fingers had finished fastening the catches on his sleeves, and he straightened, studying his reflection in the mirror. His sensitive blue eyes swept over the image before him, and after a pause he smiled, drew a deep breath and emitted a sigh that was both relieved and a bit nervous.

With one more glance at the reflection, he turned his head to look across the room. "Are the people still gathering, my love, or have they decided to form a revolt and overthrow Aragorn and I on the basis of insanity?"

At the towering window opposite him, bathed in the morning sunlight, stood Eowyn, her form draped in a pale violet gown, her golden hair arranged tightly about her head and adorned with a delicate golden circlet. She had been peering from the opening to the crowds assembling below, and now directed her attention to the young man, an amused smile playing on her lips.

"It appears you are both safe for now," she announced with a wry smile, walking over to him with a gentle rustle as she lifted the skirts of her costly gown. "They seem excited and a bit anxious, about what you and Aragorn expected."

He considered this, gave a short nod, and returned to the mirror, adjusting his raiment. "One can hardly find fault with them for being worried," he replied in a rich, measured voice. "Not long ago, the Haradrim were our sworn enemies. Many of them have never actually seen one, and now we are about to negotiate our first peace agreement with them. If the amount of arguing we endured in the Council over this matter is any indication, this is not exactly the most popular choice for our new King's first major political venture."

When he received no acknowledgement to his remarks, the young man looked over and saw his beloved regarding him with a very fond smile.

He could not help but smile back. "Does my Lady Eowyn have something to say?" he inquired.

She laughed softly, her face quietly radiant with joy. "Only that she believes her Lord Faramir is looking especially handsome today, and that she will be most proud of him as he performs his duty as Steward of Gondor."

"Ah," he said with a chuckle, reaching forward to gently take her in his arms. "Not half so proud as Lord Faramir will be of his Lady Eowyn, I am sure. You will persuade the Haradrim into agreeing to our terms through your sheer beauty alone." He gave her a quick, tender kiss.

"That will be most difficult if you do not ride out in time to greet them and escort them to the city," she observed, kissing him back before smoothly sliding from his arms.

Faramir sighed and walked over to a nearby dressing table, which was laden with a variety of small personal acoutrements. "I suppose for the sake of duty, we must place business before pleasure," he murmured with a smile, picking up a heavy leather belt and sword and buckling them on. Looking over the other small affects, his eyes rested on a silver ring decorated with a large red stone. His expression became reflective, and he lifted the ring slowly, gazing at it with a bemused, contemplative air.

"Hm," he grunted quietly to himself, shaking his head before slowly sliding the ring onto his finger. "If my father knew we were about to sit down with the Haradrim and talk about peace, he would surely declare both the King and me to be mad."

Eowyn's expression was thoughtful as she came to stand beside him.

"Boromir would not countenance it either," he continued lightly, walking over to a nearby chair and picking up the long, dark green riding cloak that casually reposed there. "I can hear him now." His voice turned deeper as he draped the cloak over his shoulders. "'Treaties with the Haradrim, little brother? You'll be inviting Orcs to tea parties next!'"

He laughed a little as he attached the golden clasp of his cloak and glanced over at Eowyn. "I would swear your brother almost said that to me while we were discussing this last night."

Eowyn retrieved her own cape from nearby. "Eomer has spent his entire life hating and hunting Orcs," she said, as Faramir gently took the cloak and draped it around her neck for her. "As the Haradrim were once their allies in the armies of Sauron, he will have a hard time making any distinction between them. It will be a major triumph simply to get him to speak to the Haradrim without a sword in his hand."

As she fastened the clasp, she turned to him.

"Yes, he's made that very plain," sighed Faramir, before giving her a resigned smile. "But I value your brother's opinion most highly, so it pleases me that he's here to help us negotiate. Aragorn and I do not want to go into this without giving full considerations to all arguments, whether they agree with our own opinions or no. For now, we can only see what the men of the South have to say, and proceed from there."

There was a knock on the door, and a deep voice called from the other side, "Are the Steward and his fair Lady prepared to walk an old man down to the Fountain Court?"

Smiling, Faramir replied, "They are, Uncle - one moment!"

Stepping away from the mirror, he offered Eowyn his hand, and together they left the sunlit chamber.

Upon opening the door, they found Prince Imrahil, clad in his formal blue and white velvets. Upon the chest of his ankle-length tunic was sewn the image of a white ship with a graceful swan-shaped prow, the symbol of Dol Amroth.

"Ah! Good day to you both," Imrahil said, bowing slightly in greeting.

"Good day, Uncle," Faramir said pleasantly in return once he had cleared the door. He looked up and down the hall. "I thought to find an old man here who wanted an escort downstairs, but as there does not seem to be one here, I suppose I shall offer the same service to you."

Imrahil laughed a little as he kissed Eowyn's hand. "With that silver tongue, your husband need have no fear of these negotiations," he assured her. "They'll have the treaty signed and sealed before the day is done!"

She laughed. "Perhaps, but he did say something about sending to the kitchen for some buckets of cold water..."

As they walked the hallway, they encountered Aragorn and his Queen approaching their chamber, each clad in their own finery and accompanied by a brace of guards in silver armor. The King wore his ceremonial black armor chased with gold, with a shirt of blue silk showing beneath, covered with a cape of blackest velvet edged with silver. Upon his long black was a silver winged crown. By his side was a raven-haired woman of ethereal beauty, her sharp green eyes and pointed ears denoting her Elven blood.

At the sight of Imrahil, Faramir and Eowyn, they broke into glad smiles.

"Ah! Good morning to you all," said Aragorn, as Faramir and Eowyn both bowed. There was a faint light of amusement in his green eyes. "Are you ready to face the wrath of Minas Tirith?"

"Good morning to you, my King, and to our fair Queen," Faramir replied with the utmost respect as he straightened. "Yes, sire, I believe I have sufficiently braced myself. They seem not as angry now as when the news was first told to them."

"I am glad to see you both so composed," said the beautiful Elven woman, her lips parted in a smile. "Aragorn has not enjoyed a moment's rest all morning. Perhaps you may calm his mood."

Aragorn laughed a little, and they all began walking down the hallway together.

"I promise I shall do what I can, my Queen," said Faramir. "I would say that treaty negotiations should not be difficult for one who has faced much greater challenges."

"I fear Arwen does not exaggerate," the King said as they strolled along, his hand over hers where it lay in the crook of his elbow. "We are entering into a perilous time, my friends, and our actions today will affect those who come long after us. It is a dire responsibility, one I feel pressing down on me most heavily."

Faramir gave him an encouraging look. "There is none we would rather have bear that responsibility than you, Sire," he said. "You have renewed us, been our hope and courage. It seems but fitting that he who led us to triumph in battle should now find that same success in leading us to peace."

"Battle I am used to," sighed Aragorn, adjusting his heavy robes. "Wars, I know how to fight. Diplomacy is another matter. I had scant chance to practice my treaty-negotiating skills out in the wilds."

"It will be a new experience for the Haradrim Chieftain as well, I am certain," Faramir pointed out as they approached the door. "You are two leaders who desire peace for their people; that is a starting point, at any rate, and one we may regard with hope."

They stepped through the doors of the palace and out into the courtyard, which was now awash in the bright morning sunlight. A small crowd had gathered; to one side a military escort stood waiting, composed of some thirty armored soldiers of Gondor. Faramir looked into the clear blue sky, squinting against the brightness, then dropped his gaze to the scene before him.

Eomer approached them now, clad in red leather armor covered with a richly embroidered cloak of burgundy velvet. His long golden hair blew free in the morning breeze, only lightly bound behind his head, and in his arm he bore a helmet of gold and leather surmounted with a long horse-tail.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs and bowed to the group.

"Ah! Good morning to you, Eomer King," said Aragorn pleasantly, returning the bow before descending the steps with the others. "I trust you are well this day?"

"I am well any day that allows me to lay eyes upon my sister and my friends, King of Gondor," replied Eomer with a smile as he watched them walk down. As Eowyn neared, he took her hand and kissed it in greeting, which she accepted with a smile.

"Might I hope that this agreeable feeling might soften your heart towards the Haradrim?" Faramir asked in a mild tone as he descended the steps, although his expression of slightly amused resignation indicated that he knew already what the answer to this question would be.

Eomer sighed and shifted the helmet in his arm. "I fear, good sister-husband, that we shall never concur on that point," he said in a firm voice. "I am here as a kindness to Gondor and its King, not for a desire to form any possible kinship with Harad. Agreements for peace I may sign, but my heart will never trust them. Too many of their swords are stained with the blood of Rohan, and of Gondor."

Faramir pursed his lips and nodded with respect as he looked into Eomer's eyes. "You have my understanding, Lord of Rohan," he replied quietly. "But I will yet hope that our acts this day may cleanse at least some of that stain away."

The Rohan King returned the nod, although his eyes remained doubtful. Faramir gave him a companionable grasp of his arm, which Eomer answered, and the kinsmen parted.

As Faramir descended the last few steps to the courtyard, he was met by a young, serious-looking man wearing the silver armor of Gondor. This new arrival was little older than Faramir, his appearance marked by an oval face with a slightly pointed chin, and sharp gray eyes set beneath black brows. His head was bare, his long blonde hair only loosely tied behind his head at the temples. A long velvet cape of dark blue hung from his shoulders to his ankles, denoting his upper rank, and in one arm he bore a silver helmet.

"My Lord Steward," the man announced in a quiet, formal tone, "the military escort is assembled by your instructions and ready to move out at your command, sir."

"Thank you, Captain Irolas, we shall move out at once," was Faramir's amiable response as he looked over the contingent and nodded his satisfaction.

The captain gave a small smile of acknowledgment, bowed and went to mount his horse.

"I see we did not miss the grand departure," said a rough, familiar voice, and the royal party turned to see Gimli and Legolas approaching, each dressed in their formal best.

"Indeed you have not, Master Gimli, and I am glad for it," replied Faramir with a smile as he climbed atop his mount. "As residents of Rohan's Glittering Caves and Ithilien, the Dwarves and Elves also have a voice in this matter, and I am pleased to know each race will be so well represented."

"We are prepared to do our part," announced Legolas with a graceful bow as he and the Dwarf took their place on the steps beside the Kings, Eowyn, and Arwen. He then flicked a quick glance to Gimli, a slight grin sliding across his ageless face. "Although I am certain *some* voices will be speaking louder than others."

Gimli's eyes twinkled with good humor even as he scowled at the Elf. "Hmph," he grunted, "it is better than mincing at words all day, taking an hour to say what others may tell in a minute!"

"I am certain there will be time to hear all that must be said," Aragorn offered with a smile, stepping forward and looking to where Faramir sat, ready to lead the contingent of soldiers. "We shall await you at the meeting place to greet the Haradrim delegation."

"Very well, Sire," replied the Steward as he picked up his reins. He glanced over to the lead row of soldiers, a segment that included Irolas and the familiar faces of Faelor and Henvain. "Captain, you may order the column to proceed."

With a military call, the column began to move out, Faramir and the commander in the lead. With somber solemnity the delegation began its procession down to the main gates, the colorful banners snapping in the sunlit breeze, the decorative trappings of the horses flashing and singing with the movement.

Down each level they moved, past throngs of the curious. The faces of Minas Tirith displayed a host of emotions as they watched the riders go past to meet the Haradrim; some wore looks of concern, others hope, still others open distrust. The children laughed and clapped with unthinking delight at the spectacle, heedless of its deeper meaning.

Within a short amount of time, the entire parade had traveled the route through the city, and rode through the restored Great Gate onto the plains of the Pelennor. Those gathered along the wall watched the glittering entourage as it traveled across the wide plains towards the ruins of Osgiliath. Soon the riders were lost to view, but every heart in the city knew their destination, and could now only wait while the delegation continued to the Southern road, and the future of their country.

The waving green leaves glistened in the bright summer sun as they danced above the wide trodden road that wound its meandering way through Ithilien. The day had passed its zenith and was moving into early afternoon. Here and there in the dense leafy underbrush, insects buzzed and zoomed in and out of the shadows, barely stirring the warm humid air with their passing. Overhead, birds sang and darted, seeking food and companionship while the weather was yet fair, and taking scant notice of the line of finely clad and armored riders wending along the flat, grassy path.

The delegation had been riding for some time, and the soft murmur of idle conversation between the soldiers mingled with the soft clopping of the horses' hooves as the column moved down the Harad Road.

At the head, Faramir and Irolas guided their mounts along, watching the path ahead with the expectation of setting their eyes at any moment upon the negotiation party from Harad. Faramir appeared quite calm, enjoying the warm summer day, while Irolas had spent nearly the entire ride nervously scrutinizing every tree and bush.

"Can you not relax and enjoy the day for five minutes, my friend?" Faramir was saying quietly to the Captain. "I am pleased you are so ably performing your duty, but I fear you may exhaust yourself before we meet the delegation."

Irolas glanced at the Steward, and answered his query with a slightly embarrassed smile. "You must forgive me, Lord Faramir," he replied. "Old habits die hard, I suppose, and I find it nearly impossible to relax when meeting a group of Haradrim, even if it is voluntarily."

Faramir laughed a little and shook his head as he turned his eyes back to the road before him. "No need for apologies, Irolas, I understand," he said. "This will take some time for us all to adjust to." He looked behind him, then leaned in towards the Captain slightly. "Tell me, how stands the disposition of the men today? Has there been any change?"

In response, Irolas' eyes flicked back to assure that none nearby could hear them, then said in a soft, confidential tone, "None that I could discern, I'm afraid. The fourteen soldiers who resigned over this have not returned, and most of the rest of the men are highly skeptical, particularly the ones who have born arms against the Haradrim."

Faramir's lips pressed together, and he nodded and sat back up in the saddle. "As I suspected," he sighed quietly, a whisper of sadness in his tone.

The other man looked out to the road ahead, his voice still too low for any but Faramir to hear. "Perhaps it is too soon," he suggested. "They still recall seeing our comrades cut down with blade and arrow, and crushed beneath the feet of the mumakil. They - we have all - seen the men of the South only as the enemy. Lord Denethor would never..."

Suddenly Irolas bit off his words, and cast an abashed look at Faramir. "Forgive me, my Lord," he stammered, ducking his head in a gesture of apology.

But Faramir only smiled. "No need for shame, Irolas. I was thinking the same thing this morning," he said in a reassuring tone. "If my father knew we were about to sign the first peace treaty with the Haradrim, our ancient enemies whom he fought against as Steward for so long..." He shook his head and looked back at his comrade. "You are right, he never would have accepted this."

Irolas was gazing at him steadily. "I meant no disrespect to his memory," he said fervently. "Lord Denethor was a great man."

Now Faramir's countenance clouded a little. "Yes," he muttered, his eyes on the road before them but seeing something else entirely, "before the constant threat of Mordor and the evil of Sauron took his mind, my father cared for Gondor as no other man living, and would have brooked no quarter with its enemies."

Then Faramir drew a deep breath and lifted his head, regarding Irolas with a proud gaze. "But the duties of Steward are mine now, and I will welcome any chance of peace that comes, taking all proper caution that it is true and lasting. Gondor will extend its hand to the Haradrim in forgiveness and friendship, and can only hope they will do the same."

Irolas seemed less than convinced as he urged his horse forward. "Well, we shall know of their sincerity soon enough, I suppose."

Faramir looked up into the sky, squinting at the sun. "Yes," he muttered. "Sooner than this, I would have thought. Should we not have met their delegation by this time?"

The other man glanced up himself. "I too would have said so," he answered, before dropping his gaze back to the ground. "But they may have met all manner of delays."

Faramir was frowning, his blue eyes now more alert as he looked around. "They know we are to meet them upon this road, and escort them to the City," he said. "Their last dispatch placed them at the Crossings of Poros some two days ago. We have ridden well past the point where our paths should have crossed. Should-"

He stopped speaking, his head turning to face the road, his every feature tense. Faintly upon the hot afternoon air came a thrumming sound, increasing in volume and distinction with every passing second.

"A horseman approaches," declared Irolas, sitting up in his saddle. From the leafy depths of light and darkness came the sound of hoofbeats, signaling a rider coming upon them at a furious speed.

At once the soldiers drew their swords, four of them riding forward quickly to fan out around the Steward. Faramir had unsheathed his own weapon, and was regarding the sheltered pathway ahead with keen apprehension.

"Could it be a trap?" Irolas said sharply.

Faramir said nothing, still staring at the road, a light in his eyes denoting his unwillingness to yet assign such a dark meaning to the urgency of the rider's approach.

Then the rider appeared, flashing through the shade and sunlight, his horse's hooves pounding down the grass with every stride. He grew more visible with each second, and when he drew up before them, they saw a young man in wildly disheveled clothes of a deep red hue, his long black hair free and wild, his swarthy skin denoting his Haradrim descent.

He was covered in blood.

At the sight of the delegation, he skidded to a halt, his mount continuing to buck and rear. "Are you from Gondor?" he cried, in a thickly accented voice.

Faramir swiftly rode forward, his heart pounding with dread. "I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor," he said quickly. "What has happened?"

In reply, the young man waved one blood-spattered arm behind him. "I am Kidar, of the Seventh Tribe," he said. "We are down the road - some three miles - please help us at once, we are being attacked!"

Without waiting for an answer, he sawed his horse around charged away in a cloud of sunlit dust.

At once, a thrill of excited activity ran through the entire squadron of soldiers.

"Let us follow him at once, Captain," urged Faramir, turning quickly to Irolas.

The slightest light of hesitation was in the Captain's gray eyes. "Sir, if it *is* a trap-"

"Then the skills we have gained in the war will tell us so, and our dealings with Harad will be swift and terrible indeed," was the Steward's quick reply. "But if it is not, we are losing lives with every moment we stay here."

With that, Faramir spurred his horse after the bloodied Haradrim rider. Irolas barked an order for the men to follow, and they obeyed, some far more willingly than others, and soon the entire Gondor escort was pounding down the road to the fray, all thoughts of propriety and decorum forgotten as they prepared themselves, once more, for battle.

---------------

As they tore along, Faramir bent low over the neck of his mount, preparing himself for whatever they found at the end of their journey. The possibility that he had been wrong all along and they were riding to their doom presented itself, but he firmly pushed it aside, determined not to let old prejudices cloud his current judgment. Trained at recognizing a trap, Faramir felt confident he could withdraw his men in time, and then it would be woe to Harad for betraying their trust. But there would be time in the future for such things; he strove to keep his mind in the moment, and deal with the reality of the present.

The noise of battle reached his ears; somewhere ahead there came the clanging of metal on metal, the twang of bowstrings, the screams and cries of men engaged in struggle. Mingled among the shouts were the grunts and roars of Orcs, and Faramir felt his heart clench in his chest. How came Orcs to be involved in this?

A figure lay by the side of the road, but the Harad rider whom Faramir was following drove straight past it in his flight. As he neared it, Faramir saw the fallen form of a dead Haradrim, an Orc arrow protruding from his back. he had just enough time to see this Haradrim's horse prancing, loose and panicked, in the forests beyond the road.

"Another rider, also sent to find us," he thought quickly. This one had not completed his mission.

Not far behind the Haradrim lay the body of a dead Orc archer, its throat cut. As he raced past the corpse, Faramir noted a strange symbol painted in red upon the brute's cheek, resembling a backwards S with a line through the center. Never had Faramir known the Orcs to thus adorn themselves for battle, but he had little time to dwell on this curiosity, for he and the others had crested a small rise, and could now behold the chaos on the road before them.

The dirt road divided the warring parties, with brutal hand-to-hand combat spilling back and forth between. To their right, a host of Haradrim soldiers had taken shelter behind the rocks and trees of a large clearing, shooting arrows across the divide. On the left of the road, a band of Orcs of indeterminate number were also hunkering down behind the rocks and trees, firing their bows and howling their guttural war-cries. Among the foul creatures, to Faramir's surprise, stood a small number of Haradrim, clearly acting in concert with the beasts. All of the Orcs and their Haradrim comrades on the left side of the road bore the same curious symbol upon their faces.

Most of the Orcs and Haradrim appeared to be involved in the hand-to-hand struggle; there were flashes and clanging as swords met, shrieks and groans as their sharp blades found their target. Bodies of the fallen, some yet moving lay at the feet of the combatants, who paid them no mind in their efforts to claim victory.

Of those fighting, one warrior stood out, a tall, young Haradrim clad in red and black garments far richer than those around him, gold flashing from his throat and fingers. The black scarf that traditionally cloaked the Haradrim's face was gone, his long, thick, black hair flying well past his shoulders as he fought. He was almost covered in blood, most of it black, and his swordwork as he cut and slashed at the Orcs opposing him immediately revealed a soldier of considerable skill and deadliness.

Faramir saw all of this with one sweep of his eyes, and he immediately drew his sword and turned to Irolas. "To the aid of the Haradrim!" he cried, and rode forward, plunging ahead on his horse towards the battle.

"Never thought I'd be given *those* orders," Henvain muttered, before joining his fellow soldiers in following the Steward. A few of the Gondorians hesitated for a few moments, but in the end, every soldier of Minas Tirith did his duty and threw himself into the fray. Half of them remained on horseback, charging into the Orcs and slashing with their swords, while the other half dismounted and hurled themselves at the beasts churning back and forth across the road in their struggles against the men of Harad.

The fight quickly turned even more fierce, the Orcs screeching in anger and dismay at the newly arrived reinforcements. If any of the Haradrim or Gondorians felt any discomfort at fighting side by side, their efforts betrayed no sign of it; all aggression found full vent against the Orcs. There would be time for discomfort later.

As Faramir plied his blade against the Orcs, he soon perceived that the foul creatures were expending most of their energy towards a single objective: a pile of large boulders some twenty feet away from the road on the Haradrim side. Most of the flying Orc arrows were aimed there; any Orc who managed to cross the road aimed his steps for that region, and there were more Haradrim clustered there than anywhere else on the small battlefield.

When he had a rare moment to study the cluster of rocks, Faramir was surprised to see someone suddenly appear from among them, aiming a bow and firing its arrow before disappearing once more. From his swift perception, he saw that it was an older Haradrim man with long, gray hair, clad in garments of white and shining gold.

But as quickly as the elderly Haradrim archer came into view, he was gone, and Faramir turned once more to routing the Orcs.

With the unforeseen appearance of the Gondorians, the Orcs found themselves outnumbered, and the road and clearings were swiftly littered with their dead and dying. After a short period of strenuous battle, most of the Orcs lay dead, and those who attempted to flee were cut down as they ran or quickly pursued.

By the end of the struggle, Faramir had dismounted, and now stood panting from the exertion as the victors began to gather themselves, seeing to each other and the wounded. His formal velvets were now hopelessly ruined, his sword and garments splattering heavily with Orc blood.

He quickly scanned the clearing, estimating the damage to his men. The majority appeared to have emerged with minor wounds at worst; the unhurt were simply taking stock of the situation as they regained their breath. A few were on the ground, being tended, but of these, all were awake and talking. An encouraging sign, at least.

The Haradrim were seeing to their men as well, speaking to each other in their tongue as they did so. The two armies each saw exclusively to their own, apparently unwilling to mingle quite yet. As Faramir wiped his sword clean and sheathed it, he felt little surprise at this separation, understanding that despite having shed blood together, there were some matters that would still take time for the men of both sides to resolve.

Irolas came forward, his armor and fine velvet cape smeared with Orc blood, his long blonde hair straggling and lank with sweat.

"I see you were not idle, my friend," said Faramir in greeting.

Irolas shook his head. "These Orcs fought better than any I ever faced in the War," was the weary answer as he surveyed the scene, a puzzled light in his gray eyes. "We have many wounds, mostly minor, but it was a much closer thing than I would have thought. And did you mark the strange symbol on their faces?"

Faramir nodded, glancing about. "I did, but I fear we have little time for mysteries now," he said before directing his gaze back at the Captain. "Dispatch a rider at once to Minas Tirith and alert the King to this. We must have wagons for the wounded who cannot ride and healers to tend the injured."

Irolas nodded and went to obey the order, and the Steward turned now to the Haradrim. There were two new men moving among the wounded men of the South now, clad in scarlet and silver robes. Faramir recognized at once that they were healers, and watched for a few moments as they examined wounds and administered potions. Their practice did not seem so different than that of the healers of Gondor.

Someone was approaching him now, and Faramir looked up to see the tall, richly garbed young Haradrim nearing the place where he stood. This figure was quite tall, and now that they were closer, Faramir could see his face, a countenance distinguished by high, wide cheekbones, large black eyes, a mouth denoted by a distinctly full lower lip, and a sharp nose. Gold glinted at his throat and on his fingers through the thick black Orc blood that largely covered his frame.

"Your arrival was most timely, man of Gondor," said the Haradrim warrior in perfect Westron. "I was beginning to fear that you may have come under attack as well."

Faramir shook his head, still gasping a bit. "They sought only to strike down one of our parties, it would seem," he replied, before drawing himself up to a more formal stance. "I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor."

"Jadim, Prince of the Seventh Tribe," the other man said in response, executing a small bow. "I am pleased your King heeded my advice for a fully armed escort."

"As am I," another Haradrim voice chimed in, "though I would say I could have held them off for even longer, at least in my prime."

Faramir and Jadim both turned to see the elderly Haradrim archer now walking down the gently sloping hill towards them, surrounded by three other archers, all much younger. He was a powerfully built warrior, broad-shouldered even in his advanced age. For the most part, his swarthy face appeared youthful; only the wrinkles around his eyes, the gray hairs mixing with the black upon his bearded chin, and the full head of waving gray hair that flowed down his back betrayed his age. His nose was larger and rounder than Jadim's, his face wider, but there was enough of a similar air around the mouth and keen dark eyes to mark them as father and son. There was an aspect of kindliness about him, contrasted by the hard glimmer of cunning in the black depths of his eyes, a shrewdness any fellow warrior would recognize.

Faramir set himself to an even more formal stance and bowed slightly. "Have I the honor of addressing Mahrid Adir?"

The older man eyed him carefully. "You ought to know, Faramir, son of Denethor; we have met before," he said in a light tone. "At the time, however, we were separated by the field of battle, and doing our best to kill each other, so you are not to blame for failing to know my face." He returned the bow very gracefully. "Mahrid Adir, Chieftain of the Seventh Tribe of Harad."

Faramir nodded, a small smile of recollection crossing his sweat-soaked face. "I recall well the many engagements I had with you and your men," he said. "For the sake of us all, I am pleased that we have both lived to see the day when the shedding of blood between us might end."

One of the Harad archers at Adir's side then spoke something in his own tongue, his black eyes flashing. Despite the foreign words, there was no mistaking the anger and bitterness in the man's voice.

The warrior's remark appeared to pain both Jadim and Adir. A look of displeasure crossed Adir's face, and he muttered something in a reproving tone, again in Haradraic. In response, the erring soldier ducked his head, but said nothing more.

Faramir frowned; his skill in the tongue of Harad was far greater with the written language, as he had not heard it spoken very often.

In answer to his puzzled gaze, Adir sighed, the anger in his eyes softening to sadness. "Fear not, Steward of Gondor, the words were not against you," he said softly. "He says the fighting will not cease until the blood of one more is shed - he who sent the Orcs against us today."

"Do you know who that may be?" inquired Faramir, wondering at the grief in the elderly soldier's eyes.

Adir's face twisted even more in sorrow, and he nodded. They began to walk back across the road now, to where the fallen Orcs lay, their grotesque bodies twisted in death. Faramir, Jadim, and the bodyguards followed.

"After the fall of Sauron, the Orcs roamed leaderless," said Adir as they moved among the corpses; some of the unwounded Gondorians were already piling them up to be burned. "They banded in packs and harassed all who ventured along the borders of Mordor, including my own tribe."

"Yes," sighed Faramir, looking at the dead creatures with little pity. "We have fought them in Gondor as well, in the eastern forests of Ithilien and along the Morgul Road. Far more than we had imagined survived the end of the Dark Lord."

"As we also discovered," said Adir with a nod, stopping at one large, ugly carcass and studying it with loathing. "They hid in Mordor where we could not find them, like packs of wild dogs, seemingly few in number but in truth-" he peered at Faramir intently- "enough to build an army."

"It would not surprise me to know the Orcs resolved to join forces against us," said Faramir, as he stood beside Adir gazing at the dead Orc. "Yet a force of large size would be difficult for them to manage. From what we have learned of them, they are brutal, disorganized, without discipline, unless driven by the lash or the sword."

"Yes, by their masters, and the masters died with Sauron," replied Adir, and it seemed to Faramir as if the old man's voice became even more weighted with anguish. "But a new master has come to them now, and they have come together under his name. That symbol - " He indicated the red mark painted on every dead Orc's face, a backwards S with a slanting line drawn through the middle - "is his mark. In our language it is the same as your word 'scorpion', the deadliest creature of the desert, who waits hidden and strikes to kill."

"So their leader is of Harad," observed Faramir in a grim voice, glancing over at the few dead men of Harad who lay among the Orc corpses, their presence now explained.

"Many of our people felt as the Orcs did," Jadim offered, his voice sharp with bitterness. Adir, it appeared, had become too grieved to speak. "They would not accept Sauron's defeat, and some sought out the Orcs to become their leader and continue the war in the name of the Dark Lord. All failed to win the Orcs' allegiance and were killed, until one man went to them who could unite and lead their accursed race. Now he is their chief, and sends both Orcs and those Haradrim who have joined his ranks to take our lives." His black eyes became hard. "A willing army of untold numbers is a tempting prize for one of high ambition, a thirst for blood, and no regard for honor."

"Jadim!" said Adir sharply, and Faramir was surprised at the tone of rebuke in the Chieftain's voice.

The son, however, did not appear contrite. "There is no shame in stating the truth, Father," he said, rage creeping into his expression. "He sought your blood on his hands today, we have no ties to him now. It is a crime we should not forgive-"

Now Adir's eyes flashed as he faced his heir. "It is for me to say who shall be forgiven among us," he replied, with more strength than Faramir had seen him display yet, "and I am not yet ready to cast him out into the darkness."

Faramir could not help noticing the faint tone of tenderness coloring the Chieftain's last words. "You have remarkable mercy for this man, Mahrid Adir," he said in an impressed voice, "who has allied with the Orcs and sought to slay you."

Adir drew a heavy sigh and looked into the young Steward's eyes, the years suddenly evident in every aspect of his being.

"I fear I will always feel mercy towards him, though it may be my hand that ends his life," was the Chieftain's sorrowful answer. "He is my youngest son, Karil."

------------------

Lord Beleg hurried along the streets of Minas Tirith, weary and panting in the warm afternoon sun. It was a long run, but he was determined to make it. If what he had heard was true - and he knew it was - there was no time to waste.

All around him, in every crowd of citizens he passed at the shops and market stalls along the streets, he heard the same words whispered, gasped, shouted, until he felt he could piece together an entire conversation simply from the snatches he was picking up. They were all discussing the identical topic.

"-the Haradrim were attacked-"

"-both parties were entirely wiped out, that's what I heard-"

"No, no, the Haradrim attacked Faramir's party-Lord Faramir's been killed, and the Haradrim are now riding for the City!"

"Lord Beleg!"

The dark-haired nobleman turned to see Lord Tuornen running towards him, lifting his rich robes out of the dust as he hustled across the wide market square. Beleg briefly marveled at the fact that, despite the older man's anxious state, Tuornen's long white hair was as immaculate as ever.

"Have you heard the news?" Tuornen asked as he came to Beleg's side. They both continued to stride towards the upper level.

"Heard it?" snorted the younger man. "I saw the healer's wagons leave the City myself to tend to the wounded, guarded by a troop of soldiers."

"This is exactly what I feared," moaned Tuornen, shaking his head as they moved along. "I have heard the slaughter was horrendous, and Lord Faramir fallen. How could the King have been so deaf as to turn aside our counsel and invite such a calamity!"

Beleg frowned. "I believe Lord Faramir is yet alive, at least as I have been told," he said. "But I agree that this would not have happened had the King heeded our words. I am going to see him myself this very hour."

Tuornen glanced at him, surprised. "That was my plan as well!" he exclaimed. "Perhaps if we go together, we may convince him to end this foolish notion of peace with those barbarians before further blood is shed."

"I would be pleased to have you accompany me, my Lord," said Beleg with a smile. "Though if our King is at all as wise as they claim, he is already planning to march upon Harad and avenge the blood of Gondor!"

At last they entered the upper level, and saw the King standing beside the White Tree, in the midst of a large crowd of nobles, advisors, and aides. Beside him stood King Eomer, Prince Imrahil, that Elf Legolas, and the dwarf Gimli, all looking most grave, and a sweaty-faced soldier in armor stained with Orc blood who had apparently brought the news of the fray. Aragorn had shed the armor and the crown, and as the two noblemen drew nearer, they could hear him speaking swiftly in his strong, clear voice to a scribe who was recording his every order upon a parchment.

"-and there must be a space cleared away in the meeting place for the Haradrim's wounded," Aragorn was saying, "and a supply of medicines from the Houses sent down as well. I and the delegation will be there shortly."

"Yes, sire," said the scribe, who finished writing down the instructions and hurried away.

"I shall take some of my men and ride to the scene of battle, my Liege," Imrahil announced. "We shall aid my nephew in organization and gathering the wounded, and provide escort the rest of the way to the City."

"Excellent, my friend; do so at once, with my thanks," Aragorn said. Imrahil bowed hastily and hurried away.

At once a hubbub of voices rose around the King, but Beleg and Tuornen were determined to be heard, particularly after hurrying up several levels for the opportunity. Pushing his way to the front of the crowd with Beleg just behind, Tuornen drew himself up, cleared his throat, and announced his presence in a volume that could not be ignored.

"Your Majesty!"

Those who had been interrupted stopped speaking and looked at the nobleman, surprised. Aragorn turned his patient gaze to the two newcomers and bowed slightly.

"Lord Tuornen, Lord Beleg," he said in a polite though strained manner, as if he knew exactly what was coming, "I trust you have heard what has happened?"

"It is the talk of the City!" replied Beleg firmly.

"Is it true that Lord Faramir has fallen?" inquired Tuornen quickly.

"No, sir, that's false, beggin' you pardon, my Lord," said the soldier, who upon closer study was a pale-eyed young man of unremarkable features. "Most of the dead were Orcs." He smiled a little. "Once we arrived, our men and the Haradrim gave them a pretty sound thrashin', sir."

The King seemed gently amused at this, and indicated the soldier to the two Council members. "My Lords, you may refer all of your questions to soldier Henvain here, who witnessed all that befell us this day. I believe you will find the truth not half as dire as the popular accounts would have it."

Beleg appeared slightly confused. "Then-the escort was not destroyed?"

Henvain blinked. "No, sir, my Lord, not at all. It was the Haradrim who was bein' attacked, by Orcs, and we went to help them."

"Orcs attacking Haradrim?" muttered Tuornen in disbelieving tones. "But they were allies once, against Gondor! Clearly that must have been a trap."

"That's what a lot of us thought, sir," relied Henvain respectfully. "But we were ordered to fight with the Haradrim against the Orcs, and so we did. They weren't like any Orcs I'd ever come across before, my Lord-they wore odd markings on their faces, and fought better than I'd ever seen any Orc fight. And the Haradrim fought with us, sir. Never would have believed it if I wasn't there, myself, but it's true, and so we won the day."

There was a silence as the two Lords absorbed these new thoughts.

"Now, Lord Faramir is alive and well," Aragorn patiently assured them, "and we have lost none of our own. The wounded will be cared for, and when all is settled, the negotiations for peace will begin."

Lord Tuornen appeared to come back to himself at those words. "But-Sire, surely we cannot continue with those talks, after this!" he said urgently. "We still are not certain it was not a trap."

Henvain cleared his throat. "Pardon me, my Lord, but - thinking back on it, I don't think it was. We were warned."

Tuornen scowled. "Warned?"

"Yes, sir," said Henvain with a nod. "That Haradrim we talked to, Jadim, warned us to bring extra soldiers with the escort because he thought we might be attacked. If it was a trap, I don't think he'd have warned us. He would have wanted the escort unprotected, sir, so they could get the lot of us." He shifted uncomfortably, as if suddenly thinking that perhaps he had overstepped his bounds. "I apologize if it's out of place of me to say so, sir, but as I was there I thought you'd want to know."

"And Lord Faramir's a smart young lad," offered Gimli, leaning on his ornate ceremonial axe. "He'd not lead his soldiers into anything that smelled foul."

"That may be," said Eomer in his deep voice, his handsome face dark with concern, "but I fear my opinion lies with the two noble Lords. Clearly this endeavor will be far more dangerous than we bargained for." He turned to the King of Gondor. "If you are determined to proceed, Aragorn, I would ask that you do so with profound caution. I must say with the King's pardon that if we were in Rohan, the Haradrim would be sent back on the road to their land, to settle whatever quarrels they may have with the Orcs before bringing such danger to our doorstep."

There was a moment of silence, before Aragorn looked at his fellow monarch, a pensive expression on his face.

"It is so noted, Eomer King," replied Aragorn with a bow, before looking to Beleg and Tuornen. "Be assured, I hear all of you, and understand your feeling. Yet I will risk going forward, until such time as I am also convinced it is futile - a time that I hope shall never come."

A murmuring went through the small crowd. Tuornen and Beleg glanced at each other, aware that the discussion was concluded. For now.

"We shall ride for the meeting place and receive the Haradrim Chieftain and those of his men who have survived," said Aragorn with determination, walking away with Eomer, Legolas and Gimli. The small crowd followed, Beleg, Tuornen and Henvain at their head. "There is far more to learn about this matter, my friends, and I intend to know all before any dealings of peace will be made. I promise the Council will be informed when there is any information to be delivered. Good day to you all."

Beleg and Tuornen stood aside, watching Aragorn and the rest depart. Neither of them looked especially satisfied.

"So it seems we are once again ignored," sighed Beleg.

"At least the King of Rohan agrees with us," offered Tuornen, placing his hands upon his costly belt and drumming his fingers in contemplation. "And there are others in the Council on our side, too. For now, it appears we must wait, and hope there are no more unpleasant occurrences before the King comes to his senses."

The sun was almost set before the first signs of the escort party were seen along the road leading to Minas Tirith. As soon as the dark forms on horseback could be discerned moving slowly along the path leading from Osgiliath, the word was spread quickly among the curious and anxious citizens. By the time the escort came close enough to be clearly seen, the walls of the City were lined with spectators who were interested to see the arrival of the first Haradrim ever to come in the name of peace.

At the head of the column were three wagons, their rear areas covered with tents of cloth, shielding their occupants from view. These conveyances traveled straight for the Gate to the City, which quickly opened to receive them, and the news swiftly went around that they bore the wounded from the battle, bound for the Houses of Healing.

Startled gasps arose from the throng as the wagons came through the Gate without pause and were driven quickly to the upper level: were there wounded Haradrim being brought into Minas Tirith? Would their ancient enemy be permitted inside the walls after all? Yet as rapidly as these fears rose, they were allayed, for those who were able to see within the wagons soon reported that there were no Haradrim within.

Attention quickly went back to the returning escort, whose were now plainly visible, their banners and standards flying high in the fading twilight. At the head of the column rode Faramir, as expected, along with Prince Imrahil and his men, Irolas, and the senior officers of the army. Remarks of surprise and concern rippled along the throngs at how disheveled and bloodied the soldiers appeared, far from the crisp martial picture they had presented that morning when they rode to their errand.

Directly behind the lead of the column rode the Haradrim, and at the sight of them a murmur of astonishment went through the crowd. Even at a distance, the spectators could discern the flash of gold, the long dark robes and black headcloths, and the gleam of the deadly weaponry borne by the men of Harad. Yet it was plain that they, too, had suffered in the rumored battle, for blood could be seen upon their clothes, and some bore bandaged wounds. Behind the men were four supply wagons, their sides boxed in by wooden walls draped with cloths of plum and scarlet and painted with the symbol of Harad.

The murmurs grew louder; the Haradrim had truly come, but what had been the cost for their arrival, for both Harad and Gondor?

As those on the walls watched, Faramir and the escort turned north before reaching the city, leading the Haradrim delegation around the northern edge of Minas Tirith and into the foothills of the Mindolluin. As the last of the setting sun's light swept over the top of the City and dwindled away, the delegation passed into the rocks and were lost from sight.

The spectacle now over, the citizens of the White City slowly began to wander away, solemnly discussing among themselves what they had seen, and what it all might mean for the future of Gondor.

---------------------

Faramir had been so absorbed in thought as they rode along that he had scarcely noticed when they arrived at Minas Tirith. So much had happened that he could still hardly take it all in, and they had not even gotten the Haradrim to the White City yet.

They would arrive a far less presentable sight than when they had left, he thought, glancing down at his filthy, blood-spattered finery. Glancing back over the men behind him, he could see that every member of the escort and its guests were in the same condition, exhausted, dirty and disheveled. Many who could ride still bore minor wounds, hastily bandaged, and Faramir believed that few who now saw them would ever guess they had started the day as a formal diplomatic escort.

Word of the fight had doubtless been spreading throughout the City for several hours now, he mused as they passed over the Anduin and approached the City. A twinge of concern fluttered across his stomach; there were many in the Council, no doubt, who would be advising Aragorn to break off the negotiation altogether because of this. Many of the citizens, too, would declare it all a trick of Harad. But he knew the King to be a wise man, and thus he had hope that the day's events would not sway his decision. As for the others, he would simply worry about them later, after a good meal and a hot bath.

Minas Tirith came into view now, its white walls glowing in the red-gold rays of the setting sun. Despite his weariness, Faramir smiled when he saw it, the familiar gentle thrill of love and pride thrumming through his soul, as it did whenever he beheld the magnificent city. It gleamed in the waning light as if it were made of gold, the Tower of Ecthelion blazing beneath the touch of the sun's last rays. Ordinarily, it was a sight to awe and inspire; in the twilight, it was breathtaking.

He heard a stirring among the Haradrim, a faint wave of mutterings spoken in their native tongue. Faramir could not make out all that they were saying, but he discerned the amazement in their tone. Another smile crossed his lips, this time of quiet amusement; who in the darker days could have ever imagined that one day the sons of Harad would behold the seat of Gondor, not as enemies and invaders, but as honored guests!

They rode on, closer to the city, and Faramir was soon able to see the people lining the walls, watching anxiously. As they began to ride around the northern perimeter of the outer wall towards the foothills of Mount Mindolluin, Faramir studied their audience, straining to read their mood. From what he could see, the people were quiet, apprehensive, and seemed somewhat alarmed by the wagons of wounded that left their line and traveled straight into the city.

What he expected, no worse, at least. With good fortune and hard work, they would have reason to be more at ease when the negotiations were concluded, when this tribe of Harad was willingly placed under Gondor's rule and protection.

"So that is your White City."

The words were so quietly and gently breathed that at first Faramir had not heard them. Blinking, he came out of his reverie and turned to his right, facing the source of the utterance. Mahrid Adir rode beside him, still able to cut an imposing figure on his horse in spite of his bloodied robes. If he was weary, the older man did not show it, sitting as straight in his saddle as a fresh recruit. He was now studying the walls and structures of Minas Tirith as they towered far above them both, the expression on his face one of almost boyish wonder.

Faramir smiled, marveling at the sincere amazement in the Haradrim's eyes and wishing every doubter in the city could see it as well. "It is not a sight you ever thought to see so close, I would wager," he said amiably.

Adir dropped his gaze to meet that of the Steward, his expression wistful and somewhat sad. "Often I had dreamed to cross its walls as a conqueror," he admitted, then breathed a soft sigh as his gaze grew distant, fixed on no pint that Faramir could see. "But the striving to gain that prize has cost me in ways far too dear to be borne any longer, and I am content instead to come to your city merely as a friend."

He gazed once more at the gleaming walls, a thoughtful smile on his aged face, before blinking and turning his head away, as if too overcome with his own musings to wish further conversation.

Faramir studied the elderly Haradrim carefully, frowning slightly with worry. As he did so, he met the firm gaze of Jadim, who rode on Adir's other side. Evidently the young man had been watching Adir as well, and as their eyes locked, Faramir could see concern, sorrow, and anger swirling together in the prince's black eyes. For a few moments the two men regarded each other, before Jadim drew a sharp breath and straightened in his saddle, as if suddenly reminded to draw on the stoic mask of duty over his own troubles.

They were now riding past the far northern edges of the outer wall, and as the shadow of the city swallowed them up, Faramir turned back to the road before him, lost for a brief time in thought. He had some idea as to the cause of his guests' distress, and marveled at the sort of fanatical ideal that would lead a son to attempt the killing of his own father and brother.

There was an anguished stirring in his own heart, of a wound long healed but still capable of producing sharp agony; not so long ago, he, too, had known the grief of having the hand of one he loved raised against him, and had some small understanding of the special torment the Haradrim Chief and his heir were now made to endure. He could only hope that their efforts to bring peace might also somehow persuade the erring youngest son to forsake his misguided path and reunite the family, while there was still time.

Before them loomed the rocky gray slopes of the ancient mountain, its foothills dotted with patches of green forest and massive boulders. Slowly the column traveled to a set of rocks larger than the rest, nestled close to the base of the mountain.

"Are we to camp upon the mighty rocks?" Adir inquired, in a tone of amusement. The sadness seemed to be gone, for now, at least. "They are impressive indeed, but I fear my balance is not as it used to be."

Faramir turned to him with a quiet smile. "The rocks shall be your protection, Chief Adir, rather than your home, while you and your men are in Gondor," he replied. "As my people have long known, the mountain has many secrets, and it has been decided to honor your offer of peace by sharing one of them with you now."

So saying, he led the group towards the large outcropping. The largest of the white boulders towered over them now, and the Haradrim gaped at it as they passed, unused to such sights. As they passed behind the rock, a large grassy clearing came into view behind it, completely concealed from the approaching path by the boulder and capable of holding all who rode in the escort. The gray slope of Mindolluin bordered one edge of the clearing, its craggy gray face split by a wide opening, rising to a point near its apex. It was plainly a cave of some depth, for within its portal could be seen the flickering of torches and tables laden with food and drink.

At the other end of the clearing stood a finely-dressed party consisting of the King and Queen, Eomer, Legolas, Gimli, the members of the Council, and several attending guards. But there was one face Faramir looked for before all the others, and he allowed his weariness and professional comportment to crack long enough to smile at Eowyn, who stood beside the Queen.

Faramir led the escort to a shaded area next to the mouth of the cave, where men were awaiting to tend to their horses. He dismounted carefully, still sore from the battle, and noticed many of the others were moving just as cautiously as he.

His feet had barely touched the ground when he was suddenly surprised by a well-known, gentle touch on his arm. Turning, he saw that Eowyn had come straight to his side, and was now smiling at him, her beautiful face beaming with gladness and relief. Without hesitation, he swept her up at once in his arms, holding her tightly.

"Ah, my wife, this is all I have thought of during every inch of our journey back," he whispered to her. "No matter the hundred rules of the court we are both currently breaking!"

She laughed a little and held him just as tightly. "I have the King's own permission to greet you thus, my husband, so any complaints of our behavior shall have to be directed to him," she replied softly, before pulling back to look full into his face. "Were you wounded at all in the battle? The City is fair drowned in rumors..."

He smiled and shook his head. "Naught but a few scrapes, and those minor," he assured her. Over her shoulder, he could see that Adir and Jadim had dismounted, and were approaching him now, arranging themselves to be presented to the King. "As to the rumors, they shall soon be dried out by the truth, if fortune is with us. You shall hear all; for now I fear I must bid you return to the royal party, for my duty is called for."

He gave her a quick kiss, which she accepted and returned with understanding, and they parted as she walked back to join her brother and the others, pausing only long enough to smile at him before turning and continuing her journey.

Faramir turned to the Chieftain and his son as they came to where he stood, and together they followed Eowyn to the royal party, now joined by Imrahil. As they drew near, the young Steward could not help but notice that many of the Council members still looked far from pleased. A few appeared openly frightened. As for the others, Eomer seemed decorous but barely contained in his distrust, Legolas very calm, and Gimli seemed to be watching the Haradrim keenly, friendly enough but still waiting for any uncertain movements.

Stepping before the King, Faramir cleared his throat."Your Majesty, King Elessar of Gondor, Queen Arwen, King Eomer of Rohan, and distinguished members of the delegation," he announced in his best Steward's tone, "I am pleased to bring before you the ambassadors from Harad, Chief Mahrid Adir of the Seventh Tribe and his son, Prince Jadim."

Adir and Jadim stepped forward together, and Faramir was impressed at the steadiness with which the two Haradrim bowed to the King of Gondor and the others, knowing as he did how exhausted they were. Yet there was no tremor or faltering from either man as they stood and faced Aragorn, not with the aspect of conquered before conqueror, but with the respectful regard of ally to ally.

Aragorn also bowed very slightly, his finery glittering in the torchlight that spilled over him from within the cave.

"I bid you welcome to Gondor, men of Harad," pronounced Aragorn in a stately manner, lifting his arms in an open gesture of salutation.

"It is most gratefully received, Your Majesty," replied Adir, bowing low once more. "May our meetings in the future be ever as this, and not as the last time my people met yours before the walls of your city."

"That is my fondest hope as well," Aragorn confessed with a nod of his head, an answering smile finally being allowed to grace his kingly expression. "May the Valar look with favor upon our efforts here and make it so."

"I have asked the assistance of our gods as well," Adir said. "If they consent to work together with your Valar, we mortal men cannot help but find success."

Faramir gestured towards the cave; already the rest of the Haradrim had dismounted and were following the directions of the Gondorian soldiers into the cavern. A few, he noticed, were staring rather openly at Arwen, surely the first Elf they had ever seen. "Within the cave we have prepared a camp for you, stocked with all that your letters have requested. It is quite large inside, with space enough for your horses, an eating area, storage for your provisions, and a sleeping chamber. None shall be able to see it from the road, and all approaches are easily surveyed."

Jadim nodded with approval. "A useful hiding place, indeed," he remarked, keenly studying the cave and its surroundings.

"I have also summoned healers to tend to your wounded," said Aragorn. "Be assured that when they arrive, they shall have every comfort possible."

Faramir's expression became somewhat uncertain as he turned to his King. "Oh, yes. About the Haradrim wounded, your Majesty..."

A puzzled look crossed Aragorn's face. "Henvain reported that several of the men of Harad were bloodied in the battle," he stated.

"Alas, that is the truth," confirmed Adir, an air of melancholy settling over him, "and please accept my deepest thanks for your efforts to care for them. However, they desired the healing arts of my people, and have returned to Harad, under the protection of as many of my guards as could be spared."

Silence fell, and for a few moments the situation turned somewhat awkward. Faramir could see further questions on Aragorn's lips, questions that diplomacy prevented him from asking. Later, in the city, he would give the King his full report. There, he could tell Aragorn that the Haradrim soldiers were afraid that the healers of Gondor would slay them. But not now; now, he could only meet Aragorn's eye, and promise an explanation at a more judicious time.

Aragorn apparently caught the meaning in Faramir's glance, for at length he cleared his throat and brought his hands together, folding them in a regal fashion. "Then may they find a safe road and an easy mending of their wounds," he said gracefully. "We shall leave you now to take your food and your rest within; my servants shall see to whatever you require. Tomorrow, we shall begin the task of uniting our people in a common bond of peace."

Adir bowed once more. "My thanks and blessings to you, King of Gondor. We shall be awaiting you."

Aragorn nodded in farewell, as did Arwen, and he took her hand and led her away, through an opening in the rocks behind them that led back out onto the plains. Eomer, Legolas and Gimli went after them, after imparting a token nod to the Haradrim; Legolas, however, was the only one of them who seemed to mean it. Imrahil's farewell appeared sincere as well. The Council members also bowed, some more deeply than others, and followed through the opening. Faramir watched them go, and could not help noting how the ones most opposed to the meeting were anxiously restraining themselves from climbing over their comrades in their haste to get away from the Haradrim.

Eowyn had lingered, and went at once to Faramir. He smiled, took her hand and lifted it, turning to Adir and Jadim.

"Chieftain Adir, Prince Jadim, I am honored to present to you my wife, the Lady Eowyn," he said.

She nodded, and the two Haradrim men bowed, Adir eying her most keenly as he straightened.

"It is a blessing to look upon one so lovely," said Adir with a smile. Then, after a slight hesitation, he added, "Pardon my forward manner, my Lady, but may I ask if you are the shield-maiden of Rohan who is known for slaying the Lord of the Nazgul?"

She seemed slightly surprised at this question, and Faramir felt her hand tighten around his for a moment. He knew how that moment during the Battle of the Pelennor Fields still haunted her at times, and grasped her hand more firmly in reply, to give her his support.

After a moment of silence, she nodded, her manner still collected and calm, although her smile had faded a little. "Aye, Chief Adir," she replied quietly, "I am that maiden, though it now seems a lifetime ago."

At once Adir's expression filled with awe and respect. "Remarkable," he murmured as he studied her face. "I was witness to that event, my Lady, and thought I knew your face, although your appearance has indeed changed from that dark and terrible day. It impressed me deeply to see so much bravery against such a powerful agent of darkness, even if it hastened our defeat."

He paused to consider his words, then looked into her blue eyes. "We were enemies on that day, my Lady, yet I pray you allow me to pay honor to you, as one warrior to another."

Here he bowed deeply. Eowyn's expression was still clouded as she watched him, grateful yet wishing beyond all else that she had never had to endure the dark deed for which she was being honored.

As she met the eyes of Adir once more, she smiled slightly and nodded, whispering, "I thank you, Chief Adir," even as her fingers closed even more about the hand of her husband.

Smoothly, Faramir faced his guests. "If you will excuse me, Chief Adir, Prince Jadim, I must now return to the City and present my report of the day's events to the King. Should you need anything, simply inquire of the servants and your needs shall be tended to at once. I shall see you tomorrow, when we shall begin the discussion for peace."

Adir nodded. "May you and your brave wife enjoy a pleasant evening, Lord Faramir," he said. "We shall meet tomorrow."

Faramir bowed, and escorted Eowyn from the clearing through the same small pass the King and his party had used shortly before, leaving the Haradrim to their leisure.

"Are you well, my love?" asked Faramir, looking anxiously into her face as he walked her to where one of the soldiers was holding her horse for her.

Eowyn nodded. "Oh, yes, fine," she answered with a small laugh. "It's just...that time of my life seems to face me at the most unexpected moments, and I never thought to hear such words from a warrior of Harad."

Faramir sighed. "The day has been full of such surprises," he observed, gently squeezing her hand as they arrived at her mount. "But I suppose we must prepare ourselves for many such unexpected moments during these talks. I suspect they are not nearly over yet."

Although she did not need it, he helped her onto her horse, and then went back into the clearing to retrieve his own steed. She met him as he rode out, and together they returned to the City, to prepare for the coming day.

-------------------

"Incompetent fools! Could they not kill one old man?"

Karil's contemptuous voice echoed loudly throughout the stone-walled chamber, and lost none of its venom as it rolled around the circular walls and faded away. The room was of middling size, lit only by several flickering torches that hung from their iron sconces along its perimeter. The youngest son of Adir stood at its center, clad only in his boots and black leggings, his lean, muscular chest glistening with sweat. With one hand he angrily wiped his long, black hair from his eyes and glared at the messenger he had been addressing. In his other hand he carried a wicked-looking Harad sword, with which he slashed the air from time to time in order to further express his displeasure.

His sparring partner, a male Haradrim servant of far lower standing, remained ignored in the shadows for the time being.

The messenger was a third Haradrim, a tall man of double Karil's years clad in flowing robes of deep blue and black. His face was long and lined, with an air of dissipating handsomeness, and upon his chin he bore a black beard closely shorn. His head was bound around with a black cloth, and one eye was covered with a patch of red silk.

"They may not have been incompetent, merely outnumbered, my Prince," the man replied, his voice deep and smooth. "Our spies in the villages have heard the stories from the wounded men who have returned to our land. It was a fierce battle, and might have ended in our favor had the men of Gondor not arrived."

Karil sighed and faced the man. "I say it is incompetence, Masrak," he insisted. "Otherwise at least one of them would have survived to report to me, instead of being slain down to the last by those Gondor dogs." He scowled and swung the blade a few more time, watching it as it flashed through the air. "Had not so many of us died upon the Pelennor, I would have more good men of Harad with me, and not have to rely on the brute strength of those cursed empty-headed Orcs."

"Yet more of our people may join us," said Masrak in an encouraging tone. "There are many who do not approve of your father's plan. Every day more arrive from over the mountains, men of Harad like ourselves who will never bow to the throne of Gondor. Few they are, but once we strike a decisive blow, it will be more, until all of our nation is behind us. Our men need only to remember themselves, and they will come."

Karil considered this, then turned and with a short motion waved the Haradrim servant away. The man bowed and hurried out of the chamber, up the stone stairs to the levels above.

"That, my good advisor, would go far to redeem the sin of forgetfulness that has plagued our people," Karil remarked as he crossed the room to where his clothes were carefully laid upon a chair, next to stand holding a basin of water. He lifted a cloth from the stand, moistened it, and began cleansing away the signs of his exertion.

"Our losses have frightened them, driven them back to their tents and settlements," he continued in an increasingly angry tone as he stroked the cloth over his skin. "They forget the strength that has long made the men of Harad warriors without peer in Middle-earth." He took a deep breath, his expression growing dark. "They have forgotten the greatness that was ours when we marched beneath the mighty standard of Lord Sauron."

Karil paused now, the towel gripped in his fisted hands, his eyes seeing into the past, their depths now ablaze with the memory.

"But had they seen what I have seen, they would not forget," he whispered fiercely. "Had they stood as I did, with thousands of our brothers before the walls of Barad-dur, and felt the power of the Dark Lord flow through us all as we knelt and swore our oaths to his service, they would know that the ties that bound us to him can never be broken."

He turned his head slightly, a move that threw his face into shadow, although there was no mistaking the awe in his voice. "I can still hear him, Masrak," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly with fervor. "Sauron spoke to us all that day, promising that Harad would fulfill her destiny and crush her enemies beneath her feet, if we would but be faithful and follow him. One day, he said, we would see Gondor and Rohan aflame, their people bound by Haradrim chains, their lands and riches ours for the taking. But I saw it *that* day, Masrak, in my mind-it was a dream I knew would happen, when our great Dark Lord took dominion over all."

For a few moments he fell silent, standing still as the recollection consumed him, a slight smile on his face. It passed, and Karil shook himself back into awareness, then went on with his preparations.

"How could my father and my brother forsake that oath, Masrak?" asked the Prince with thinly-veiled disgust as he laid aside the towel and reached for his shirt. "They knelt before the palace of the Mighty One as I did, and spoke the same oath. I was but a child at the time, and yet I knew as the words left my lips that I would sooner die than betray their meaning. How could my kin turn traitor, and consent to treat with the very men who sent Lord Sauron to his doom?"

He dressed as he spoke, and at the end was seated on a chair, pulling his tall boots over his dark red leggings. The young Haradrim's expression was twisted into an angry scowl, his eyes hard and angry.

In response to his liege's question, Masrak shrugged. "I cannot say, Lord Prince," he replied in a quiet tone. "They have been lured, perhaps, by the easy promise of peace, the smooth path to surrender. It would appear they would rather live as slaves to Gondor than remain true to their Harad blood."

"A decision they shall come to bitterly regret," promised Karil firmly, as he donned his ornate sword belt, the last of his apparel. He picked up his sword, watched it flash once more in the torchlight, then sheathed it and turned to his advisor.

"We must find where my father and brother are hiding in Gondor," said the Prince as he strode towards the stone stairs. Masrak swiftly came to his side, and they ascended together.

"Send as many of our best scouts across the Anduin as you can," continued Karil as they climbed, his words quickly spoken. "We know they were riding towards Minas Tirith-send our most capable spies in that direction. And instruct them to take some Gondorian sentries as prisoners-should we be unable to locate my father's whereabouts, I am certain we can coax the information from one of those cowardly dogs."

"That would certainly please the Orcs," said Masrak with a nod as they climbed the cold stone steps. "They seem quite restless at having no men to torture."

Karil smiled. "They shall soon have all the captives they would ever want, once we strike out against our conquerors," he replied. They were almost at the top of the stairs, the air growing brighter with every step. "And they shall begin with my misguided father and my fool of a brother."

They walked onto the stone landing, which stood within a small foyer of gray stone. To one side, a vaulted doorway led into a dark hall burrowing deeper into the heart of the ancient fortress; before them, another doorway opened onto the open plains of Mordor, revealing the multitude of Orcs and few Haradrim swarming over the landscape, readying the new machinery of war beneath the misty grayness of twilight.

Masrak bowed and departed to his errand. Karil remained, standing with his hands clasped behind his back as he looked over the teeming vista before him, its hills bristling with the makings of Harad's future. He smiled as he studied the skeletons of the new siege towers, their lethal forms stark against the gray Mordor sky. Soon those frameworks would be covered and finished; soon they would begin their work, and his smile widened as he imagined the hosts of Gondor crushed beneath the churning wheels of the towers and the relentless march of his legions. Sauron had been thrown down, but in this new army the Dark Lord would live again, until the day Karil stood upon the bloodied body of King Elessar and claim victory in his Master's name.

Karil stood in this manner for several minutes, watching in silence, a bright gleam of bloodthirsty joy shining from the depths of his golden eyes.

Henvain shifted his aching shoulders a bit and sighed to himself, wondering if the day was *ever* going to end.

It felt as if he'd spent an eternity already, standing watch along the western shore of the Anduin while the first day of peace negotiations with the Haradrim went on behind him in the foothills of Mt. Mindolluin. His lookout point offered a spectacular view, perched as he was atop a ruined wall along the outskirts of Osgiliath, with the sweeping plains of the Pelennor Fields before him, and Minas Tirith gleaming in the far distance.

And Henvain undoubtedly *would* have been impressed, if he wasn't so hot and tired and annoyed at life in general. Reaching up with one gloved hand, he scratched the back of his neck and frowned at his own discomfort. Why couldn't he have been assigned a nice shady place, like Faelor?

He risked a glance down at the leafy forest to his right; his post stood right at the border of the woods, where the mighty trees dwindled down into brush and shrubs before melting into open, grassy plains. Somewhere in those nice, cool shadows was Faelor, keeping watch as many of their men were doing this day. And they weren't doing it alone.

When it became known that a patrol would be needed to safeguard the peace negotiations, Legolas had volunteered the skills of his people, the Mirkwood Elves who had been given a settlement in the woodlands of Ithilien. The men of Gondor were able enough, to be sure, but the best of them could not match the Elves for keenness of eyesight or awareness of the slightest sound. They were also able to come upon an adversary in perfect silence. They were the perfect sentries, and even though Henvain was rather disquieted by their foreign ways, he knew how invaluable their services were.

Thus it was that both men and Elves were now walking the borders of Gondor together, casting a careful eye at all that moved.

The sun was going down now, and when Henvain allowed his attention to wander for one brief moment during his constant lookout for any sign of Orcs, he couldn't help but wonder how the talks were going. The entire barracks - the entire city - was talking of nothing else. Most of the men seemed to think there would be no peace with the men of Harad. His brother Turwaith, particularly, had harangued their family the whole night before about how the King had put them all in danger by even allowing them to cross the border.

It wasn't pleasant for the young soldier to think of how awkward it had been last night to try and convince them that the Haradrim he'd seen didn't seem all that evil. After all, they had been in one battle together already, and the Harad men who had been with the peace delegation hadn't gone against their word. But no, Turwaith, the big hero of the family, had the last word - the Haradrim were evil to the bone, and their sovereign was making a mistake.

Of course, Henvain still didn't trust the men of the South completely, and thought the entire situation too complicated for his own tastes. Things seemed a lot simpler when the Haradrim were just enemy soldiers to be killed, and he liked things nice and plainly laid out. Now he didn't know what to think, and now at the end of the day he longed only for a nice cold ale and a chance to forget how tangled up everything had become.

A chance to somehow prove that Turwaith wasn't always right just because he was a war hero would be nice, too, but for now Henvain would gladly settle for the ale.

"Psst!"

Henvain blinked and glanced down into the bushes and trees that grew along the edge of his lookout perch. There was Faelor, almost hidden in the leaves, silently motioning to him to hurry down. Once Faelor saw that he'd been noticed, he disappeared into the foliage.

Startled, Henvain clambered down to the ground as swiftly as he could manage, his misery replaced with concern. Faelor had appeared very anxious.

He found his comrade fast enough; the tall man was crouched beneath the concealing canopy of new spring leaves, peering through them to the forest beyond. His entire form was tense, and in one hand he gripped his drawn sword.

"What's the matter?" whispered Henvain as he came to Faelor's side.

In reply, his friend pointed in the direction of the forest. "Draw your sword and get ready to fight," he whispered back. "Aranas spotted an Orc."

Jolted out of his complacency, Henvain quietly drew his weapon and bent down, staring with wide blue eyes into the woods.

After a few moments, Henvain saw some movement in the bushes, and a few moments later, an Orc came into view, sneaking very stealthily across the brush and tall grass. Not long after, three more appeared, their ugly forms crouched as they crept along, their full attention fixed on the White City.

"Spies!" thought Henvain, his grip on the sword tightening. Whoever was out to kill them hadn't wasted any time in trying again. At least the meeting place was a secret-

His thought were interrupted by a quick, shrill *whizz!*. An arrow sped through the air and pierced the neck of one of the Orcs, who gagged and fell to the ground. The other two jumped back with a growl, their swords at the ready, looking wildly around in amazement.

"That's it," Faelor said, not bothering to whisper now. "Come on!"

Bracing himself, Henvain followed his fellow soldier as they burst from their cover and charged the remaining Orcs.

Baffled, the creatures howled with rage at being discovered, and threw themselves upon the Gondorian soldiers, their weapons poised to kill.

Henvain had barely clashed swords with the brawniest of them when another arrow flew through the air, lodging itself into the throat. As the Orc gargled and clawed at the shaft with one grubby hand, a lithe, dark-haired Elf jumped into view from his hiding place, bow in one hand. Despite his wound, the Orc seemed barely daunted, and Henvain braced himself as the brute glared at him and once more lifted his sword. Before the blow fell, however, another Elven arrow sailed into the beast's skull, and he fell dead to the forest floor.

Henvain scowled as he watched the creature tumble, slightly disappointed that he hadn't even really landed a good hit. He was never going to get any battle scars at this rate. Once this thought had passed, he shrugged a little to himself and turned his attention back to the task at hand. There would be plenty of time to grouse later.

Between the two soldiers and the Elf, the final two Orcs were speedily dispatched, and soon Henvain, Faelor and Aranas were standing, disheveled and gasping for breath, above the bodies of their slain opponents. Well, Henvain noted with annoyance, he and Faelor were disheveled; Aranas looked as if he'd barely broken a sweat, and Henvain wondered idly if Elves were just not able to appear anything other than perfect.

Henvain sheathed his sword and prodded one of the Orcs onto its back with the toe of his boot. After peering at it for a moment, he pointed to its head.

"Looks like these are the same as those Orcs that attacked us yesterday," he panted. "He's got that same odd mark on his face."

"It would appear the assassins have not forsaken their quest for the Chieftain's life," said Aranas in his smooth voice, his large blue eyes troubled as he glanced about at the other three Orcs. "Doubtless they will send more spies, and continue to do so, until we vanquish them, or they succeed in their goal."

Faelor drew a deep sigh as he shifted his shoulders. "We'd best dispose of this lot and alert the King right away," he said, before shaking his head.

Aranas nodded, and swiftly slung his bow across his back in preparation as Faelor grabbed the closest Orc and began hauling him towards the nearest open patch of land to be burned.

As Faelor was dragging the creature away, he observed between grunts of exertion, "I don't suppose this is going to make those back home any happier to have the Haradrim about Minas Tirith. The people in the City aren't going to like the idea of bands of Orcs skulking about the river."

Henvain coughed as he squared his shoulders and trudged over to another of the Orc corpses.

"Can't say I'm too happy about it, myself," he muttered under his breath, then said nothing more as he went about his duty, trying to ignore the dark forebodings of the future now tumbling through his mind.

--------------------------------

The interior of the Haradrim's mountain cave glowed warmly with the light of the setting sun. Within its golden rays, the members of both parties of negotiators were moving about, gathering up their belongings following the conclusion of the first day's talks. A long table covered with burgundy cloth had been set up in the space for this purpose, and the men now hovered in groups along its perimeter, speaking with each other as they considered the results. The expressions marking their faces ranged from wearied but satisfied to wearied and suspicious. For all, it had been a long day.

The King had made his exit some time before, and Faramir stood alone at the head of the table now, performing his duties as Steward by arranging and packing up all of the meeting's notes and documents for later perusal and discussion. He carefully slid the sorted pages into their respective satchels, looking up from time to time to glance at the men around him as they talked. They were oblivious to his gaze, and Faramir supposed it was rude, but he was anxious to know how matters stood now that some words had passed over the table.

The Council members, not surprisingly, seemed as split as they were before, and were now standing a few feet away in heated debate. Not far from them stood Jadim and some of the high-ranking Haradrim officers, who were eyeing the Council members warily and having a tense discussion of their own.

Faramir sighed softly to himself and shook his head a little as he folded over the flap of the satchel and tied its leather cords shut. He felt they'd made some progress, but there was still enough hardness of heart on both sides to ensure many more days at the burgundy-covered table.

"Lord Steward?"

A bit startled, Faramir looked up to see Adir nearby, regarding him with a slight smile. The Harad chieftain had been dressed in his formal best at the talks, and had made his departure at the same time as Aragorn. Now, however, he stood before the young Steward clad in what seemed to be his everyday robes, his long white hair freed of its confining formal headdress and flowing free about his broad shoulders.

Faramir quickly collected himself and made a small bow of respect to the guest of Gondor. "Chief Adir," he replied politely. "I hope you are as pleased as I am with today's negotiations."

The elderly man of Harad nodded once. "Pleased, yes, for the most part," he replied slowly, still smiling, "but such matters as I am concerned with, I shall leave at this table for our next meeting. I have come to ask a favor of you."

There was a pause as Faramir considered these vaguely puzzling words. "As long as it does not breach accepted protocol, or cause me to be late to the side of my beloved wife who awaits me, I shall do all in my power to assist you," he answered in a light, diplomatic tone.

Adir laughed a little. "It shall not take long, you have my word," he said, putting out one hand in assurance. "Among my people, two leaders who have come together as we have done today share a drink at the end of the first day's exchange, as a mutual sign of trust and hope. I understand King Elessar has departed, and I have come to ask if you might do me the honor of acting in his stead."

Faramir swiftly thought this over; a voice in his head that sounded annoyingly like Tuornen's was shouting that the man of Harad was going to poison him. Hardened warrior that he was, Faramir could not completely ignore such a possibility, but neither would he flatly turn down such a request solely based on it. Surrounded as he was by Gondorian soldiers, Adir would not be foolish enough to think that he could do any harm to Faramir and live to tell of it.

"It would be my pleasure," said Faramir aloud, laying the satchel in his hand down on the table.

Adir beamed. "Good!" he exclaimed. "My son Jadim has arranged a place for us. This will take but a moment."

He indicated a place nearby where two chairs sat in a pool of golden sunlight. Between the chairs was a short rock, upon which sat a bottle and two small glasses chased with elaborate gold decorations. Jadim stood behind the rock, waiting, still clad in his formal robes.

"I watched as my father did this many times in his life," Adir was saying as they walked to the chairs and sat down. "It is a custom we have long observed, although I believe it is more of an excuse to have a drink after a long day of talking, than otherwise!"

He laughed, and Faramir joined him, nodding as he took his seat. "That would not surprise me," the Steward said, sighing as he relaxed in the warm sunshine. "Ah, that does feel good, after sitting in the cold shadows of this cave all day."

"So I supposed," Adir said, as Jadim poured some of the contents of the decanter into the glasses. It was dark red, almost black, and sparkled in the light.

"This is a very special wine of Harad, prepared solely for this purpose," Adir said as the last drops were poured. "This supply is the same as that used by my fathers for the last two hundred years. It has always brought us good fortune in forging and renewing bonds of friendship; I earnestly hope it shall continue to do so today."

Faramir watched the Chieftain carefully as he said this. It had always been his talent to discern the true heart of others; at times it was a gift, at others a curse, but at the moment he was highly grateful for the skill. Thus far, at least, Adir's words appeared genuine.

Jadim had stoppered the decanter, and as Adir reached for his glass, Faramir followed suit. To his surprise, however, it was Jadim who lifted the second glass.

Bewildered, Faramir glanced at the Chief, but before he could open his mouth, Adir began to speak.

"Pray do not be too confused, Lord Steward, this is also part of the ritual," Adir said in a kindly voice. "Often there is concern that the wine may be poisoned, so a beloved one is asked to sample one of the glasses. It is a proof of the true friendship with which the gift is offered."

Slightly startled, Faramir watched as Jadim drank the wine in the second glass. The Harad warrior swallowed the wine, glanced at Faramir with a somber expression, then set the glass down and filled it once more.

"A necessary procedure, I suppose, when the two parties are former enemies," observed the Steward with a sigh, reaching for the glass once Jadim had finished his task.

Adir took up his drink as well. "Alas, yes," he said in a melancholy voice. "Killings in this way during talks of truce were not unheard of among our tribes, although it has not happened for many hundreds of years now. That part of the ceremony is simply a reassurance, that trust has been rightly given."

Here Adir raised the glass, smiled at Faramir, and spoke a short sentence in his native tongue. After finishing, he said, "In the speech of your people, Lord Steward, the blessing I have spoken calls upon the benevolent spirits of peace to smile upon our meeting and grant us wisdom as we forge everlasting bonds between us. Now, we may drink."

Faramir downed the wine; it was sweet and strong, and tasted of a very extended vintage. It was not enough to affect his senses, but he definitely felt his cheeks flush.

He smiled and nodded as he carefully set the glass back down. "I certainly agree with the words of your blessing, Chief Adir," he said. "Although I highly doubt those who first crafted it ever guessed it would one day be uttered between a Chieftain of Harad and a Steward of Gondor."

"Indeed I would say not," laughed the older man as Jadim took the decanter and glasses away. He relaxed in the chair a little, settling back and folding his hands, his expression becoming contemplative. "It has only ever passed between tribal leaders of the Haradrim; you are the first man of a Western kingdom to hear it."

Faramir bowed his head slightly, a bit awed at such a thought. "I am honored."

Adir nodded back in acknowledgement. "It will not surprise you to know that many in my land feel I should not so break our tradition," he replied. "Harad blessings and loyalties, they say, should be for the men of Harad alone. But I have no fear, for there are other tribes among us who feel as I do, even if they cannot as yet follow us here."

Following the Chieftain's example, Faramir sat back in his chair as well, enjoying the warmth of the setting sun, which was almost touching the horizon now. "It is the King's hope, as well as my own, that should we come to a treaty of peace with these talks, that soon all of your people will consent to come under his protection. The idea that you are not alone among the Haradrim in wanting peace is an encouraging one."

The other man slowly nodded, watching the sunset. "I have given my life to the struggles of my people, Lord Steward," he said slowly, the weight of memory hanging upon every word. "And I cannot deny that I have fought long beneath the banner of the Dark Lord, and spilled the blood of your countrymen in my efforts. Sauron promised us much, and because we loved Harad and longed to see her free and powerful, we accepted that promise, despite the evil attached to it. Now Sauron has fallen, and we may choose to fall with him into nothingness, or live on beneath the banner of yet another ruler."

He sighed and turned to Faramir, a wistful look on his aged face. "I and my tribe have chosen to live on, and if it treason against my fathers as some have claimed, I can only pray that their spirits will forgive me. It seems a small price to pay for a chance to end the spilling of blood between us."

Faramir had quietly studied the Chieftain while he talked, trusting his well-honed instincts to detect any hints of falsehood. There seemed to be none; the older man's words were weary but sincere, and there was no guile in his warm brown eyes, only sad resolution.

Before he could respond to Adir's words, Jadim reappeared, his own expression dark and angry. Evidently he had overheard, and for a moment Faramir feared that the Prince disapproved of the negotiations far more than he had thought.

"Those are noble words, Father," said Jadim in a bitter voice as he sat on a nearby rock, hastily arranging his long robes as he settled down. "If only all of our people had the wisdom to hear them."

Adir gave him a look of paternal disapproval. "I will not force my will upon those of our people who do not yet follow us," he replied sharply.

His son scowled back at him. "They do not seem to hesitate to force their will upon us," he shot back. "And does not one, in particular, abandon his honor to-"

Now Adir turned to his son, his gentle eyes blazing. "I shall hear no such talk of my son and your brother," he warned in a stern tone, "no matter how much he may deserve it. He is still of our blood, and it is my hope that some small part of him may yet remember this, and persuade him to forsake his foolish path."

Jadim closed his mouth, although his eyes still smoldered as he regarded his father.

"As you command, my Chief," Jadim said finally, in a far softer tone. "But should we not tell the good Steward all we know of my brother's foul alliance? For this trouble shall be theirs, if a pact is made between us."

Faramir hesitated; as much as he wanted to know about Karil and the possible danger he posed to Gondor, it was plain from the look in Adir's face that the mere mention of the subject caused the old man great pain - pain the young Steward knew well, to his sorrow.

"Feel no need on my account," said Faramir gently as Adir dropped his gaze to the floor, deep in thought. Outside, the sun had set, and the cave was becoming dark. "I can see the matter causes you grief."

The Chieftain shook his head, holding up one hand as if to stave off any further words. "You are kind, Lord Steward," he said, taking a deep breath and facing Faramir, his manner composed despite the agony in his eyes, "but my son is right; in the name of the trust I would see between us, you should be told all there is to tell about what Karil has done. He has sworn a blood oath against me, and if my tribe and Gondor are bound in alliance, you shall become my friend and his enemy at the same moment."

Faramir considered this, despising the suffering the subject was causing the Chief yet aware that Gondor needed to know all that it may face.

"Very well," he said at length, leaning forward, "but you need say no more than you can bear."

Adir sat a little straighter in his chair, shrugging a bit, his manner becoming lighter although the gleam of sorrow never left his eyes. "In truth, Lord Faramir, there is not much to tell," he admitted. "Karil is my youngest son, and of the three born to me by my beloved wife, he has always been the one most loyal to Mordor. Most of us in Harad were men of our land first, allied only to Sauron for his protection and the promise of power; but for Karil, Sauron came before all others. As soon as he was old enough to swear the oath, he gave his soul to the will of the Dark Lord."

"It was so with many of our younger warriors," Jadim added, bending forward and folding his hands as he rested his elbows on his knees. "They saw how close Sauron was to victory, and lusted for the fruits of triumph which soon promised to fall into their grasp. They knew nothing of the harsher aspects of war, only of easy victories against armies depleted by long struggle. Their thirst for blood grew by the day, and it led most of them to their deaths upon your Pelennor fields."

Adir sighed, and looked at Faramir with a sudden aspect of age and weariness. "After that battle, the few of us who had survived staggered home as best we could," he said. "Harad had so few young men left, I had hoped Karil would abandon his desires for conquest and help us rebuild. Instead, he and others who would not give up the fight fled into Mordor."

Faramir had been listening intently, the fingers of one hand resting lightly on his chin in thought. At Adir's last words, he nodded. "A fitting place, I suppose," he murmured. "There are certainly many suitable areas there where one could house an army, although we saw no living creature during our forays into the land last year. All of Sauron's fortresses are but barren rubble now."

Jadim shook his head. "Only his soldiers know where his army is," he said, sitting back. "Often we have sent men into Mordor to find him; they either never return, or else their corpses are found rotting on our borders after having been tortured to death. Karil means to stay concealed until he is ready to begin his revenge against all who opposed the might of Sauron." He paused, a gleam of seething rage flickering into his eyes. "Even if they are of his own blood."

Silence fell as a shadow of deep sympathy swept across Faramir's face. He sat motionless, studying the anger in Jadim's expression, and Adir's plainly evident sorrow. Memories of his own pain plucked at his mind, the agony of knowing that one he loved had wished him harm, and at that moment Faramir would have given much to know how he could remedy the anguish now tormenting these men of Harad. Yet he knew there was nothing he could do, except to curse Sauron in his heart for still being able to cause such suffering.

Outside, night had begun to fall, the sky turning blue-purple as stars began to wink into view. A few torches had been lit in the cave, but so far the light-bearers had been considerate enough to give the men their privacy.

Finally Adir stirred and looked up, forcing a smile upon his tired face; some of the sadness had receded. "That is all of Karil we can tell you now, I fear," he said, after drawing a deep breath. "He will strike again, of that I am certain, but from where, and against whom, I cannot say."

Faramir gave him a kind, appreciative smile. "I am most grateful for what you have shared with me, Chief Adir, and I am sure the King will be as well," he said softly, "even more because you have endured such sorrow to tell me of it. My heart sorrows for you both, that you have been thus torn from your kin. I shall pray that the way between you all may one day be made clear again, and Sauron's darkness be swept from your family forever."

Jadim appeared doubtful, but the old Chieftain's eyes gleamed with gratitude as he returned Faramir's smile and nodded. "My thanks to you, Lord Steward, for your words," he said, his voice not much above a whisper. "I pray as you do, but the matter seems to be out of our hands. We must leave that matter up to our gods, and do what we can with the task before us."

He stood, and as he rose Faramir and Jadim did the same. As they took to their feet, a solder of Gondor appeared at the mouth of the cave, his face glistening with sweat.

"Lord Faramir," said the soldier, delivering a proper salute, "King Elessar begs your attendance in the throne room at once, sir. He has asked me to say that an urgent matter has arisen."

The Steward's entire body tensed at these words; with Adir's latest revelations, a host of unpleasant possibilities raced through his mind as to what sort of urgent matter this might involve.

"Inform His Majesty that I will attend at once," he replied with a nod of thanks. The soldier saluted again and hurried out. Within moments, the hoofbeats of his steed could be heard faintly pounding away into the night, back to the city to deliver his message.

"My thanks for your hospitality this evening, Chief Adir, Prince Jadim," said Faramir with a bow. "I must now bid you good evening; I shall see you again tomorrow when our talks shall continue."

Adir smiled and gracefully returned the bow as Jadim nodded behind him. "It was our honor, Lord Steward," the Chieftain replied sincerely. "I wish you a good evening as well, and to your brave wife. I hope this summons that calls you away is not as dire as it seems."

Faramir had hurried quickly to the table, pulling on his riding gloves and gathering up his materials in an efficient but hasty manner.

"The last time the King gave me such a summons, it turned out to be a surprise birthday celebration arranged by he and Lady Eowyn," admitted the Steward as he settled his belongings in his arms. "I may have some small hope that this will turn out to be as harmless, but as my birthday was some time ago, I fear it will not be the case. Farewell!"

With those words, Faramir swept from the cave, his form soon leaving the warm pool of torchlight to disappear into the shadows of the night. Soon they could hear him following the messenger as he rode back to the City, the echoing thud of the hoofbeats growing fainter as he sped away into the encroaching darkness.

A short time later, Faramir found himself in the magnificent marble throne room of the Citadel of Minas Tirith, holding a conference whose mood was as black as the night sky now fallen outside.

"It would seem they have already begun," he was saying in a sad voice, his words echoing throughout the enormous hall. As they rolled away across the elaborately inlaid floors and grandly carved walls of white and black stone, Faramir shifted his somber glaze between the members of his audience, who all now stood or sat before him in varying attitudes of concern.

Normally Aragorn would have been seated upon the splendid white marble throne of Gondor, located high atop a short flight of alabaster stairs at the head of the room. As this was a private meeting, however, he had foregone ceremony, and was situated at the head of the small table set to the side of the chamber, intended usually as a place for the King to take his informal refreshments. Aragorn had also doffed the formal velvets he had worn all day, clad now in rich but far simpler clothes as he sat, one hand covering his chin, deep in thought.

Behind Aragorn were Legolas, Eomer and Henvain. The Elf stood with his arms folded, his brow knit, while Henvain seemed unsure exactly how to place himself. His clothing was still much splattered with dirt and Orc blood, and he had spent most of the conversation, when it hadn't involved him, gaping as discretely as he could at the throne room. He had never entered it before.

Eomer had traded his formal court attire for far more comfortable woven garb, but his suspicious expression as he stood thinking over the matter was anything but relaxed.

Seated near Aragorn at the table was Gimli, who of all the participants seemed to be the most at ease. He also had removed his ceremonial armor and helmet, and was calmly smoking a pipe as he listened to the proceedings, his blue eyes keen beneath their bristling brows.

Rounding out the small group in the hall was Prince Imrahil. He stood close to his nephew, watching quietly, his aspect solemn and thoughtful.

Aragorn stirred himself from his contemplations. "The reports would appear to indicate that Karil's desire to murder his father has lost none of its strength," he said regretfully. "Should they discover his whereabouts, or witness his departure, our first Haradrim ambassador of peace may be assassinated before he leaves the borders of Gondor."

"They are sending scouts across the river on many fronts," offered Legolas. "Six of the other sentry parties were engaged this day as well, including my own. All of the Orcs that were slain bore the scorpion's mark."

Eomer shook his head, his long blonde hair shining in the torchlight. "It still feels foul to me," he admitted, glancing at each of his friends in turn. "I cannot yet trust that this is not all some Haradrim trick meant to lure and trap our men."

"I have considered that as well, my brother," said Faramir in reply. "Yet in my conversing with Adir this evening, I detected no guile in his speech or bearing. His desire for peace appears genuine; I do not think he is trying to trap us."

"Adir would not dare such a move when he knows his life, and the lives of all who are with him, would be taken once such a deception was uncovered," added Imrahil.

The King of Rohan's answering gaze was polite, but still clearly skeptical.

Aragorn looked at Henvain. "Your party was the first attacked, near sundown?"

At being addressed, Henvain snapped to full attention. "Yes, sir," he said, straightening. "They came right out of the woods, sir, and headed straight for the city. It wasn't just Orcs wandering the forest lookin' for trouble-they acted like they were sent to spy."

"And they will doubtless keep coming," sighed Faramir, walking around the table slowly, his arms folded. "Gondor is still rebuilding her army. We cannot patrol the entire length of the Anduin, even with the aid of the Elves."

The King rubbed his chin with one hand as he looked up at Faramir. "And Adir knows nothing of where his son may be hiding his army?"

The Steward regretfully shook his head. "He has sent men many times to find it during the past year, only to have them die or disappear," was the reply. "Karil laid his plan well; there are many places in Mordor where evil may yet hide, valleys and mountains where no man of the West has ever walked." He sighed and crossed his arms, placing the thumb of one hand against his lower lip as he thought.

There was a scraping sounds as Aragorn stood, pushing his chair back as he did so. "At least we know that he is not at Minas Morgul, or the tower of Cirith Ungol," the sovereign said as he began to pace slowly around the table, his hands clasped behind his back. "They were quite ruined and barren when our scouting parties searched them three months ago."

Gimli lowered his pipe from his mouth, a deadly gleam in his eye. "Let us take some of those accursed Orcs captive, once they show their ugly faces along our borders" he suggested in a low tone. "A short time alone with some of my Dwarves and their axes, and they'd be willing to tell us all, I'd be bound."

"The Orcs who attacked us may have provided answers, but it seems they are under orders not to be captured alive," said Legolas in response, a hard edge tinging his melodious voice. "All of those who did not fall in battle cut their own throats before we could take them prisoner."

Gimli scowled, somewhat disappointed, and went back to smoking his pipe a bit more thoughtfully.

The King mused upon this, then glanced at Henvain. "Did you observe this behavior as well, Master Henvain?"

Henvain nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir, I did," he said firmly. "They didn't think twice about it, either, and if they hadn't done themselves in, I think the other Orcs might have obliged them. Capturing any of them for questionin's goin' to be hard. Every time we meet them in battle, either we kill 'em, or they kill themselves."

"Hm." Aragorn ceased his pacing and glanced over at Faramir. The Steward was standing very still, an expression of deep contemplation on his face.

There was silence for a few minutes, broken at last by Faramir's very quiet voice.

"Unless," the Steward said softly, stroking his lower lip with his thumb as he mulled over his words, "we do not meet them in battle at all."

Henvain eyed him, confused. "Sir?"

Faramir remained motionless for a few moments more, then looked up, his countenance now more bright and alert. "The Orcs know where Karil has hidden his lair," he said. "They will never tell us - but they may show us, without even being aware of it. All we must do is allow them to enter and leave Gondor unmolested."

He stepped quickly over to Aragorn, his hands outspread as he explained his idea. "Consider this, sire," said the Steward, his words growing more resolute as he went along. "We allow a certain party of Karil's Orcs to cross our border, then harry them enough to drive them back into Mordor, but do no harm to them. Thus they will still live, and in time return to their master, with men of Gondor following their every step back to their lair. Once the location and size of Karil's army is known to us, we will have the means to end his threat to our borders, and the possible peace we are working to secure with Harad."

Henvain's eyes widened a little at the idea; Legolas, Eomer and Gimli appeared a bit surprised, but intrigued, while Imrahil seemed impressed.

The King pondered the proposal for a few moments. "It is a bold plan," he observed at length, studying Faramir keenly, "yet a small party may be successful where an army would fail. They would certainly be better able to avoid detection."

"My thoughts precisely," Faramir replied, smiling now as the maneuver grew more formed in his mind. "Karil's Orcs will assuredly return soon, perhaps even tomorrow; if all goes well, we may know the whereabouts of the army in a matter of days."

Aragorn studied him closely. "That would be welcome indeed," he said slowly, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "Yet the journey would be most dangerous to those who set out upon it. Have you anyone in mind?"

A glimmer of hesitation flickered across Faramir's face before he spoke, as if he knew Aragorn would not like what he was about to say. "I have, sire," he said. After a moment, he stood straighter, his arms at his sides now in a pose of martial formality. "It is my humble request that you allow me to undertake it."

A somewhat startled silence followed, during which Henvain's eyes grew even wider.

"I would expect no less from you, my brave friend," said Aragorn with a quiet smile, as if his suspicions had been fully confirmed. "The need to resolve this matter swiftly is great; yet our negotiations with the Haradrim are also of utmost importance. Shall I conduct these meetings without my trusted Steward at my side?"

Faramir sighed slightly. "I regret the necessity of abandoning the treaty table, my King," he said, "but I could not conscience sending anyone but myself upon this dangerous mission. It is my plan; I would take the risk upon my own shoulders before asking another to bear it. If for some reason it should fail, I would sooner take the consequences upon my own head than see another to suffer in my place."

The King regraded him steadily, clearly turning the idea over in his mind.

"I also have spent most of my life learning the ways of stealth and secrecy," continued Faramir, pressing his case, "and feel confident of my ability to track the Orcs unseen."

Aragorn eyed him solemnly, and it was several moments before he spoke. "I am confident of that ability as well, my Steward," he said quietly, peering at Faramir, "yet it will still be a way fraught with peril, that will take you far from our protection and the side of your lady wife. Are you quite resolved to travel this hard road, not knowing what may lie at the end of it?"

The younger man gazed back at his sovereign, his features set with sober determination. A hint of sadness glittered in the depths of his blue eyes. "I have no illusions concerning what may be ahead of me, my King," he answered in a serious tone. "But in the hope of peace for my people and my City, I am prepared to walk the shadowed path. All of my life I have seen them suffer beneath the darkness of war; if by this effort I may end that suffering, then I shall willingly make it."

For a few moments after he finished speaking, Faramir remained still, gazing at his King with an expression of firm resolution. The others watched silently, impressed.

Aragorn studied him in silence, then finally nodded. "Very well," he said softly, admiration at his Steward's courage evident in his green eyes.

Faramir smiled gratefully and bowed his head in thanks to his King. Before it was fully raised again, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and looked up into the kind, concerned gray eyes of Imrahil.

"And here I thought it was impossible to be more impressed your courage," the Prince said in a proud, quiet voice, looking earnestly into Faramir's face.
"The thoughts of those who love you will be with you as you venture forth, Faramir. May the Valar watch over you and bring you back to us swiftly and safely."

There was a tenderness in Faramir's expression as he regarded his kinsman. "The courage was learned by your example, uncle," the younger man replied. "Will you do me the honor, sir, of taking my place as Steward, and counsel the King until I return?"

The Prince inclined his head gracefully. "I will," he answered, before looking to Aragorn, "if that is agreeable to His Majesty."

"Most agreeable, Lord Prince," said Aragorn as he looked at them. "But as willing as you are to take this upon yourself, Faramir, I would not have you go into Mordor alone."

Legolas now stepped forward, his hands behind his back. "The gifts of stealth and secrecy you may have, Lord Faramir," he said with a smile. "However, I wager the most skilled Ranger who ever trod Gondor's hills would find it impossible to match his eyes and ears against that of an Elf. As you are descending into the realm of the enemy, will you accept the aid of one Elf who will gladly travel there beside you, and watch and listen for dangers too far and faint for human senses to perceive?"

A smile lit Faramir's handsome features, and he clasped Legolas' arm firmly. "With pleasure, my friend," he said gladly.

The Elf smiled in reply, and turned to Aragorn. "I shall appoint another to take my seat at the negotiations," he stated.

"You will both be missed," said the King, "but few there will gainsay the dire nature of this matter, I am certain. It will do us little good to obtain a peace treaty with the Seventh Tribe if they do not survive their journey home."

The Steward nodded, then glanced over to see Eomer walking towards him, wearing a somber expression.

"You go into unknown dangers, sister-husband," said the warrior, stopping a few feet from Faramir and lifting his head. "My sword is at your service, should you request it, to insure your safe return to my sister's side."

Faramir regarded his brother by marriage for a moment, his entire aspect one of deep gratitude. Then he lifted his hand and placed it firmly upon Eomer's shoulder. "Your words are dearly esteemed, my brother," he said warmly in reply, "but as much as I wish your company along this road, I must ask you to remain here. Aragorn and Rohan have need of you; but more importantly, I would not have Eowyn bereft of us both."

The other man pondered this for a moment, then nodded with great reluctance. "Very well," he said with a sigh. Then he peered very keenly at Faramir and raised a warning finger. "But as that is the case, you must swear to me to return to us alive. Should you make her so soon a widow, I promise I shall follow your trail, even if it lead to the spirit land, and you shall take your punishment for so terribly wounding her heart!"

The words were stern but affectionate; none within their hearing would doubt the love that lay beneath them. Faramir smiled again, plainly moved, and heartily clasped Eomer's shoulder.

"You have my word," he said fervently. "I would not cause her a moment's grief for the wealth of the world, or cause you to go to such effort on my account, for I am certain I would never hear the end of it!"

They laughed, despite the grave nature of the situation, and those watching smiled. As the joyous sound died away, another noise caught their attention. It was Henvain, clearing his throat. The four Men, Dwarf and Elf looked over at the soldier, who was regarding them in an awkward but determined manner.

"Lieutenant Henvain?" said Faramir, in a kindly, expectant tone, releasing Eomer's shoulder.

The young warrior hesitated. "May I have permission to speak, sir?"

Aragorn smiled. "For the valuable service you have done for Gondor thus far, Lieutenant, most certainly," he said.

Henvain straightened a little, his grip on the helmet in his hand tightening. "Sir, as King Eomer's offer of protection cannot be accepted, may I volunteer to accompany Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas into Mordor?"

Six pairs of eyes blinked at him in surprise. Gimli sat up straighter in his chair, smoke puffing from his mouth as he coughed.

"You wish to journey into Mordor, Lieutenant?" asked Faramir, with diplomatic astonishment.

Henvain seemed to pause, then nodded once. "Yes, sir, if I may," he answered. "You'll need military assistance if things go rough, and three have a better chance of gettin' out of a scrape than two, sir."

Faramir studied him, his lips pursed in thought. "You have an understanding of the extreme danger of this mission, do you not, Lieutenant?" he asked, his voice now deadly serious.

There was a pause before Henvain said, "Yes, sir."

No words were spoken for a very long as Faramir studied the earnest young soldier before him. At length, Faramir stepped over to the young soldier, stopping directly in front of him.

"It is a courageous offer, Lieutenant Henvain, and one that is most appreciated," he said, his words quiet and stern, his blue eyes piercing as he looked into Henvain's face." I know your record; you are a good soldier. For this mission, I shall need you to be an excellent soldier. We must move quickly, and quietly, if we are to have any hope of returning. I know you will do your best, but the ultimate success of this journey must be our first consideration. If during our travels I esteem that your skills, though nobly offered, are not equal to the task, I shall need to relieve you of your duty and you shall return to the City, if it is at all practicable. Is this agreed?"

Henvain gazed at him without speaking as he mulled over the conditions, then nodded. "It is, my Lord," he said. "I'll do my utmost to protect you and Lord Legolas, sir, I swear it."

Now Faramir smiled. "I am certain of that," he replied, his manner more kindly now. "I would act thus only to spare your life, for we know not entirely what we will be facing yet." He turned to Aragorn. "For now, we should lay out the best way to execute our plan. It should be set in motion as soon as possible; tomorrow, if we find some Orcs who are cooperative."

"If our past dealings with their persistence are any indication, they will not disappoint us," observed Aragorn dryly. "Very well; let us discuss this plan and lay down the particulars, so that you will all set out with a clear purpose. You will be provided with all you require; with good fortune, you shall return to a promised peace with Harad, and the means to secure that peace for all time."

They gathered around the table, all settling in for a long evening of strategizing. Henvain sat down beside Legolas, a mixture of pride and bewilderment on his plain features, as if he was shocked to realize that he was truly to be part of this important enterprise, and about to take council with the King.

After Faramir sent for writing materials and enough refreshment to see them through the evening, he faced Aragorn with a sigh. "I fear, my liege, that the most difficult part of this journey for me may occur before stepping a foot outside the city gate."

An understanding smile touched the King's lips. "I believe I may guess what that may be, my friend," he said sympathetically.

"Yes," murmured the Steward with a slight nod, a melancholy light in his eyes. "Establishing the best way to accomplish this, and mapping out our tactics I may well manage. But how I am to make this known to Eowyn, and part from her at morning's light, I am powerless to say."

Behind them, the servants were arriving with the requested articles. As they set the table, Aragorn put a sympathetic hand on Faramir's shoulder.

"Such matters have plagued men of arms for countless ages, and I believe will do so for countless ages yet," he said lightly. "Come! We shall set our minds to the first matter before us. Perhaps when our discussion on that is concluded, your heart will have revealed to you a solution for the second."

-----------

Several hours later found Henvain in an entirely different environment than the one in which he had spent the better part of the evening. The marble halls of the Citadel were replaced with the cozy stone walls of one of Minas Tirith's more popular taverns, the Silver Tankard. The murmured words of war that had surrounded him were turned to the boisterous laughing and drunken shouts of his fellow soldiers and citizen of Gondor who now reveled around him, basking in the warm glow of the establishment's many candles, lanterns, and its large, inviting fireplace. Finally, the person he now faced across the rough, stained wooden table was not a high-born Elf or lord of Gondor, but his friend Faelor, who was now regarding him with a look of complete astonishment.

"You're going to *Mordor*?" the black-haired man gasped, the ale at his hand forgotten as he gaped at his comrade. The words were quietly spoken, as if they were a great secret, but there were none but Henvain and Faelor at the table, and those who were making merry nearby paid the two soldiers scant notice.

Henvain, for his part, answered Faelor's question with a look of open smugness as he raised his own tankard to his mouth. He was quite relaxed now, having switched his armor for far more comfortable civilians' clothing, and his eyes that had earlier shone with trepidation now positively glowed with self-satisfaction.

"Tomorrow, if all goes as Lord Faramir wants it to," announced the young soldier calmly before taking a drink.

"Astounding," muttered Faelor, looking down at the table blankly as he took it all in. "Only the King's best and most trusted soldiers are allowed to visit the black lands." He paused, then looked at his friend. "How is it *you* were chosen?"

Henvain scowled at him and set the tankard down with an irritated thump. "Well, now, it's not *that* unlikely an idea," he muttered. "I'm pretty fair with a sword, you know, and I got no problem with long marches."

The other soldier studied him, then nodded, a glimmer of skepticism still in his eyes.

The look on his companion's face fell a little bit and he sighed, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "Besides," he mumbled, "King Eomer couldn't go."

Faelor smiled a little, as if he had suspected as much, then waved one hand at his friend. "Oh, go on, I'm sure you'll be fine. Better than us just sitting around here waiting for something to happen."

The grin returned to Henvain's face as his hand curled once more around his tankard's handle. "Yes, and for once one of them that's waitin' will be my brother instead of me," he gloated, his eyes dancing with delight. "Turwaith could only knock on Mordor's front gate; I'll be marchin' right on in! Maybe we'll even get in a scrap or two and I can finally get me some decent battle scars."

The other man looked a little shocked and uncomfortable. "You shouldn't say things like that before a campaign, you know," he warned. One of his hands was wrapped around his mug, and he moved its index finger to point at Henvain. "It's courtin' bad luck."

"Bah! Luck," was Henvain's dismissive reply before he downed another mouthful of ale. After swallowing, he continued speaking, a bitter cast in his eyes as he looked into Faelor's face. "Bad luck's what's kept me livin' in Turwaith's shadow my whole life. Now I've finally got some good luck, and I'm not worryin' that a few words are goin' to change that. Lord Faramir's one of the best soldiers in Gondor's army, and Lord Legolas can see a fly and hear it sneeze from a mile away. He'll let us know if danger's about, an' between the three of us we can fight through anything that comes at us. When I get back, I'll have gone farther into Mordor than any Gondorian soldier's ever been, and have done a service for Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas besides. Might even get a commission out of it, or a title!"

A chuckle escaped Faelor's lips as he raised his own tankard. "'Lord Henvain?'"

"Why not?" challenged the other soldier, leaning back and allowing himself to smile at the thought as he gazed pensively upwards. "Kind of rolls right off the tongue, don't you think? 'Lord Henvain'. With a bag or two of gold to go along with it, maybe. Hm."

He contemplated this for a few moments, then drew a quick breath and sat up, setting his drink firmly back on the table as he came fully back to reality.

"Yes, my friend, the next week or two is goin' to be the making of me," he declared, leaning forward, triumph evident on his features. He lifted his mug. "To the bright and shining future!"

"May you actually be here to enjoy it," added Faelor in a slightly concerned tone, knocking his tankard gently against Henvain's before taking a drink.

"Oh, don't worry about that," Henvain advised him, his mug poised at his lips. "If there's even a chance I can get back here and see the look on my brother's face when he knows he's no longer the hero of the family, I'll be willing to fight through the nastiest pack of Orcs Mordor can bring forth!"

At that same hour, in another part of the city, a far more quiet scene was unfolding.

All was dark in the Steward's bedchamber, save for the glow of the silver moonlight now streaming in through the large, open window. Seated upon the wide sill of the window, watching the night, were Faramir and Eowyn, their forms bathed in the bright, gentle light. They were informally clad, she in her gown, he in his leggings and a loose shirt laid open at the throat. He sat leaning upon one of the window's thick supports, his arms draped around his wife as she sat before him, her arms laid over his, her head with its cascade of golden hair reclining against his shoulder.

They had sat thus in silence for some time, until Eowyn sighed deeply, never taking her eyes from the stars as she shifted within her husband's embrace.

"You realize I shall never forgive you for this," she said softly, nestling down once more.

He echoed her sigh, still staring at the clear night sky. "And I shall never forgive Sauron, whose lingering evil still has the power to part me from your touch," he replied, more than a tinge of sadness in his voice. After a moment, he tightened his arms around Eowyn in a brief hug. "I pray you do forgive me, my Lady; I do this only in the hopes that it will dispel the need for any such future partings."

She paused, and very slowly sat up, her hands still remaining upon her husband's arms, her gaze downcast as she turned to face Faramir. "I understand your need to do this," she said, her hair stirring in the warm spring breeze. "I wish only that I could accompany you. I fear not to go into Mordor, and my blade is as able as that of any soldier of Gondor." She raised her head and peered unhappily at him.

In return, he smiled a little and laid the fingertips of his right hand against her cheek. "I have no doubt of that, my brave shieldmaiden," he said affectionately, gazing deeply into her eyes. "And I would have you with me, were it not for the danger that still abides there. I am willing to risk my own life in this venture, but I would not ask you to risk yours."

She looked at him, and lifted one slender hand up to her cheek to entwine it in his. "You would be asking me for nothing that I am not willing to give with all of my heart," she insisted, easing their joined hands down to lay together in her lap. "It will madden me to do naught but sit here and wait for your return."

Faramir gripped her hand, looking at her firmly. "Your duties while I am away will be just as vital as mine, my love," he assured her. "You shall be assisting the healers and learning their arts, a far more noble task than my own. You shall be tending to the garden and gaining its language, seeking to bring life instead of destroy it. You may give council and support to your brother, whose patience will be tested sorely by this trial of diplomacy, I am sure."

At this thought, she smiled, as he did.

"And you will be a beacon of strength and steadiness to our people, both of Gondor and Rohan, during this time of newness and change," he said, tilting his head and studying her with an expression of total love. "Look not to follow my tread into the black lands, I beg you, my Lady. Your way is now in the light, and your gentle efforts may do far more than mine to hasten the coming of peace."

At this, she dropped her gaze and sighed, frustration creeping back into her expression. "I suppose it must be thus," she muttered with disappointment. After a moment she lifted her eyes. "I shall do as you will, my Lord, and endeavor as much to accomplish our goal here as you shall be doing in Mordor. But I shall be with you every step of the way, even if you see me not."

He smiled gently at her words, his blue eyes filled with soft gratitude. "And I shall be beside you here," he replied quietly, "no matter how far or how long my journey may take me." He loosed one hand and reached up to lightly cup her chin in his fingers. "Every step I take will bring me closer to my return to you. Until then, the memory of this night shall have to sustain us both, through the many nights apart that lay before us."

Slowly she lifted her hand and caressed his arm, regarding him all the while with an expression of great tenderness. "Then let us leave the stars to their courses," she whispered, her eyes sparkling in the silvered light.

Gracefully he leaned forward, gently tilting her chin upwards as he met her lips with his. Smoothly, easily, their arms entwined about each other's bodies, their grasp pulling them together in a single, loving motion. Within a few moments their forms melted away from the pool of bright moonlight, slipping away into the warm shadows of their bedchamber.

------------------------

On that same night, another pair of eyes were watching the stars, pale yellow eyes that saw no beauty among their hallowed lights, only an indication that his time of victory had moved one day closer.

Karil stood atop the tallest tower of his fortress, from which he could see the entire spread of the rocky-strewn valley and the Orcs and Haradrim who labored there. Their black figures heaved and writhed in the moonlight as they worked to complete their machines of war, weapons that would soon be launched against those who had defied Sauron's power.

A fierce smile split Karil's handsome face as he beheld the sight. Atop the tower, a cold, relentless wind blew, stinging his skin and taking the warmth from his body, but Karil did not notice it. As he stood with Masrak and saw the army of warriors he would soon unleash upon those who would enslave Harad, all thoughts fled from his mind save one: the punishment he longed to inflict upon his enemies. They would suffer as Sauron would have had them suffer, and through his efforts the strength of the almighty Dark Lord would once again be felt among the men of Middle-earth.

Wordlessly he watched, smiling all the while, wishing only that the night and the days to come would hasten on, and the day of Sauron's judgment come to hand.

Dawn the following day found Adir pacing the entrance to the Haradrim cave, his hands clasped behind his back, his golden eyes thoughtful as he cast them now and then at the rock-bordered clearing just beyond the cavern's mouth. The area was now empty save for a few men of Harad and the Gondorian guards standing sentry at the gap that opened onto the Pelennor Fields.

Behind the chieftain stood Jadim, leaning against a nearby wall with his arms folded, the perfect picture of calm as he watched his father. Like Adir, he was clad once more in his formal clothes, the silk and gold shining in the newborn sunlight that bathed them both.

After several silent passes back and forth, Adir ceased his walking, lifted his head and sighed as he looked to the east. "It is such a risk he is taking," he said in a loud whisper, half to himself, as he faced the realm of Mordor. "Such a risk."

"It is one he has accepted, Father," remarked Jadim in a low, steady voice, not moving from his place. "He understands that Karil's madness must be ended, and for that to occur, he must first be found."

Adir glanced back at him, the pensive expression now slowly replaced with sadness. "And when they have found him?" he murmured. "What shall be done with your brother, my son?"

There was no softness in Jadim's eyes. "What must be done," was the hard reply. "It shall be his choice."

Quiet fell between them as the older man gazed at his heir, the deep eyes brimming with knowledge and sorrow. Within that silence a new sound came, distant but growing as the seconds went by, and both men directed their gaze to the source of it. A large group of riders was approaching the cave.

Adir unclasped his hands and stepped forward, as Jadim stepped to a few paces behind him, watching the clearing. Within a few moments, Aragorn and the diplomatic entourage rode into the clearing, covered in cloaks to disguise their identity from any spying eyes.

At once they were surrounded by Gondorian soldiers who assisted them in dismounting. Aragorn drew aside his cloak to reveal his kingly finery, but he seemed little concerned with his appearance or his status as he went at once to Adir.

"Good day to you, Chief Adir," he said with a respectful nod. "I received word that my messenger reached you this morning."

Adir met him and bowed. "Blessings of the day to you, King of Gondor," he said in answer as he straightened. "Yes, your word has come to me, and I am agreeable to those who shall take the seats for Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas."

"Very well," said Aragorn, pleased, as he turned to two figures who were walking up behind him. "You have met them both, as they joined us at the table yesterday. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth shall serve as my Steward in Lord Faramir's absence, and Lord Legolas has appointed Lord Hallion of the Mirkwood Realm as his surrogate."

At these words Prince Imrahil and Lord Hallion stepped forward and nodded to Adir in greeting. Although Imrahil was a tall man, Hallion easily matched him in height, his Elven face ageless and fair, his sharp eyes as emerald green as the spring leaves that waved on the trees above their heads. His thick hair, black as ebony and shining as silk, was tightly braided about his head but flowed in free waves down his back. A kindly smile softened the hardness of his appearance as he paid his respects to Adir, capped with a bow as graceful as it was sincere.

The Haradrim greeted them in return, then went to Aragorn's side as they all walked to the negotiation table.

"During my morning devotional today to our gods, I offered some additional prayers for them to watch over the safety of Lord Faramir and his comrades as they travel into Mordor," he said softly. "I fear that land is still poisoned with the Dark Lord's evil."

Aragorn gave his guest a reassuring glance. "If there are any I trust to walk those barren places unhindered, it is my Steward and Lord Legolas. They have survived trials that would slay lesser warriors. And the soldier who goes with them is, from all accounts, a worthy companion. Between the protection of your gods and those who watch over Gondor, I believe they will prevail."

"I hope it is so," replied Adir in the same quiet tone, stopping before they reached their destination and turning to face Aragorn. "I wish them nothing but success, even if my heart trembles for the time when I must decide what to do once we have found my son and his army."

Aragorn regarded him, his green eyes warm with sympathy. "You bear love for him still," he observed with sympathy.

The other man sighed and looked away, anguish plain upon his noble face. "Karil's crimes are great," he admitted, "and our laws are clear on the punishment for them. Yet when I contemplate what must happen when he is brought to the justice of my people, I almost desire that he remains hidden forever."

No words were spoken for a few moments, until Aragorn's gentle voice broke the silence. "There is hope while there is time," he offered. "Karil may yet repent of his evil."

Adir lifted his head and faced the King of Gondor once more, his eyes dark with bitter knowledge. "That will ever be my hope, King Elessar," he said sadly, "even though I know it is in vain. I have offered him my mercy many times, and he has replied with blood and treason. I must be strong when I face him again and honor the laws of my fathers, although my heart will be breaking as I do so." He drew a heavy sigh and looked up at Aragorn with a mournful smile. "I suppose it is part of the burden we must bear, as leaders of men."

"That is so," agreed Aragorn with an experienced nod. "But still, I will offer my own prayers that Karil will turn from his madness and accept your love before it is too late."

Adir dipped his head in acknowledgement of this warm sentiment, then turned and began to make his way to the table. All of the participants were present now, taking their places amid much conversation.

"Lord Faramir seems to have some understanding of my grief," remarked Adir as they resumed their journey. "In spite of my own feelings, I wish him only prosperity in his quest. He is a very brave young man, and willing to give much for his people."

"I agree," stated Aragorn firmly; they had reached the table now, and now stood facing each other, ready to depart to their designated portion of it. "Lord Legolas and Lieutenant Henvain share my confidence as well. Their task is before them, as ours is before us. May we be as courageous as they in our dealings today, and have glad tidings of our own victory for them when they return to us."

They bowed to each other in parting and went to their places, prepared to face the diplomatic challenges before them. For each man, however, a portion of his mind remained ever on Mordor, and the uncertain path of events that had yet to unfold there.

------------------

Faramir shifted his weight in his perch beneath the leafy canopy that hid him, and squinted through its emerald veil at the sky overhead. He then sighed, bowed his head, and returned his keen gaze to the road from Minas Tirith that ran past him some distance away.

A few hours until sundown, and no retreating Orcs had yet appeared to lead them to Karil's lair.

It was quite warm beneath the gray cloak he wore, but Faramir paid it little mind as he sharply watched the path before them, waiting, as they had been all day. Beside him crouched Henvain, likewise attired in gray. Legolas was concealed a short distance away; if an Orc happened up the road, Legolas could easily see him first, and give them warning to prepare to follow the creature, hopefully, to Karil's forces.

Hopefully, mused Faramir, trying not to feel frustrated as the time seem to drag slower with every passing hour. He longed to be upon the road, longed to know that this new threat to the peace he had so desired all of his life was all the closer to being dealt with. But for that to happen, they needed to trust to the kindness of the unseen, and hope an obliging Orc would head their way. The men along the river were under orders to drive any Orcs they saw to this road, but several events might thwart their efforts. They simply had to be patient.

He sighed to himself; all of this waiting made it too easy to remember Eowyn's lips upon his as they parted, her warm arms around him, her soft voice as she asked him more than once to promise to return alive. Already his heart ached with missing her; how could they have only bid farewell that morning when it felt like a lifetime ago? He tried to quell the pain of the separation, and draw strength from their love to hold him through the task ahead. Doubtless it would be needed.

He heard Henvain give an uncomfortable sigh beside him. "Steady, lieutenant," Faramir whispered without taking his eyes from the road. "It should not be long now."

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry," was the immediate reply.

A faint smile touched Faramir's lips. "No need to apologize," he assured the soldier.

There was a pause. "Thank you, sir," came the replying whisper. Another pause. "Sir?"

Faramir didn't move. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"I...um, I just wanted to thank you again, sir, for letting me come on this mission. I'll do my best for you."

"Of that I am certain, Lieutenant," Faramir said in a kindly tone, still facing the road. "I would not have allowed you here if I did not have faith that you would do your duty."

Henvain paused again, then coughed. "Yes, sir, thank you, sir," he said at last, with a small degree of awkwardness.

A few moments of silence passed.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Lieutenant?" asked Faramir patiently.

"Did you know there are two hundred and forty-two leaves on the branches that have been hangin' in front of us all day?"

Faramir's smile grew wider, even though he still did not move. "Thank you, Henvain," he said, amused and pleased that the young soldier did not seem too frightened by his mission. "I counted two hundred and thirty-three, myself. We must note this in our report to the King when we return."

Before Henvain could reply, Legolas' lithe form appeared, moving swiftly through the brush and past them before disappearing again.

Instantly alert, Faramir and Henvain sat up beneath the leafy veil, fully aware of what Legolas' actions meant. Several minutes passed, and then three Orcs appeared, moving quickly up the road for creatures of their kind.

"The Master won't like that we're comin' back without findin' his father," one of them said.

"Then let him come out here an' get arrows shot at 'im!" the second Orc growled. "Been tryin' for two days, that's long enough fer me. Let the other patrols stay here an' get killed tryin' t'get past them bloody Elves. Karil oughta be happy enough t'get our report on how they're guardin' things here, then we can figure out how t'get past 'em."

"I've had enough of this, too!" griped the third. "Can't wait until we get back to Mordor an' away from all these cursed trees. Uggh!"

"Then shut yer fool trap an' get movin'!" the second Orc commanded, and they scampered out of sight, up the roads towards Mordor.

During this exchange, Faramir and Henvain had stayed absolutely silent, and gone undetected. Now they slowly and carefully emerged from the brush, watching and waiting once more.

Legolas appeared, gave a signal, and was gone. Faramir looked at Henvain and drew his gray hood over his long red-gold hair. The young soldier did the same, covering his short, pale blond locks.

"Now," Faramir whispered, "Legolas shall follow the Orcs, and we shall follow Legolas, and between the three of us, we may find the lair of the rogue Prince of Harad."

Silently they moved after Legolas, disappearing at once into the lengthening shadows on the road into Mordor.

Eomer's hard boots echoed along the stone floor of the long hallway as he made his way to his sister's chambers. The orange-gold rays of the setting sun struck him as he passed by the open windows that adorned one side of the passage, casting his comfortable dining clothes and newly-brushed hair into varying shades of brilliant gold. He was deep in thought, however, and did not notice.

He sighed to himself as he reached her door; it had been a long day of negotiating, haranguing, and outright unpleasantness, the sort of diplomatic tangling that made him long for the chance to take a nice, rowdy eored out and hunt down some Orcs. But his duty was as King, and he could not simply end a disagreement by knocking heads together, much as he yearned to.

But now, at least, he could look forward to a relaxing dinner and some good wine with his sister. He stopped before the door, and gave it a knock.

There was no answer.

Frowning, he hesitated, listening, then knocked again, harder.

Still no reply came, and he was just about to discard niceties and pound on the portal when he heard his sister's faint voice from within cry, "You may enter, Eomer-it is unlocked."

Puzzled, Eomer pushed open the door and walked inside. There seemed to be no one in the large, sunny main room of the apartment, so he turned his steps through the sitting and dressing areas towards the bedchamber.

This room was open and sunny, accented by large windows hung with thin curtains that allowed the spring sunlight to stream over the bed and floor. A door on the far side of the room led onto a wide stone terrace overlooking the city, and soon Eomer had crossed the space and walked through it onto the porch.

Before he had entered the bedroom, he had detected the gentle fragrance of spring flowers and plants upon the air; now he was in the midst of its aromatic source, for the terrace was almost covered with greenery. Large potted plants and wide beds of earth bordered with stone met his every glance, and against the wall by the bedroom entrance stood wooden trellises, painted white and entwined with climbing flowers of several colors.

It was here that he found his sister, in her plain work gown with the sleeves turned up and her hair pulled back, kneeling before one of the low-walled beds and working in the earth. Upon the approached of her brother, she lifted her head and gave him a somewhat dirt-smudged smile.

He returned it and said lightly, "I see Faramir has allowed you your indulgence with gardening."

Eowyn laughed a little and continue her activity of pressing the soil of the bed. "He prefers it to my sharpening swords or polishing my armor," she replied, before looking into the sky. "It is time for dinner, isn't it? My apologies, brother, the track of the day completely eluded me."

He sat on an ornamental iron chair nearby and waved away her concern. "It is no matter, I do not mind the rest while you finish," he said as he settled down, eyeing her with concern. "And if this brings you comfort, pray continue as long as you please."

She frowned a little now as she smoothed down the seed bed. "It does, but nothing will completely ease my heart until he returns," she said with a melancholy sigh. "It has been only three days since Faramir left, and every hour is as a lifetime, no matter how I occupy myself."

Silence fell between them, and Eomer knit his brows, wishing he knew what to say to ease his sister's pain. His was no silver tongue, but it spoke truly, and when he finally rose and went to crouch beside her, and put one arm around her slender shoulder, his words were plain but honest, spoken from his heart.

"I am certain he misses you greatly as well," he said gently, "and is likewise counting the hours until he is with you again. I believe he would be most proud of how bravely you are carrying this burden, how you are turning your hours to usefulness instead of pining while waiting for him. And if there is aught I can do to hurry your empty hours along, simply speak it and it shall be done."

Eowyn smiled wearily and for a moment lay her head upon his shoulder. "Your presence alone has helped me greatly," she said quietly, before lifting her head and looking at the plants around them. "And I must confess to a small amount of selfishness in growing these plants and flowers for the Houses to use; their fragrance reminds me so much of Ithilien, where we shall live, that whenever I sit among its perfume, it seems I am there, with him, in the home we will share to the end of our days. That seems to shorten the hours, at least to a small extent."

He squeezed her shoulder and pulled her closer to him. "Then by all means, sister, you may stay out here until the moon rises; dinner can wait. I can have the kitchen send it here, if you would rather-"

"No, no, I am finished," she said. They both stood, she wiping her hands as she looked over the garden. "This is wearying, and I must rest, for tomorrow I have promised to go assist in the Houses. I shall be cleaned and ready soon, and we can go eat while you tell me all about the negotiations today. I am eager to know how it is proceeding."

She lifted her dirt-stained skirt and went before him as they walked back towards the apartment.

"Ah! It is still the same," griped Eomer as they strode across the wide terrace. "Adir has demands, Aragorn and the Council can't agree whether to accept them - what manner of flowers are here on these trellises, sister? Roses?"

They were at the door, Eomer curiously examining the blossoms that bedecked the portal.

She was already inside, and looked behind with a smile. "Yes; they were the favorite of Faramir's mother. He says their scent always reminds him of her, and he loves to have them about the doorway, so I've been working with the King's gardener to keep the trellises going. I think Faramir will be pleased to see them when he returns, they're doing much better this year than last."

"Hm," answered Eomer, idly wondering if Lothiriel liked roses.

Inside, Eowyn had stepped into the washing chamber. "Do you think the Council will agree to the Haradrim's wishes?" she asked, although he could no longer see her.

"I wish they would not," was the disgruntled response as Eomer walked through the doorway, leaving the roses behind. "We have given them far too much already. We should treat them as what they are, a conquered people, else I fear they will take the freedom we allow them and form a revolt with it."

He crossed the bedroom and took a seat in the main room, while the sound of splashing water wafted in from around the corner.

"I would not coddle them either, Eomer," said Eowyn's echoing voice from within the bathing room, punctuated by more splashing, "yet they are more likely to be restless if we are harsh with them than otherwise. If they have a good life under Aragorn's rule, they will be less driven to try and break from it."

"That is what Aragorn and Imrahil say," remarked her brother sullenly as he glanced in her general direction. "But until we know for certain what manner of men they are, we must be cautious. I am still far from trusting them, regardless of how noble this Adir seems to be, and I am *not* alone in my views."

Some minutes of silence followed, and Eowyn appeared, now clad in a plain but formal gown and fastening her hair back as she walked to her brother.

"Yes, I know," she said as she finished her task. "That is why you are all still arguing, and you will probably all still be arguing when Faramir returns. Sometimes I believe you men love fighting with words as much as with weapons."

Eomer stood and regarded her with a wry smile. "I suppose you believe you could do better," he said, tilting his head back a little.

"Indeed," she replied with a grin, brushing off the sleeves of her pale green dress. "Although I still might encourage a few lively debates, just to keep the matter interesting." She looked up at him and sighed, shaking her head. "I do hope it can all be resolved soon. Faramir would be so pleased to come home to his land finally at peace."

"A peace ill-forged is no victory, sister," warned Eomer as he gently took her arm and began walking her towards the door. "The Haradrim must prove they are worthy of our good faith, live under Gondor's firm rule without trouble for some years, before allowances can be made. If we are generous with them now, we will regret it, and I will not jeopardize the safety of Rohan for the sake of Aragorn's kind heart."

Her expression turned solemn. "It is a shame for Gondor and Rohan to stand in disagreement, after all we have endured together."

The King of Rohan could only shrug. "We are each thinking only what is best for our people," he offered, "and, I suppose, it is a good lesson for us both in diplomacy. I am sure we will come to some understanding in time. Now, let us talk no more of such things, but go downstairs to dinner, where I intend to negotiate with none but the mutton, and demand its immediate surrender to my appetite."

She smiled and allowed him to escort her through the door. As they strode towards the dining hall, however, Eomer could not help but notice his sister glancing towards the east whenever they passed one of the hallway's many windows. He followed her gaze when the chance arose; twilight had fallen, but the eastern sky was even darker beneath rumbling clouds. Rain, perhaps even a storm, brewed over Mordor, and Eomer felt his heart tighten as he thought how it almost looked as if Sauron dwelt there still, covering the land again with his foul shadow.

It was not hard to guess where Eowyn's thoughts lay, and Eomer silently blessed his brother-in-law and his companions, wherever they were behind those sharp, black mountains.

'I have no cause to bemoan my task,' he thought to himself, remembering his earlier dissatisfaction with a small amount of shame. 'The hard road of diplomacy is nothing to what Faramir and the others are bearing for our people. Safe passage, brother! May the Valar guide us both in the duties we have set ourselves!'

Then he turned a smiling face to Eowyn, and they went down to dinner.

-------------------------

Henvain looked out at the pouring rain and sighed, trying hard to keep up his enthusiasm for the situation he had volunteered himself into. But so far, his quest for excitement, recognition and maybe a little glory was turning into something a bit more different than what he'd bargained for.

He stared from his place in the dark cave out into the not-much-brighter morning, their fourth in Mordor, as he tried to recall all the glowing talk he'd spouted to Faelor five days ago. It would be an easy journey, he had said. A jaunt there and back, perhaps a few scraps with Orcs but nothing they couldn't handle, and then a triumphant return home none the worse for wear, with something at last to boast about.

Yes, he thought glumly as he took another bite of his lembas bread, the only food that they had packed since they were trying to travel light and swift. Yes, those had been his words, and he clearly remembered how bright his expectations had been when they set out into the former domain of the Dark Lord.

Now, after three full days of constant travel, punctuated by short bouts of rest and constant vigilance against Orcs, Henvain's thirst for glory had ebbed a bit, and he found himself fighting off the nagging thought now nibbling at the edge of his mind, the thought that perhaps this had been a mistake.

No, he told himself firmly as he swallowed his food. No, he didn't want to think it had been a mistake. He could do this, Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas needed him, and he wasn't about to lose heart when the opportunity to finally have something over his older brother still beckoned before him. Certainly, the way had been far rougher so far than he had planned for, and he felt close to exhaustion and they hadn't even reached the hidden fortress yet. But he wasn't about to give up; he had only to endure a few more days of this, and then he would be home, nice and dry and the hero of the family for once.

He peered into the rain, hoping it would end soon. Somewhere out there was Lord Legolas, keeping an eye on the Orcs they had been tracking, who had also stopped for the night. Thunder rumbled overhead, and as he looked out, he wondered at how all of Mordor had the same look to it, hard and cold and desolate. It had been fascinating for him, at first, to travel into the legendary land he had heard so much about all of his life. When they had caught a glimpse of Minas Morgul during the first day, he had been in awe, even though it was only in the far distance and looked like little more than a large, crumbled, empty fortress.

But the interest had worn off quickly, somewhere around the five hundredth razor-sharp rock he had had to clamber over to keep up with Lord Faramir and the Elf.

Then it had started to rain.

He rubbed one of his sore legs and glanced over at Lord Faramir, who was sitting close to the small entrance of the cave, likewise eating a piece of lembas bread and drawing out a map on a piece of parchment spread before him atop a small rock, marking their route as they traveled through Mordor. The Steward's figure was indistinct as he sat in the dim glow of the early morning light, yet he could see Faramir clearly enough to marvel at how his commander looked hardly tired at all.

Henvain still could not help but feel slightly awed at the idea that he was traveling so closely with the second most powerful man in the kingdom. As he studied his commander, he thought how he'd come to see him differently these past few days. At first, his attitude had been a mixture of reverence and opportunism, the idea that Lord Faramir as a very powerful man whose good opinion he had to gain so that he could benefit by it later on.

As they had traveled together, however, Henvain had observed many things about the Steward. One was that he could move as swiftly and silently as an Elf; Henvain felt like a galumphing oliphaunt next to him. It had been marvelous to see Lord Faramir sliding around rocks and over stones without making a sound.

Something else he'd learned was that Lord Faramir treated him completely unlike any of his other army commanders. He'd actually regarded Henvain with kindness, not the usual cold military attitude he was used to from his other commanders. Oh, his other commanders weren't cruel, just...indifferent. To them Henvain was just another soldier, a very ordinary one at that, one they only spoke to when it was time to order him about.

Lord Faramir, on the other hand, hadn't spoken one harsh word to him this entire journey, even on the times he'd lagged behind. They weren't best friends, certainly, but at the times when Lord Faramir had asked him how he was doing during their stops, Henvain was surprised at how sincere the question sounded. It was all very bewildering, and not at all what he was used to.

Henvain was just thinking how it was no wonder that so many men were willing to ride to Osgiliath and their deaths with Lord Faramir when the Steward's head suddenly lifted, and their eyes met.

Startled at being caught so, Henvain blinked beneath the young Steward's scrutiny and braced himself for a curt word.

The Steward, however, simply gave him a slight smile and said, "I hope you are enjoying your rest, Lieutenant; we shall likely not stop again until we reach the fortress," before going back to his map.

It was said in a mild tone, not angry or annoyed at all, and Henvain found himself nodding even though Faramir wasn't looking at him anymore. "Yes, sir," he said, instinctively sitting up a little straighter. After a pause, he decided to add, "I believe I'm fit to go the whole way, sir, once the word is given." Might as well do his best to impress his superior officer.

Faramir lay down his pen and stretched his arms out, glancing out at the gloomy morning. "That is well," he said, "for we shall certainly be moving soon." He let his arms fall to his sides and sighed as he looked down at the parchment, then back up at Henvain. "Lieutenant, I would very much appreciate your opinion on this map. The King will want it as accurate as possible so we may find the fortress again."

For a moment Henvain could only stare, as thrown as he had ever been in his life. "Um...*my* opinion, sir?"

Faramir's gaze remained genial; he even seemed to be smiling a little. "Yes," he replied, as if such an idea was not absurd. "I shall ask Legolas' viewpoint as well, when the time is right. I have done my best with this, but one man cannot recall everything, and you may remember some turn or path that has escaped my memory."

Still Henvain hesitated, paralyzed with amazement. No commander had ever thought it worth the time to ask Henvain's thoughts on any matter, let alone one so important. He scarcely knew what to say.

The smile on Faramir's face grew a bit wider, and he waved Henvain over with one hand. "Come, Lieutenant! I seek merely to test your recollection, not to drill you over some complicated battle history," he said in a friendly manner. "And it is, I fear, an order. Attend to me, if you please."

The last words were spoken with a touch more firmness, and Henvain swallowed his nervousness and rose, walking over to stand behind his commander. The map lay before them, spread out on the rock. The gloom of the rainy morning had lifted a little, and the drawing was plainly visible in the gray-bluish light, so that Henvain could easily discern every line.

It was beautifully drawn, and for an instant the soldier marveled at the sheer artistry of it; he had no idea the Lord Faramir was such a skilled draftsman. It showed their route from Ithilien into Mordor, every turn they had taken to their present position, where the lines turned sketchy and uncertain. The way before them was blank.

"Do not hesitate to say if you see some error," Faramir advised him; the tone was still friendly, but formal. "The future of our country may depend on the accuracy of this map."

Silently, Henvain studied the rendition before him, walking the route again in his mind as his eyes traveled over the course Faramir had laid out. Henvain was a little surprised to find that he remembered much of the journey, almost every jagged rock and twisting step.

After staying quiet for several minutes, Henvain pointed (respectfully) to a certain area of the drawing. "It looks just right, sir," he said, "but I believe we took this way, rather than that, to reach the other side of that valley. That other way was blocked by fallen rocks, if you'll recall, sir."

"Ah, so it was," muttered Faramir with a shake of his head, as he bent over the document and made the correction. "My thanks to you, Lieutenant, that was exactly what I looking for from you. Well done."

It was the first real praise Henvain had ever heard from a commander. "Oh-thank you, sir," he stammered, hastily attempting a formal military pose, as was proper when receiving a compliment from a superior officer.

Faramir was still revising the map. "Tell me, Henvain-you have a brother in the service, do you not?"

At once, Henvain sighed and slumped a little despite himself. He should have known Lord Faramir would ask him about Turwaith the Hero-didn't all the commanders, at some point? "Yes, sir, Captain Turwaith. He rode under Lord Aragorn at the Black Gate." Might as well tell it all.

"Hm." The pen had clogged; Faramir was trying to clear the nib. "Yes, thank you, I recall the name now; the King has mentioned how well he fought that day."

"Yes, sir, so I have heard," replied Henvain in a rote fashion, just as he had learned to do whenever the conversation turned to his elder brother.

As Henvain finished speaking, Faramir suddenly looked up at him, and for an instant the young soldier feared he had given the Steward some offense. Before he could mutter an apology, however, Faramir spoke.

"Forgive me, Lieutenant," said the Steward, startling Henvain at the amount of sympathy in his voice, "you were not able to join your brother?"

Henvain sighed again. "No, sir," he said, regret and disappointment creeping into his voice despite his efforts. "I, er, was ill. The army rode without me."

No words were spoken as Faramir peered at Henvain, no trace of disdain on his face. Then he put down the pen and stood, facing Henvain with an empathetic expression.

"Feel no shame for that, my friend; many men longed to join that great army, but could not," he said. He paused, then added quietly, "I myself was unable to fight, and could only watch the King lead the men of Gondor and Rohan away, from the walls of the Houses of Healing."

Henvain's eyes widened; he'd never known that Faramir had stayed behind. His illness had rendered his memory of the time somewhat foggy, and he had always simply assumed Faramir had gone with the King.

Unable to think of a coherent response, Henvain was rather glad when Faramir continued speaking.

"It was painful, to stay behind at such a time," he said with a sigh, his gaze becoming distant at the memory. Then he looked at Henvain and gave him an encouraging smile. "But perhaps you were saved from that battle for a greater purpose yet unknown. It was only by remaining in the City that I came to know the Lady Eowyn, a blessing I may never have survived to know had I gone to the battle."

Henvain considered this, although in his heart he felt certain that nothing could ever surmount the last battle with the Dark Lord in glory or importance. "Yes, sir," he said aloud, "I'll, um, try to remember that. Thank you."

Faramir nodded once, and at that moment Legolas' form appeared in the small mouth of the cave, dripping wet but somehow still appearing immaculate.

"The Orcs are moving," the Elf said quickly, a gentle urgency in his voice and manner. "And there is the glow of fire against the clouds in the dark skies to the south."

At this news, Faramir's expression became hopeful. "Some large bastion, perhaps even Karil's lair itself."

Legolas gave one firm nod, smiling in anticipation.

"Very well," said the Steward as he hurriedly packed up the map and his writing gear in a large oilskin pouch. "Lead on, my friend, we shall be close behind you."

Legolas vanished into the misty morning as Faramir drew his hood over his head and looked at Henvain.

"Follow me, Lieutenant; important work awaits us. This may be the day for which you were spared." With that, Faramir carefully stepped out into the rain-sodden morning.

Henvain adjusted his long gray cloak, his face contemplative as he pulled up the cowl. His heart did feel a little lighter than before. Even if he doubted that anything he did here could make up for missing the great Battle of the Black Gate, he at least now felt sure that he could manage some feat to win some bragging time of his own when he returned. He'd certainly gone farther into Mordor than any of the other soldiers, so that was something right there. The Steward seemed to like him, too, and it was good to have a highly-placed man for a friend. Soon they'd find that Harad prince's hiding place, and then it would be a short trip home to fame, free drinks at the tavern, and, well, who knew what else?

Lifted by these hopeful thoughts, Henvain drew his cloak around him and ran out after Lord Faramir, eager to resume the journey and the happy future that lay ahead.

The rain ran in small silver rivers down the gently sloping streets of Minas Tirith, trickling over the ancient bricks in tiny leaps as it flowed. Few were about on this gloomy morning, preferring to stay in their homes or to gather in the warm, brightly lit shops, there to chat the time away while waiting for the sun.

Thus it was that no one on the third level noticed the tall man walking slowly down the Street of Trades, his long black cloak soaked through with the rain, his boots-once fine, now much worn with use-scarcely making a noise as they padded through the puddles in the road. Only those who noticed that this walker was trailed by a Gondorian guard might guess his identity. On this damp day, however, the streets were deserted, and the traveler went unheeded. Behind the doors and windows of the shops came the ring of hammers and clang of tools, but none ventured to poke their heads out into the rain to witness the cloaked man's passing.

Aragorn was pleased to have the anonymity as he walked among his people. After spending most of his life by himself, it had taken some time for him to become comfortable in his role as King, responsible for the lives of many. Moving as he did now, unseen and ignored, made him feel almost as he did in those carefree days.

Such a feeling was quite welcome this morning, and he sighed to himself as he strode down the wet street. Today there would be no meeting with the Haradrim. It was a day of rest, for the men of both sides to relax their minds and refresh themselves, and try not to think about the fact that matters were not going as smoothly as they had hoped.

Aragorn tightly squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, as if to block out the memory of the bickering that had marred the past few days. The talks were still genial, but the tone was growing sharper, the diplomatic politeness crumbling a little around the edges. All were having their say, with the words flying thick and fast, and neither side wishing to move an inch.

And the King knew that there were those on both sides now who were beginning to whisper that this had all been a mistake.

The sky darkened just a little as a storm cloud lumbered overhead, and Aragorn mused that it was times like these that he wished he was back in the wild, with no more pressing decision at hand than what to hunt for supper.

A distant roll of thunder broke the silence of the rainy street as the King's stepped slowed. He was nearing one corner of the thoroughfare, where stood a large shop with shuttered windows. The glow of fire and sound of falling hammers within indicated that the establishment was inhabited, and busy. Over its large wooden door hung a sign wrought of iron, depicting the outline of a hammer and chisel.

Aragorn glanced at the sign, smiled, and went inside, closely followed by his bodyguard.

The interior of the hall was large and bright, lit with several small roaring fireplaces and free-standing torchieres. Men stood scattered about the room, lit by the fire's glow as they plied their trade. It was a stone-working shop, and as Minas Tirith was just beginning to make its repairs after the devastating attack the year before, the entire floor was full of men carving stones large and small. The air rang with the music of their tools.

Aragorn pulled down his sodden hood, his long black hair dripping with water, and many of the masons recognized him and bowed. He acknowledged the salute as he walked to the back of the shop, nodding to the men as he went by. His mind, however, was on the one he had come to see, and he knew exactly where to find him.

In the very back of the shop was the area where large carvings were done; a massive door on the farthest wall there opened onto a courtyard behind where stones could be loaded onto sleds and transported to their destination. Here men were fashioning large cap-stones and ornate cornices to replace those destroyed in the War, and it was here that Aragorn found Gimli.

The Dwarf was seated in a corner, his overcoat tossed aside, his sleeves rolled up as he methodically chipped away at a large rectangular block of white stone that sat before him. His hands and clothes were covered with fine white powder and larger chips of rock, and his thick red beard was particularly snowy-looking. At hearing Aragorn's approach, Gimli glanced over at him and smiled, not looking terribly surprised.

"Ah, welcome, lad," he said in greeting, waving one dusty hand towards a rough wooden table that stood nearby. "There's fruit and beer if you've a mind for food and drink."

The King removed his wet cloak, draped it over the corner of the table and wearily sat himself on one of the table's hewn chairs. "Perhaps later, my friend; at the moment I hunger for quiet more than food."

"Quiet!" repeated the dwarf with amusement as he turned back to his work. "You'll not find that in this place, I'm afraid. The hammers here sing every hour of the day. Hm!" He shook his head. "Ah, I'd forgotten how much I'd missed it."

Aragorn sighed again and leaned back, watching Gimli work. "I far prefer the sound of stone-carving to the clamor of shouting voices, no matter how loud or long it is," he remarked. "At least it is producing something worthwhile with all of its noise. I fear we are not."

Gimli glanced over at him, a knowing, sympathetic gleam in his blue eyes. "Is it the brayin' asses from your Council that's burdened your spirit, lad?"

"It is not their braying that worries me so much," replied the King in a tired voice, leaning his head back on the well-worn wooden headrest of the chair. "It is *what* they are braying, and the fact that the Haradrim seemed determined to bray right back. For three days we have been mired in the same position, and it seems that yesterday was spent simply repeating what had been said the two days before. It is most...frustrating."

"Ah!" chuckled Gimli, holding up his mallet and chisel. "Trust me, lad, that's the time when it does a world of good to take a hammer to hand and start pounding away. If I did not have this place to come to every day, there would probably be two or three of our fellow diplomats walking around here with a scar from a Dwarven axe to call their own."

He laughed and went back to hammering, and Aragorn fell silent, content to simply rest and watch him.

It was really quite amazing to see the small, sturdy Dwarf engaged in his handicraft. The work was so fine and detailed, it seemed impossible that hands as large and strong as his could have crafted it. The block was some four feet long by two feet high, and Gimli was carving out a relief design in its center. In the middle was a running horse upon a grassy plain, powerfully rendered, its muscles straining, its exquisitely rendered mane flying in the wind. Surrounding the horse were several other images, a little smaller but no less finely carved; Aragorn recognized the forms of open books, scrolls, writing tools, and several musical instruments.

"That is a wonderful piece, Master Dwarf," said Aragorn softly, after he had watched Gimli for a while.

Gimli bent forward and blew some dust from the figure he was working on. "Thank you, lad. It is to be the lintel-stone for the main entrance to Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn's house in Ithilien." He paused and turned to look at his friend. "If they will not consent to the sensible thing, and come dwell in the Glittering Caves, they shall at least have a taste of Dwarven craftsmanship about their home."

A soft smile graced Aragorn's weary features. "It will be dearly appreciated, I am sure," he said wistfully, regarding the beautiful carving. He paused, then looked out to the direction of Mordor. "I wonder how our friends are faring in the dark lands this day?"

"Hm," grunted Gimli as he resumed his work, "you need not be concerned about the Elf. I am certain his people know how to walk *between* the raindrops, and thus stay dry as a bone."

The King grinned gently at him. "You have not worried about Legolas at all?"

The Dwarf gave him an annoyed look. "Worried? Bah - that lad is charmed, I believe. No need for us to fret over any harm touching so much as a hair on that perfect golden head!"

So saying, he roughly cleared his throat and began chiseling again, a little harder than before, scowling fiercely as if to hide some other, stronger emotion.

Aragorn simply smiled in understanding. "My thoughts have been ever with them these past days as well," he confessed quietly.

Gimli's hand faltered slightly, and he cast a look back at Aragorn, embarrassment mixed with relief.

"It has been my unceasing request to the Valar to bring them all safely back to those they love," the King continued, his voice still hushed. "and I feel certain they will grant it. Let that thought ease your heart; there are more hands at work here than ours alone."

The Dwarf contemplated this for a moment, then nodded. "Aye, lad, I will," he said, looking down as he fiddled with the hammer and chisel in his hands. After a few moments he looked back up, his voice taking on a mischievous tone. "And if the Valar could also give Lord Tuornen a good case of lost voice for a day or two, that would be much appreciated by all as well, I'll be bound."

"Ah!" gasped Aragorn, sitting back and sighing as he wearily placed his head upon the back of the chair and stared up at the soot-covered ceiling. "It is a wonder we have not all lost our speech, with all the debating the past few days. Between the Council members swearing that we are too lenient with the terms of peace, and the Haradrim claiming we are too strict, I am starting to fear it will be the next age before we arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. Facing ten thousand Uruk-hai was not half so much a challenge."

Gimli chuckled and went back to his work. "That did seem a far more simple task," he observed as he positioned the chisel upon the stone.

The King's face grew soft with contemplation. "Yes," he murmured quietly, still gazing upwards. "Many times since assuming the throne, I have found myself thinking of the simplicity of the past, as during our Fellowship, when our paths were plain before us. Then my only care was to survive to the next day, and as dark and uncertain as those days were, there are times I long for them." He sighed.

The Dwarf paused in his labor and looked into the distance as he contemplated this, nodding after a short time of silence. "That was a far less complicated time, to be sure," he said, nodding in agreement before turning to look at his friend. "And would you return there if you could, lad?"

Silence fell as Aragorn contemplated the question, then sat up and folded his hands, facing his friend with a resolute expression on his handsome face.

"No," he said, in a soft but firm voice. "In other days I had no desire for the crown, and walked alone rather than face its weight. Now I fear that weight no longer, for by accepting my duty, I may have the power to accomplish that which I have most longed to see - the true end of Sauron's darkness and the coming of peace to all Men of Middle-earth."

Gimli looked thoughtful for a moment, then put down his tools. "Be assured that that is the wish of the Dwarves as well," he said as he picked up a nearby rag and began wiping his hands with it. "We are willing to welcome the Haradrim as friends, provided they behave themselves. So far they have, but if they prove themselves false..." He raised one finger and shook it a few times, a harder edge coming to his expression. "Let us just say my axe has not forgotten its purpose, even if it has split more wood than heads of late."

"That is much appreciated, Master Dwarf, I assure you," answered Aragorn, sitting back once more. "But thus far I have seen no trickery in our dealings with the men of Harad, and if Chief Adir is as wise as he appears to be, none will be revealed. I will hold hope in my heart to the most bitter of ends in this matter, in spite of what those in the Court may say."

"And ye know we'll be there with you, lad," said Gimli with conviction as he wiped the last of the dust from his hands. "I've still got some strength left in me, after all, and we both know the Elf will be fresh as a spring rose when he's into his fifth age. Between the three of us, not to mention Lord Faramir and Prince Imrahil, we ought t'be able to deal with the more stubborn of the lot."

A sincere smile of gratitude came over Aragorn's weathered face. "My thanks to you for that, Gimli; it is my hope we will have this solved well before the next few days are spent. Will you join me in a midday meal before I return to my chambers and continue my work for tomorrow's meeting? Perhaps between the two of us, we can discern a way to counter their more stubborn contentions."

His friend did not hesitate as he set aside the rag and slid from his stool. "I will! And if words are not successful, there is still the blunt end of my axe."

Gimli laughed a little, apparently delighted at the idea of giving Tuornen's head a good thump, and hurriedly walked away to fetch his cloak.

Aragorn stood, wrapping his own cloak once more around himself as he prepared to go back out into the storm. He heard the thunder rumble again through the thick walls, and prepared himself as he clasped the fastener about his neck. In his heart, he resolved to weather the coming days much as he would weather this rainfall. Beyond the darkness lay a brighter, warmer day, one of promise for all men who would seek it. He had only to stand to his duty and work to calm the tempest now swirling about him, and with the aid of his friends and the grace of the Valar, both Gondor and Harad would have the chance to claim the sunlit future as their own.

Gimli reappeared, completely cleaned now and dressed in his walking cloak.

"Now, these men of Gondor do not know how to brew beer as fine as that of the Dwarves," he said as he approached, "but there is a tavern down the street where it is fairly passable. There we may drink to the safety of our friends, and enjoy a good meal in the bargain."

Aragorn smiled and lifted one arm towards the door. "Today the King of Gondor follows you, Master Dwarf. Pray lead the way!"

Gimli chuckled and went past him to the door, which was pulled open. Outside the day had become even darker and more wet, but they heeded it not, each used to enduring such conditions. Within moments Aragorn and Gimli had stepped through the door, followed by the royal bodyguard. Those watching saw their forms soon vanish into an indistinct haze as they moved down the empty streets towards the lights of the tavern, and some may have felt uncomfortable at the disquieting swiftness with which King, Dwarf, and soldier were swallowed up by the cold rain and increasing gloom.

Henvain had never moved so fast, for so long, in all of his life.

This thought kept repeating in the young soldier's mind as he huffed along, trying to keep up with Lord Faramir whose gray-cloaked form was darting among the rocks along the puddle-strewn path ahead of him. The rain that had fallen all day had slowed to a slight misting now, but the clouds had remained, not to mention the water that slickened every surface. Going was difficult, but they had not slackened their pace all afternoon, for according to Legolas, their goal was now very near.

Thus Henvain found himself dashing as quietly as possible across the boulder-choked Mordor slopes. They had left the road; now that the lair of the rogue Harad prince was in view, Faramir had determined to go far around their sentries, observe the size of Karil's army, map the location, and then make their way speedily home.

The ground was becoming steeper as they went along, covered with larger and larger rocks. They were moving in stealth, running close to the ground, Legolas out front to watch for the Orcs guarding the hideout's perimeters. It seemed to Henvain that they were skirting the edge of a valley or canyon, when he could take his eyes from the highly unstable terrain long enough to gauge their location. It was all he could do to keep from tripping.

When he could risk it, Henvain stole a glance now and then at the red-orange glow that shimmered in the sky above them. Before it was just a ribbon of light on the horizon; now that they had come close to where the army was, it seemed to fill half the sky, its brightness greater now that the day was waning and, somewhere behind the clouds, the sun had begun to slip below the horizon.

Henvain swallowed a bit as he cast a sideways look at the glow, hating the uncomfortable twinge it gave him in his stomach. It looked altogether too much like the glow from Sauron's mountain, the awful sign of evil he'd seen all of his life over the eastern mountains. It was stupid, he told himself, to feel such dread now; Sauron was dead, and soon they'd deal with this Karil as well. Mordor, as he'd seen, as now just a dead land full of wet, ugly rocks. There was nothing to fear.

He still hated it.

"Henvain!"

He looked up, startled out of his thoughts; Legolas and Faramir had found a lookout point among the rocks along the crest of the ridge, and Lord Faramir was motioning him over.

"Now we'll get this over with," Henvain told himself, and with renewed vigor made his way to the where the two Princes were. He was quite tired of this grand journey; he had seen Mordor and had his adventure, and now he only wanted to go home.

Still staying as close to the ground as he could, Henvain lay almost on his stomach and crawled as swiftly as he could to his commanders. Faramir was nearest to the lip, laying behind a few sheltering rocks and almost completely covered by his long gray cloak, with Legolas crouched down on his right. As Henvain drew near, Faramir looked over at him, gave a nod, then held out a hand, mutely warning him to stop where he was.

Henvain obeyed, his heart pounding, although he was not sure why he felt so nervous.

Faramir eyed him for a moment, whispered, "Wait," and very slowly and cautiously raised himself high enough to see over the crest of the ridge into whatever lay below.

Henvain stared at him, terrified and consumed with curiosity at once. What was the Prince seeing? Surely they would let him take a look, after coming all this way. He had to at least be able to boast to Turwaith that he'd seen the army of Karil before any other Gondorian soldier.

For a moment, all Henvain saw was Faramir looking over the crest of the ridge. The Captain seemed immobile, his long hair blowing about the edges of his hood the only movement. Then, after several moments had passed, Henvain watched as Faramir very slowly lowered his head, as if struck by some horrible sadness.

Henvain frowned, puzzled, but still obeying the order not to move despite the dreadful suspense.

Lord Faramir lay motionless for a few more moments, head still bowed, and even in the dwindling light Henvain could see that the Steward seemed overcome. Then this feeling seemed to pass, for in the next instant Henvain saw his commander lift his head. The sorrow had fled from Faramir's expression now, his face set in lines of firm resolution, a determined gleam in his blue eyes. The grief was gone, or at least buried, and now Henvain saw only Captain Faramir of the White Tower, whose mind was now turned to but one goal: the end of this latest threat to Gondor.

Faramir turned and said something to Legolas, who lifted himself up to peer below them. Then the Steward faced Henvain, and motioned to him to join them atop the summit.

The young soldier was struck by the solemn expression on Faramir's face, and at how the captain's eyes that had looked on him so kindly before still had a deeply sad light in them, as if he could not completely hide his feelings despite the warrior's mask he wore. For a second Henvain hugged the cold, wet rocks, overwhelmed by a sudden unwillingness to look.

Quickly he shook this feeling off, frowning at himself. Why be afraid? As he peeled himself from the side of the hill and edged forward, he tried to still the hammering of his heart. It was only a glimpse at an army they'd soon be destroying, something to brag about to the boys back home.

Swallowing quickly, he inched to the top of the hill, and looked over.

Once, when Henvain and Turwaith were both children, Turwaith had punched Henvain with full force in the stomach. Henvain had long ago forgotten why his older brother had done this, but the memory of how it felt to have the wind so violently and unexpectedly knocked out of him had never faded. There had been the all-consuming pain, the panic of being unable to breathe, the horrible cold sweat, and the wild wondering if he was ever going to taste air again.

When Henvain saw what lay in the valley below them, that sensation flooded over him once more, and he could do nothing but grab onto the cold rocky ledge and stare.

Before them spread a wide, rocky valley, split in half by a narrow, twisting river. The entire area was peppered with thousands of torches, dotting the landscape like earthbound stars, and several larger fires whose flames leapt into the darkening sky. Swarming around those torches were Orcs, thousands of them, more than Henvain had ever seen in one place in his life. The creatures' dark, squat bodies undulated over the ground like gigantic ants; he could hear their guttural voices even from their great distance.

Among the Orcs moved larger figures, gigantic trolls and monstrous beasts of burden, their howls mingling with the cacophony of the Orc's shrill cries. The crack of whips and clank of machinery completed this hellish symphony, and Henvain saw that these creatures were building something in their midst, tall towers several stories high.

'Siege towers,' he thought suddenly as he stared. He'd been too ill from dysentery to witness the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, but he'd heard many stories of the awful towers that had destroyed so many of Minas Tirith's ancient walls, and clearly remembered hearing their horrific thunder of their deadly missiles, and the screams of those who perished beneath them, as he lay helpless in the Houses of Healing.

The thought that an enemy was aiming to set them once again against Gondor made him ill.

Once Henvain could tear his eyes from the black forms upon the plains, he beheld what lay beyond. Along the edge of the valley, set against the slope of the mountains, was a small fortress, obviously ancient, faintly lit by the glow from the many torches and fires, its wide walls flickering ghost-like in and out of sight against the dark hillside. There was one tall, large building and two long, smaller ones, and a very high tower that overlooked the entire plain. Lights burned in the windows there, blinking star-like to mirror the torches upon the ground, and Henvain shuddered to think what its inhabitants might be planning there behind those mighty walls.

Dread rolled over him as he looked again over the huge host working on the siege towers. This would be no quick fight; he knew that Gondor was still rebuilding her forces after the devastation of the War. When he felt certain Karil could not have more than a few hundred disgruntled Orcs at hand, he had not worried. But now...

Suddenly someone shook his shoulder. He blinked and looked over; it was Legolas, his fair face grim beneath the shadows of his deep hood. The Elf motioned; they were moving back down the hill. Henvain saw to his surprise that Lord Faramir was already halfway down the slope, bent over his map and hurriedly making some marks on it. Legolas got to his feet and silently skimmed over the rocks to join Lord Faramir; Henvain followed, bewildered. He had not even noticed Faramir moving.

Henvain's heart was still pounding when he reached his commander's side, his breath only starting to come back. His mind swirled as what he had seen began to fully take hold; it was much worse than anyone, even those men on the Council, had thought. And Gondor was only just healing...

Then he saw Lord Faramir look up, and there was such an expression of strength and resolve upon the young Steward's face that Henvain felt a bit taken aback. The Prince was looking in the direction of the fortress, and although the light was failing fast now, Henvain could plainly see the fortitude engraved there. Those who sought to harm Gondor, it was clear, would have to pass Lord Faramir first.

As Faramir quickly put away the map, Henvain thought about it and felt himself begin to relax a bit, a little abashed at being so uncertain before. Of course; Lord Faramir knew what to do. They would return home now, and the Steward, the King, and all the others in charge would take care of this. Even thousands of Orcs could not prevail against such fire that now burned in the Prince's eyes. Perhaps Henvain could even be a part of it this time and get the battle scar he'd always wanted. Everything was going to be all right.

Then Faramir was on his feet, his aspect somber as he faced them.

"Now, my friends," he said quietly, "we must get home as quickly as possible and tell the King what we have found."

And turning he began to hurry down the hill, as swiftly and quietly as he had ascended it. Legolas went after him, his sharp eyes scanning the rocks around them. Henvain followed, relieved to be on the road home at last, and trying to ignore the disquieting images still reeling through his mind as he told himself repeatedly that everything was going to be all right.

Somehow, he did not believe it.

As night fell across Mordor, the three travelers moved with great speed back towards Minas Tirith. With the aid of Legolas' far-seeing vision, they went on through the night, pausing only briefly to rest and eat, the same object on all of their minds: home.

Thus it was that by the next dawn, they had covered as much ground as on one full day of their initial journey, when they had been slowed by the necessity of having to follow the slower Orcs. The White City lay but two day's march ahead, and even less if they were able to maintain their present pace. With hope of gaining shelter and seeing their loved ones soon, they paused beneath the breaking sunrise to take their food, with Legolas maintaining his vigilance for the slightest sign of danger.

Faramir frowned as he ate his portion of lembas bread and glanced up at the sky overhead. The clouds moving overhead glowed scarlet in the growing light; a red morning, foretelling doom, and its presence did little to ease the dread that lay over his soul. He gazed at the sky for a few moments longer, then lowered his eyes to stare at the bread in his hand, and sighed.

All during their night's journey, Faramir's mind had seized on nothing but the memory of the sight of Karil's army, and the mere thought of it lay a terrible dread upon his heart. He had feared the worst, prepared to meet it as the Captain that he was, but still the reality had shaken him. Still, so much evil remained in Middle-earth; still, Sauron's darkness lived with the aim to spread once more throughout the lands of the free peoples.

Still, men of Gondor, and Rohan, and Elves, and Dwarves, would have to meet that darkness upon the field of battle.

And still, grief born of war would rise, to strike at new hearts and tear loved ones apart forever.

Faramir shuddered, his appetite gone as he stared sightlessly at the bread in his hand. He had so dearly hoped that there would never again be a need for soldiers to ride to war across the Pelennor Fields, that the peoples of the West could rebuild their lives without fear of having them torn asunder by the sword and arrow. He had wished for little else but that no other would ever have to bear the sorrow of violent loss that had so painfully rent his own soul.

His face was solemn as he thought upon the moment he had first beheld Karil's terrible army as it seethed across the black plains of Mordor, preparing its engines for war. At that instant, his hopes and wishes had shattered; and as the searing warmth of dreadful realization flooded through him, he saw not the vast army of the Harad prince, but the inevitable, deadly consequences of its eventual use. Anguish would be visited afresh upon the West, and she had only just begun to heal from her previous wounds.

The answer seemed simple, he mused as he looked back up at the crimson sky, now mingled with bands of gold. Karil's army had to be subdued, or destroyed. But even there the grief would not be turned aside, for it was highly doubtful the Harad prince would raise such a force and then agree to its abandonment without a struggle. He would fight, warriors would fall, and perhaps with them Karil himself, thus ending forever any hope that Adir would ever be able to reconcile with the son he still dearly loved.

The young Steward shivered at this idea, and dropped his gaze again. Such an event would likely break the old Harad's heart. Faramir had hope that somewhere within Karil's darkened soul there yet lurked a spark of love for his father; surely, such a thing never died out completely. As Faramir finished his meal, he resolved to do all in his power to make certain that, whatever happened, Karil be taken alive at the end. Adir deserved at least a chance to see his hopes answered.

"Sir?"

Faramir looked up. Lieutenant Henvain was standing nearby, watching him with concern. With practiced speed, Faramir pulled himself from his reverie and gave the young man a slight smile, thinking how pleased he had been with the way Henvain had carried himself during this difficult journey. He would definitely have to speak with the soldier's commander.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" he said aloud.

The other man shifted a little uncomfortably. "Oh-just wanted to make sure you were all right, sir," he replied with a bit of hesitation. "I saw you were looking at the sky quite a bit. Do you think it will rain again?"

There was a pause as Faramir threw one last glance towards the clouds, which were now turning brighter and pinker with the spreading dawn. Then he smiled again and turned his eyes back to Henvain, shaking his head a little. "I am grateful for your concern, Lieutenant, but I was merely watching the clouds," he answered, rising from the rock he had been sitting on and rearranging his cloak. "They say a red sky at dawn is a bad omen."

"Oh," said Henvain, squinting into the sky. "Oh, yes, sir, I'd heard that."

Faramir checked his oil-skin bag, still smiling. "And what is your opinion?"

Henvain seemed to start a bit as he looked back down at Faramir. "Oh-mine, sir?"

The Steward nodded. "If you are not offended by my curiosity," he said kindly. "I suppose I am just wondering how our old traditions are faring in today's ranks."

"Hm." Henvain twisted his lips in thought for a moment. "Well...honestly, sir, I've never held much with omens and such. A red sky doesn't bother me. It's the large black rocks on the ground that bother me, sir, and the sooner we're over those and home, the better. That's my thinkin', sir."

Faramir laughed a little, feeling his heart lifting. "That is a wise statement, and I am precisely in accord with it," he said, "although I shall tell you that I have found times when omens have proven useful to me; someday we should share an ale, and discuss the matter."

Henvain suddenly looked terrified, his pale eyes becoming round. "I meant no disrespect to your beliefs, sir," he said quickly. "I mean-if you believe in omens, of course-"

But Faramir just as quickly shook his head and placed one gloved hand on Henvain's shoulder. "Fear not, Lieutenant, our difference of opinion does not anger me," he said in as reassuring a tone as possible. "I thought only that such a discussion might prove interesting, when all of this is behind us."

The young soldier continued to stare at him as if he did not quite believe him, but he managed to squeak out, "Yes, sir," when he finally found his breath again. "We'll have to do that. I'm, er, certain I can find the time."

"I hope so," said Faramir, quietly amused at the memories of how uncertain he himself had been around his superior officers, when he had first been a soldier. Thinking more on this, he added, "Lieutenant, you ought to know, I did have a few uncertainties about allowing you along on this mission."

Henvain eyed him almost expectantly, as if he knew what Faramir was going to say next and dreaded it. "Yes, sir?"

Faramir smiled. "I must apologize to you, for they were all unfounded," he continued. "You have proven an excellent soldier, as I had hoped, and I wished for you to know this before we went any farther. You have done well, Lieutenant, and you have my gratitude, and that of Gondor."

The young soldier looked a bit startled for a moment, then beamed, and Faramir felt his own heart lighten a bit more. He could have told Henvain about his own wary days as a young soldier, and how he knew that well-earned praise from a commander lightened a warrior's load as nothing else could. But now was not the time for such talk; perhaps later, over the promised ale. They had work to do, and a road to travel.

"Now, my friend," Faramir said, adjusting his cloak, "let us go home."

He resumed walking, keeping his eyes on Legolas who was ahead of them again, having finished his own meal. He heard the crunching of Henvain's boots close behind, and for a moment thought with hope that he had eased the young man's heart, for this day at least. Harder times undoubtedly lay ahead, for Henvain and all soldiers of the West. At the end of their journey home lay battle, perhaps war, and when his young friend marched next against the Orcs and Haradrim of Mordor, he would need every comforting thought his heart could summon. It was the most Faramir could do for him now.

They walked for several hours, until the sun struck its zenith and began its descent towards the horizon. Still their strength did not falter, despite the pressing pace, for all knew the vital urgency of their mission. It was only a short matter of time until Karil's army would be ready to march.

At length they reached an area of Mordor where the land grew more flat, leveling out into vast fields of large, jumbled rocks and deep crevices where the exertions of the earth had long ago torn the ground asunder. Crossing these open plains was dangerous, but along this path lay the fastest route to Gondor, and so they set out across, each one ever vigilant.

Time and nature had arranged many of the rocks into something of a road, raised several feet above the boulder-strewn, uneven land that stretched into the distance on either side. The landscape was barren and black, with steam rising from a few of the cracks that split the hard gray earth.

They had not gone halfway across the plain when Legolas, who had been walking ahead, suddenly turned, his blue eyes wide as he stared behind them. Faramir and Henvain saw this at once and stopped, both instantly on alert.

For a few moments Legolas stood still, listening, then exclaimed in a loud whisper one word:

"Orcs!"

Henvain and Faramir turned to look behind them; the raised road turned and disappeared behind some much larger hills of stone, still shielding them from the view of the Orcs. With no time to spare and little choice for a hiding place, all three travelers leapt to the rocky fields below.

Some ten feet below the surface of the road, they found themselves faced with the gigantic boulders that formed the pathway's backbone. They were none too deep or inviting, but certainly enough to conceal them until the Orcs passed, and each of them swiftly chose a boulder and hid behind it as best he could.

As Legolas and Henvain positioned themselves, Faramir swiftly threw himself into a deep nook formed by two rocks leaning against each other, their stony tops barely touching. Drawing himself as tightly as he could into the niche, he went quickly into a crouch, his breathing hushed as he listened to the world over his head. Sounds came to him now, the shuffling of booted feet and loud, brutish voices drawing closer with every second. A contingent of Orcs, most definitely, and a large one at that, marching towards Gondor.

Faramir sighed and dropped his head, pursing his lips in thought. They had but to wait until the Orcs went by, and they could continue, although a different route would have to be quickly found.

His hand fell on the oil-skin bag containing his papers and maps. He glanced down at it, thought for a moment, then silently pulled it off and slid it far behind the stone out of sight. Then his hand slid to the hilt of his sword and rested there as he held his breath, waiting.

The voices and footsteps were drawing closer now, and he could hear their unpleasant tones raised in argument. Many voices.

"I don't care how important the Prince says this is," he heard one Orc whine in a shrill tone. "I don't like bein' 'volunteered' for this sort of work."

Half of the Orc-voice were lifted in agreement, the other half shouted them down.

"That's enough out of you!" roared another Orc, in a much deeper, more powerful voice. Faramir frowned at this, wondering if it might be one of the Uruk-hai warriors he had heard of. "I'm not listening to any more your noise. Obey the Prince and be silent!"

The Orcs were almost on top of them.

"I'd be silent if they'd got someone else to march all the way to Gondor and rebuild the bridges across the river," groused the first Orc. "I was almost done with my siege tower. Now someone else will finish it and take the credit."

He heard another deep snarl; there appeared to be a second Uruk-hai there. "Just as you took over the work from someone else who'd already done most of it!" it growled. "Stop makin' excuses, you just don't fancy moving that fat carcass of yours."

There was an explosion of arguing voices, and what sounded like a great deal of pushing and grunting.

The group of Orcs had stopped not ten feet away from them.

Faramir made no sound as he gripped the hilt of his sword, eyes wide, listening.

There was a loud thud, followed by an 'oomph!' and the sound of someone falling heavily above Faramir's head. The yelling began to subside.

"Said that's ENOUGH!" bellowed the first Uruk's voice over the smaller ones. "Karil put me in charge of this division, and I won't waste one more minute on your stupid Orc belly-aching!"

"If that Prince likes your Uruks so much, let 'im send your ilk to build those bloody bridges!" cried one of the Orcs. The shouting grew louder.

"Us Orcs have done your dirty work long enough," agreed another. There was much scuffling of feet, and the sharp sound of grappling.

"Right!" hollered the first Uruk, rage clear in his voice. "You want to stay here? Suits me fine!"

There was a loud squeak, followed by a piercing scream, and Faramir watched in horror as a fat, leather-clad Orc went plunging over the side of the road, thrown with considerable force to land not ten feet in front of him.

The Orc wasted no time after striking the hard, dusty ground. With an outraged yell, he jumped back up to his, shaking the dirt from his clothes and looking up at the road above him, his large fists balled with anger.

Then his paused, scowled, and looked with considerable puzzlement straight at Faramir.

Faramir felt the breath leave his body; for a moment he had no thought, only the dread realization that they had been discovered. Quickly on that feeling came another, far more familiar sensation: the determination to fight, and gain victory if at all possible. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

As for the Orc, he simply blinked in surprise, straightened, and said loudly, "HEY!" before drawing his own weapon and lunging straight for Faramir.

In one graceful motion, Faramir jumped to his feet and sprang from his hiding place, long hair flying, bringing his sword down in a sweeping motion and knocking the Orc's blade aside. The Orc staggered back, then struck again, roaring in fury. As Faramir drove the creature back into the rocky plains, he was dimly aware of the cries of shock coming from the Orcs above them, and the thuds as more of them jumped down to the ground to join the fight.

Faramir quickly traded a few more blows with his eager adversary before wounding the Orc and finishing him off with a single thrust through the chest. He wasted little time, hurriedly withdrawing his sword before the beast had even fallen. Gritting his teeth, he whirled in time to clash swords with three more Orcs that were charging him from behind, and the cold air was soon filled with the noise of battle.

As he stood his ground, his sword flashing as it sliced repeatedly through the air, Faramir quickly looked to the road to see what they were facing. A large group of Orcs stood there watching, perhaps thirty in number, three much taller than the rest. Another small group of Orcs were hurriedly clambering down the side of the onto the plains, and Faramir saw them fall onto two figures clad in gray. Henvain's shouts and the sound of flying arrows joined the din, and the Steward realized that his companions had joined the fight.

Uttering a sincere prayer in his heart for assistance and protection, Faramir plunged into battle.

From the moment Legolas had seen the large Orc thrown into the air, he had readied his bow. Now as the Orcs came pouring over the side of the road, he began firing before even coming completely clear of the rocks. Within seconds, five of the creatures fell dead, cleaved by Elven arrows.

Swiftly Legolas looked about, judging the foe; many more Orcs were on the road above them, several had targeted Faramir, and Henvain had his hands full as well. Choosing a suitable-looking rock, the Elf climbed its height as smoothly and rapidly as a cat, swinging himself around so that he could easily target any Orcs who ventured onto the plain. There was a clear view of the road as well, with its chaotic mass of Orcs all running about as their commanders hollered orders.

Settling himself, Legolas began to once more ply his bow. His first missile sent one of the Uruks to the ground with an arrow through its skull. It had barely struck the rocks before Legolas' second arrow went flying, striking another of the creatures in the neck.

As he drew another arrow out of his quiver, he heard a roaring noise from below him. Looking down, he saw a swarm of Orcs about the base of his perch, brandishing weapons and howling for his blood. Quickly he brought his bow down and fired off a shot, catching the lead Orc in the forehead.

With a strangled cry it fell back, and as it did so Legolas grasped another arrow, already selecting his next target. It was at that moment that something slammed into his left side, followed instantly by searing pain. He gasped and dropped the arrow to grab the rock, momentarily sent off balance, and glanced down to see the ugly hilt of an Orcish dagger protruding from his flesh.

For an instant the Elf's senses reeled as he fought to regain his breath. With his free hand he pulled out the dagger, dropping it to the rocks below; the wound was not deep, but blood still flowed freely from the wound. A mingled roar surrounded him, and his wit righted itself soon enough to perceive several Orcs scaling the rock towards him. Undaunted, Legolas nocked another arrow, ignoring the horrible pain now shooting up his side, and fired it. It buried itself in the shoulder of the Orc closest to him; the brute choked and fell from the rock, but the rest surged heedlessly on.

Ignoring the blood now soaking his side, Legolas forced his left arm to reach for another arrow. Suddenly a heavy weight fell on him from behind; the rock slipped from his grasp as the shrieks of Orcs filled his ears. Black rock flew up to meet him; there was a very loud THUD! as he felt his head strike the merciless stone, an instant of sharp, agonizing pain lancing through his body, and then darkness.

Henvain was definitely beginning to regret his decision to volunteer for this mission.

Never had he faced so many Orcs with so few comrades by his side to help fight them off. Of course, he thought as he plied his sword against the two Orcs now bent on killing him, he would have come to Lord Faramir's defense no matter what, but now that they had come out into the open and truly seen what they were facing, he thought that there seemed to be hundreds of them.

Most of the Orcs seemed to be focusing their attention on Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas, he noticed, looking about even as his sword rang against his opponent's blades. Lord Faramir, in particular, was surrounded and beset, although he seemed to be holding his own even against such large numbers. He could no longer see Lord Legolas.

"Looks like we got stuck with the runt of the litter," snarled the first of his adversaries with a disparaging grin as he hacked at Henvain.

The young soldier scowled and quickly blocked the creature's move; they were both driving him back onto the plains, away from the road.

The second Orc, a small skinny creature with large teeth, gave an ugly laugh in reply. "Yeah, he's sure a poor one," he rasped, looking Henvain up and down with his tiny yellow eyes. "They bring you along to haul the gear, maggot?"

Henvain had never gained a skill for witty responses to taunts, so he did nothing more than screw up his face and lunge ahead, pushing the two Orcs back towards the road with all of the aggressive energy he possessed. A few moments later, the smaller Orc made a fatal mistake, and Henvain's sword passed with a quick thrust through its body.

There was little time for rejoicing as the first Orc fell dead, for barely had Henvain watched its twitching form slide from his weapon than he saw the second creature, with a howl of rage, rear back and leap on him with the full weight of its hulking body behind it.

With a resounding "OOF!" the two enemies fell to the ground, the Orc grappling and kicking with animalistic fury. Once he had recovered from the surprise, Henvain found himself fully capable of kicking and punching back, bashing the Orc with the hilt of his sword and gouging at him with his free hand. It was not very different from the few times he had fought with his brother, aside from the deadly intent.

For several minutes the man and Orc rolled violently about on the ground, the Orc slicing at Henvain with his dagger and sharp claws, Henvain fighting back with sword, fist and knee. He scarcely felt the sharp rocks biting through his clothes as they thrashed about, or the deep bruises and gouges the Orc was raining upon him, or the rivulets of blood trickling down his face; he thought only to kill the Orc and help Faramir, and then to go home-

-and then he was falling.

Gasping as he felt the ground suddenly disappear beneath him, Henvain understood several things all at once: the Orc had released him, everything was growing rapidly darker, and he was going to die.

Before he fully realized what was happening, Henvain felt himself slam very hard against a sloping surface of solid rock. Pain exploded through his body as he slid away and continued to fall, too dazed to stop himself. Helplessly, he sensed his body turning over, just in time to see another ledge of rock rushing towards him. He struck this with full force, yelling as another sheet of agony engulfed him, and still he tumbled downward. Suddenly the sky was above him, pulling quickly away; he had just enough time to recognize what he was looking at when he smashed onto a third floor of rock.

For a moment, he blacked out, stunned by the shock and pain. Then that passed, and as his thoughts reassembled themselves, he realized that somebody was screaming, very long and loud, and it sounded as if it was echoing forever.

Light seemed to be shining in his face, and he very slowly opened his eyes, uncertain as to what he would see. Pain such as he had never felt before arched through his whole body, and at first that was all he could think of. Every bone felt broken, and he felt blood seeping into his clothes. Then, gradually, he understood that he was lying on his back, looking at the sky; that he was surrounded by two very high walls of stone that reached some thirty feet above him, with several jagged shelves of rock jutting out from each side; and that he could still hear the scream.

He really didn't want to move, because he knew it would be quite painful, but a part of his mind that hadn't been knocked out of reason was urging him to rise, for Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas needed him. He tried one arm; the pain was awful, but he could move it. The other arm was the same, not bad if he took it slow. But he couldn't take it slow, not now.

The legs next, and that proved much worse. There was a piercing agony in his left leg that spoke undeniably of a sprain, at the least, and it would barely move. Henvain gasped, bracing himself; there was no time for this-

He next lifted his head and looked around, trying to figure out where he was. He had apparently fallen into one of the huge crevices that tore through the Mordor landscape, and not two feet away to his right was another crack, one that seemed to drop much farther into the earth. Shuddering, he realized what had happened to the Orc he had been grappling with, and the meaning behind that long, awful scream.

Very, very carefully, and with much groaning, Henvain sat up, staring at the fathomless crevice and thanking his good fortune; a few more feet over and he would have plunged to his death along with the Orc. As he tried to stand, however, he began to question his luck, for every movement was anguish. But he did not have the luxury of pampering his injured body.

He had to get out of there.

His eyes had adjusted to the shadowy light now; the ledge he was on was some three feet wide, and the crevice appeared to be part of a larger series of splits that interlaced along the surface of the plains. There was an opening some three feet wide in the wall nearby, the start of another split that branched off in the direction of the road. Blinking and trying to ignore the anguish that cursed his every motion, Henvain gingerly eased himself to his feet and peered into the narrow passageway. Rocks and dirt were strewn upon its base; perhaps he could find somewhere along the way to climb out, and help his friends.

He took a deep breath and a very hesitant step. Blinding pain instantly shot through his leg, as if a dagger had been driven through his knee, but he had to brush it aside. He had to walk, and climb, and fight, if need be. They needed him.

Bracing his hands against the sides of the passage, he forced himself forward as quickly as he could, although his battered frame protested every step. He could still hear the clamor of battle above him; it wasn't over yet. He had to move.

And so he did, very falteringly at first, then a bit quicker as his body did not fall apart after the first steps. In a few minutes he had made his way into the mouth of the passage.

Suddenly he heard voices and footsteps above him. Gasping, he slid down and pressed himself against the wall of the crevice, his eyes wide as he looked overhead and waited, listening. What if whoever it was could hear his heart pounding?

//Crunch, crunch, crunch//

"This where Kargesh and that human fell?"

'An Orc voice, definitely,' thought Henvain, flattening himself even farther against the stone wall and biting back a cry of pain from the exertion. Blood dripped in his eye; he ignored it.

"Yeah, saw the whole thing," said a second voice, also of the Orc persuasion.
"Looks like that human scum got took care of, all right."

Silence. Henvain held his breath, ignoring the sharp stabbing from what felt like several broken ribs. They hadn't seen him.

"Hm," said the first voice. "Think we ought to go down an' have a look around, just to make sure?"

Henvain stiffened; it felt as if his heart had given up and was trying to climb out of his chest through his throat and make a run for it.

The second voice let out a snort. "You daft? I ain't goin' all the way down there. Bloody dangerous-that split looks a hundred feet deep, at least!"

There was another pause, several years long at least, during which Henvain completely forgot how to breath. Not that he could in any case, with his heart still clawing at his throat.

Then, finally:

"Mm, well, you might be right," mused the first voice. "Not worth fallin' down the length of the earth for that."

"Yeah, don't want to end up like Kargesh. Bet he's still fallin', eh? Hehehe!"

The second Orc laughed as well, and Henvain's blood ran cold at the large amount of amusement the creatures seemed to derive from the death of their comrade. He thought of the scream again, and shivered.

"C'mon-let's go get the last of 'em!" said the first Orc, still chuckling.

//Crunch, crunch, crunch//

And the voices were gone.

Several moments passed, during which Henvain silently gasped for air as his mind whirled. 'Move', he thought to himself, when coherent thought returned to him; 'I've got to move, to go back and help.' He didn't want to contemplate what the Orc meant by 'get the last of them'.

Slowly he turned his head to peer up the passageway he had crawled into. Time had begun to fill its emptiness; a small ways ahead he could see a pile of rocks and dirt, climbing higher as the split wound on towards the road. Henvain swallowed with hope; maybe it would rise high enough for him to climb out and go give Lord Faramir and Legolas whatever help he could. It was his only choice.

Slowly, yet as quickly as he could, the young soldier very carefully got to his feet, favoring his injured leg as much as possible. His entire body seemed to ache, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself onward, moving step by anguished step down the passage to the world above, and whatever fate it held in store for him.

Faramir gave a cry as he lunged forward, thrusting the point of his sword through yet another another Orc. The creature howled and collapsed, its carcass falling among the several corpses littering the round about Faramir's feet, its black blood adding to the sticky mass already caking the Steward's sword. Yet before a moment had passed, another fiend took its place, and Faramir began his fight anew.

Their blades clashed, and Faramir found himself not only contending against the hulking beast now facing him, but several of the other Orcs as well. As he slashed at one Orc with his sword, he struck out at another with his dagger, and a third with the hard sole of his boot. They churned around him in a roaring, swarming mass, driving him over and across the rocks in their effort to subdue him.

Yet still Faramir's blade flashed and sang in the air, still he beat the Orcs back with every ounce of strength he possessed. In his heart, he knew he would likely be killed or taken, knew the odds were long against them, but such knowledge did nothing to quell his fighting spirit. The enemies of Gondor stood between him, his friends, and their homes and loved ones; his one purpose now was to defeat them, and into that goal he poured his entire effort. If the bitter end was reached and still he fell, he would not fall easily.

As he plied his sword against the Orc, he searched to find the fate of his companions. Henvain had disappeared, but he saw Legolas perched atop a high point, sending his deadly arrows into the Orcs. Cheering his comrade in his heart, Faramir returned to his pursuits with added vigor, refusing to quell the small spark of hope within him that they might yet escape the fray alive.

His newest victim fell mortally wounded, and Faramir quickly turned his eyes to see how Legolas fared. His heart tightened with horror; the perch where the Elf had been was vacant, and he could see the Orcs surrounding a motionless form at its base, amid much laughing and cheers.

In one timeless instant Faramir caught sight of his friend's figure lying still on the black ground, blood soaking his shirt, his eyes staring unseeing into the sky, and the Steward felt himself go cold with sorrow. A shout of rage filled his throat, and his blue eyes blazed as he redoubled his attacks upon his foes. There was little time for thought now, only a simple, driving grief, and he used it to viciously assail the Orcs as he sought to avenge his comrade.

They surrounded Faramir now, striking at him with sword and club and mace; those who had gloated over Legolas' downfall had abandoned the still corpse to entertain themselves with fresher game. Ages seemed to pass as he dealt blow after blow to the enemies that surrounded him. He knew their blades had struck his flesh, saw his red blood mingling with the black upon his garments, yet he felt no pain, only an all-consuming desire to stand his ground.

Somewhere within his mind he knew it was hopeless, yet hope remained, for Henvain's fate was unknown to him. If Henvain lived, and knew enough to find and bear the map to Aragorn, they might still end Karil's madness, even if Faramir did not live to see it. For that chance, he would continue his battle, and increase Henvain's hope for success with every Orc that fell to his sword.

He had slain many Orcs, but more were pressing in on him now, some fifteen in number, and Faramir could sense his strength beginning to wane at last, even as he swung his weapons against all that challenged him. It was becoming impossible to ignore the pain from his wounds now; the sword and dagger were becoming more heavy, his arms less obedient to his will. Blood and sweat blinded him, yet his stance was courageous and erect, as if he were backed by an army instead of standing alone.

As the enemy approached him on all sides, Faramir gripped the blood-slickened hilt of his sword, clenching his teeth as he swept them with his defiant gaze. A moment passed, then one Orc sprang forward, tearing the air with his piercing shriek. The young Steward did not shrink from the attack, despite the pain and weariness now wracking his body. With raised blade he met his foe, knocking the creature's sword aside before burying his weapon deeply into its chest with the last of his strength. The Orc gargled and toppled to the ground, and Faramir toppled with it, utterly spent by his valiant exertions.

The Orcs fell upon him then, and he was taken.

Henvain gasped for air as he paused in mid-crawl. He *had* to be near the top now.

Trying to pay not attention to the fact that his leg felt as if it was slowly being torn from his body, Henvain turned his head and looked at the narrow passageway that stretched behind him. It was hard for him to believe now that he'd managed to drag his bruised, battered body all that distance, first walking along the uneven floor of the crevice, then doing his best to climb the dusty, rocky pile of debris that would hopefully lead him to a way out of the cleft. It seemed to be working-the rubble rose almost all the way to the surface, and he was almost there. Very tempting, now, to stop and rest; his whole being was demanding it, now that he was covered with dirt and bleeding cuts from the sharp rocks.

Henvain gulped for breath and considered for a moment. Never in his life, even in the army, had he tested the limits of his strength in so severe a manner. The trembling of his limbs hinted at how exhausted he was; surely he could stop moving for a few minutes to renew himself. No one would deny that he had earned it.

Then Henvain thought of Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas, both still in trouble and needing him, and found himself moving again, climbing hand over hand, hauling himself up the sloping mound of black rocks towards the dangerous world above. he could not even truly say what was driving him to this madness; a week ago he would have been perfectly content to stay hidden until the peril had passed, as long as he remained safe, or spurred his actions with the thought of the long-sought recognition he would earn for them when he had rescued his grateful superiors.

Now the idea of preserving his own skin at such a time seemed cowardly, and he cared nothing for any possible reward. He only knew that he had to aid his comrades; he pushed all other confusion aside, to be dealt with later when he had the wit to think on it.

Finally his gained the surface, and very carefully poked his head above the ground. Two towering rocks stood before him, and from the noises he heard, they sat between him and the Orcs. Gingerly he crawled out of the crack, easing his protesting form behind the sheltering rocks with as little noise as possible. He listened carefully to the horrible sounds coming from the other side of the rocks; the battle sounded some twenty feet away, and all he could hear was roaring and shouting.

There was a space between the two rocks large enough to allow him to view the scene without detection. Eager to know how they stood, Henvain cautiously bent his eye to the opening and peered through it.

The scene before him almost made him wish he had stayed in the crevice.

A short distance away, the huge boulders that formed the bed of the road they had been traveling on stretched into the sky. At the base of a group of large rocks to his right lay Lord Legolas, still, bloodied, his large blue eyes staring sightlessly into the sky. Henvain almost cried aloud, his breath stopping for a moment. Lord Legolas, dead! He didn't think Elves could die, and it was strange to see one of those beautiful, perfect beings lying still in the black dust of Mordor, forgotten and ignored like a dead dog.

Henvain stared at the Elf in horror for a moment before tearing his eyes away, wildly seeking. A scene of savage battle lay to his left, several dead and dying Orcs, a few of the survivors wandering among them and brutally dispatching the wounded. It looked as if it had been a mighty battle, but before Henvain could contemplate it, another sight caught his eye, one that chilled his soul to its core.

Another group of Orcs was beyond the first one; a violent struggle seemed to be taking place in their midst, as several of the creatures fought to subdue someone on the ground.

"Mind yourselves!" cried one of the struggling Orcs. "This one's still got some fight in 'im!"

"Hold still, you maggot!" a muffled voice exclaimed from beneath the pile. "Curse you bone-brained humans-don't know when you're licked-there!"

A satisfied rumble of grunts and growls came from the group of Orcs, and they parted enough so that Henvain could clearly discern the object of their attention. To his horror, he saw that it was Lord Faramir, his gray clothes torn and heavily stained with blood, his hands now tightly bound behind him.

No words passed through Henvain's paralyzed mind; he was aware only of the sickening sensation of his insides knotting up in shock.

"Hold 'im fast!" roared the Uruk as Faramir continued to struggle, even as they hauled him to his knees. Three of the Orcs obliged, two grabbing his arms and one throwing a coil of rope around Faramir's throat and yanking it back, forcing the Steward to be still or risk choking to death. As Faramir's head flew back, Henvain could see how pale it was, the blood trickling down his face and caking in his long hair. The Steward's fighting had ceased, yet as the Uruk approached him, Henvain saw the defiant way Faramir regarded his foe, even as he sat panting and helpless in the grasp of the Orcs.

'Oh, Eru,' thought Henvain, awareness returning as a wave of helplessness swept over him. He had to do something, had to...

For a moment the Uruk stood studying his prize while Faramir stared at him silently, blue eyes blazing.

At length the Uruk growled and barked, "Search him!"

As the Orcs ransacked Faramir's cloak and tunic, Henvain felt his throat go painfully dry. Now they'd find the map and know why they were here! Then they'd doubtless kill Lord Faramir right on the spot, or perhaps torture him first and then kill him, and Henvain was certain he couldn't bear to see that. His mind sought wildly for a course of action to take, but with no sword and a badly injured leg, his options seemed, at best, severely limited.

"Ha!" he heard one Orc shout, and looking out saw the creature rip something from Faramir's body and hand it to his commander. To Henvain's astonishment, it was not the oilskin bag with the map, but merely the Steward's provisions pack.

He blinked, wondering, as the Uruk violently rifled through the canvas bag. 'He hid it,' he thought suddenly, of course. But where?

A furious roar interrupted his thoughts as the Uruk finished his search and hurled the useless bag and its contents to the ground. A few steps brought him before Faramir, who peered steadily at him, waiting.

"Why are you in Mordor?" the creature snarled.

Faramir said nothing, and Henvain marveled at how calm he was. He, himself, was trembling in the most awful manner.

"Your companions are dead," the Uruk went on, its ugly voice dripping with malice. "Speak, or you will join them."

Henvain held his breath, waiting, willing his commander the strength to stay silent yet dreading what would happen if the Uruk was not appeased.

After a few moments the Uruk took another step forward. "SPEAK!" he bellowed, and crashed his sizable fist across Faramir's face.

Henvain jumped, gritting his teeth as Faramir's head snapped to the size from the force of the blow, as if he himself had been struck. A horrible sickness came over him, to see the man who had been so kind to him treated so savagely. The urge to leap out and come to the aid of the Steward, regardless of the consequences, consumed him. One leg moved to obey this thought, but agonizing pain swiftly followed, and he fell back, cursing, unable to do more than watch.

Never had he felt so miserable.

He saw the Orc holding the rope that bound Faramir's neck roughly jerk the Steward's head back to face the Uruk. Blood now ran from the young man's mouth, but still he glared at his captor and said nothing.

Orcs began to mutter among themselves.

"Bet the Prince's bastard father sent 'im here," squeaked one, "tryin' to find where our army is!"

"He knows where that traitor filth is hidden, I'll wager!" a tall, thin Orc rasped as he came forward and grabbed Faramir by the hair, their faces only inches apart. The beast held a sword in its other hand, its blade now pressed against the Steward's cheek as the Orc snarled, "Tell us where your bastard King has the Prince's father, dung-pile! We'll take both your heads back to our master!"

Faramir seemed to ignore the blade, and held his tongue as he stared defiantly at his tormentor.

"Break 'is bones 'til he talks!" suggested a third Orc, among many growls of encouragement.

"Build a fire and roast 'im alive!" offered another.

"I say we chokes him," rasped the Orc holding the throat-rope, shaking it viciously. "Make 'im beg for breath!"

Vile words flew back and forth, and Henvain looked away, too disgusted by his own helplessness to watch further. His eyes fell once again on Legolas' body, and he regarded it sadly, almost glad the Elf didn't live to see what an end they had come to.

Then he sat up, staring.

Had he just seen the Elf move?

Unblinking, he stared at the bloodied body, and with great wonder saw the Elf Lord's arm move, however slightly, then be still. One blue eye twitched as well. Henvain stifled a gasp, certain that he was not witnessing the death-spasms of a body whose spirit had already flown. Amazement flooded through him, rekindling the small spark of hope that had all but gone out. Lord Legolas had survived, and perhaps all was not lost after all.

Henvain looked back at Lord Faramir, and saw that he, too, was gazing at Legolas. There was an odd look in his eyes now, almost a smile on his bruised face, and Henvain knew that he'd seen it as well.

Then Faramir's eyes turned, and he looked straight at Henvain.

Instinctively, Henvain ducked down, almost completely hiding himself behind the rock, yet his eyes stayed locked with Faramir's. There was no doubt, Faramir was looking at him, his expression one of urgency. None of the Orcs were watching him as they argued among themselves, and Henvain saw him shake his head at him once, firmly, then look away.

'He doesn't want help,' Henvain realized with surprise. Was he supposed to just let them kill the Steward, then? What would the King say? But how could he stop it, with no weapon, and pain crippling his every move?

Before he could think any more, he heard the Uruk give a loud angry grunt, and swiftly eased himself up so he could see what was happening. The creature had come forward and seized the rope around Faramir's neck, pulling the bound Steward slightly off the ground.

"Silence, you worms!" he shouted, and the din subsided. "The Prince will reward us well for this prize, and the dungeon there will loosen his tongue. Leave the dead - we return to the fortress!"

As the Orcs yanked the dazed and bleeding Faramir to his feet, Henvain watched, feeling as if all the breath had left his body. Soon they were marching away, the air filled with their coarse cries and shouts as they climbed up the rocks to the road above. He could see Lord Faramir among them, being pushed and dragged up the stones; in the last few moments that Henvain could see him, the Steward seemed unbowed, his head held erect even as his captors shoved him onto the road.

Soon they had all ascended from the plains, and became lost to his view. He heard the Orcs' heavily shod feet as they began tramping back towards the fortress and their foul-tongued curses as they urged Faramir along, the unpleasant noises growing fainter until Henvain could hear them no more.

Henvain stayed where he was, motionless except for his trembling, watching and listening for any sign that the Orcs might return. Silence descended on the scene, save for the whistling of the cold wind as it rustled the clothes of the dead Orcs, and the pounding of Henvain's heart.

After a small amount of time had crept by, Henvain took a deep breath, braced himself, and very slowly eased himself to his knees. Agony lashed him everywhere at once, but he resolved to at least pretend to ignore it. Once more or less upright, he crawled slowly but steadily to where Lord Legolas lay, not bothering now to bite back the moans of pain that escaped him with every breath.

By the time he reached the fallen Elf, Legolas was stirring slightly, blinking, still gazing upwards at the sky.

When he was within a few feet, Henvain swallowed, trying to moisten his dry mouth enough to speak. "L-Lord Legolas?" he gasped. "Sir?"

The Elf drew a deep breath but did not turn his head. "Henvain," he muttered faintly; it was a statement of recognition, not a question.

"Yes, sir," the soldier panted as he knelt beside the archer.

"Mm," was Legolas' response; he was moving more now, a little, trying to sit up, although he was keeping his left arm close to his chest. "Are you...injured?"

Somewhat awkwardly, Henvain reached forward and carefully helped the Elf into a sitting position. Blood streaked his fair hair and stained the Lord's gray traveling clothes, and Henvain saw one large blot on his side.

"Yes, sir, afraid I am," sighed the young soldier; there was no point in acting heroic about it. "It's my leg, sir, and maybe a few other things as well. I think I'll know better later; it all hurts now."

Legolas was upright, still not moving his left arm, and blinking rapidly as he looked around.

The Elf's silence made Henvain even more nervous. "And...how do you fare, sir?"

His comrade sighed, cradling his arm. "My left arm was broken in the fall, and some ribs as well," he replied, his melodious voice thick with pain. "We may bind the wound in my side; it is not very deep, I think. And..." He lifted his head and turned to Henvain. "You may have to be the eyes for both of us, Lieutenant. To me, the world is shrouded as in a fog."

Henvain's face fell in dismay. "You-you can't see, sir?"

Legolas shook his head, looking away. "Some shapes-light and shadow. It may pass-I have known of others who have suffered thus, and recovered. But there is no method of Man or Elf that may hasten this healing, that I know of. We must only wait."

The young soldier fought down the panic flooding his chest, determined to believe that Lord Legolas would soon regain his sight. He did not want to think about what would happen otherwise.

"Yes, sir," he said aloud. "But...but...Lord Faramir..."

A look of sharp grief crossed Legolas' blood-smeared face, and he bowed his head. "The Orcs have taken him," he whispered with great sorrow. "I know."

Henvain gasped a few times, the feeling of helplessness washing over him again. "Sir," he said at last, "can't we...shouldn't we try to help him?"

Legolas sat still for a few moments, then slowly lifted his head and looked at Henvain, his handsome features wreathed in sadness. "Alas, my friend," he said in a soft tone, "If I felt that either of us could aid Lord Faramir, I would march to the very seat of Morgoth to do so. But we are unfit for battle, and those who have him are many and strong. I fear any attempt to aid him through force of arms would only hasten our deaths, and bring fresh suffering upon him."

Henvain tried to think of something to say then, but nothing came to him, except a feeling of utter misery. He knew the Elf Lord was right, that there was no way the two of them, crippled as they were, could defeat a host of armed Orcs, yet the thought of leaving Lord Faramir to their mercy left him sickened. He'd heard stories, from men who knew, of what the Orcs did to people...

The young man swallowed in horror and looked at Legolas. "Then... there's nothing we can do?"

The Elf hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "There is but one way we may aid him now," he said, in a firm tone, "and that is to return to Minas Tirith, and tell them what has happened."

"Return..." Henvain's voice broke and trailed off. Minas Tirith was two day's travel away for healthy men; earlier it had not seemed so far, but now the road stretched in his mind before him as if it were a thousand miles long.

Legolas nodded, and reaching slowly up rested his right hand on Henvain's shoulder, his eyes distantly searching Henvain's face. "It will be very difficult, Lieutenant, I know," he admitted, "but it must be done. Lord Faramir had great faith in you, and you have proven yourself thus far."

He paused, the hand on his shoulder gently tightened, and the blue eyes looked directly into his own. "I must ask you now to prove yourself once more, my friend," he said. "Until this mist is lifted from my eyes, I am powerless to find my way. I now rely on you, Henvain, to guide us back to Gondor."

There was a moment of silence as Henvain stared at the Elf, his jaw dropping and eyes growing a little larger as the meaning of the words sank in. "You want...*me* to get us back, sir?"

The Elf nodded. "I shall still be able to hear the Orcs, if any approach, but I fear that is all the aid I may presently give." Legolas' expression softened with sympathy. "It is a heavy burden, I know. I shall help you bear it as well as I am able, for much rides on our success-the fate not only of Lord Faramir, but of peace for our people. Will you aid me?"

For a short time Henvain could not speak; he could only stare at his superior, a cold sweat breaking out all over him. At first, his thoughts stubbornly resisted all efforts at coherency, and when they did finally relent, the result was far from pleasant. Lord Legolas was relying on him-*him*, Henvain, whom nobody ever relied on for anything-to lead them all the way through Mordor and back to Minas Tirith. This was a situation he had never dreamed possible; the mere thought was overwhelming.

It felt now as if the weight of the entire world was settling on Henvain's shoulders, and for a brief instant he felt nothing so strongly as the impulse to leap to his feet and run as far away from the responsibility as possible. Several silent moments passed as he struggled with this turn of events. Then the memory of Lord Faramir came to his mind, bound and bleeding, yet still unbowed even as he was led away a captive. Shame brushed Henvain's mind at the memory of the brave Steward; if Faramir could face his dark, undeserved fate with courage, surely Henvain could try to do so as well. He owed Lord Faramir that much, at the very least.

He swallowed and looked up at Legolas; the Elf was watching him as keenly as he could and waiting patiently for his reply. Fear gripped his heart, but he did his best to push it aside. As Lord Legolas had said, the Steward had had faith in him - more faith even than his own commanders - and Henvain knew now that the best way to repay the kindness Faramir had shown to him was to accept his duty, however unwanted and unpleasant, as the soldier of Gondor that he was.

Even if he found the prospect completely terrifying.

He squared his shoulders and looked full into the Elf Lord's face, paying no heed to how loudly his heart was hammering. "I will do my best, sir," he promised, in as firm a voice as he could muster. "For Lord Faramir and our people."

Legolas clutched his shoulder for a moment, then released it with a pained smile. "I am sure you will do them both proud, my friend," he said with a nod. "Now, let us gather ourselves for our journey. First we must bind our wounds. Did the Orcs take Lord Faramir's pack?"

Henvain looked around, and quickly spotted the abandoned bag, broken lembas spilling out of its mouth. "No, sir, it's over there."

Legolas nodded. "It will have some more food and bandages, as well as another water skin," he gasped, his voice becoming tight with pain. "And...can you reach into my pack? It is under my right arm. There is a bottle there; we shall need that as well."

Puzzled, Henvain obeyed, and after a short rummaging pulled out a long container wrapped in canvas.

"What is it?" he asked, unwrapping the bottle.

"Miruvor," replied the Elf, as he carefully tried to position himself upright. "It is an Elven restorative."

Henvain nodded as he gingerly eased off the bottle's stopped, then immediately felt stupid because Lord Legolas couldn't see him nod. "I see, sir," he said, handing the open bottle to Legolas. A faint, delicate scent somewhat like that of wine wafted through the air, an odd touch of beauty in such a desolate place.

The Elf wrapped one hand around the bottle and gracefully tilted it to his lips, taking what looked to Henvain like a very small drink. Once finished, he extended the bottle towards Henvain.

The soldier gaped. "Me, sir?"

A slight smile flitted across Legolas' face. "Do not be afraid, my friend, it is quite safe for men, and we will both need it if we wish to survive the entire journey. Drink; it will give you strength."

Henvain eyed the bottle skeptically, then took it, willing to do just about anything to end the terrible pain in his leg. After a slight hesitation, he put the bottle to his lips and took a mouthful. It tasted very much like strong wine, sweeter perhaps, and when he swallowed it, he felt a curious warmth flow through his body. The pain did not disappear, but it did fade, to a small extent.

"Hm," he said with a cough, looking at the bottle as he lowered it. "Thank you, sir. That is, um, better. Is one drink enough?"

"It should be for now," Legolas answered. "You will find it will sustain you for at least the next several hours. Now let us tend our wounds and depart with all possible haste; every hour that passes will only prolong Lord Faramir's suffering."

They washed and treated their injuries as best they could, moving as quickly as their pain would allow. Legolas' broken arm was splinted with broken arrows and tightly bound, although Henvain could tell he was still in agony from it.

"I think that will do it, sir," Henvain said as he tied off the last of the strips of cloth holding the splint in place. "Sorry it's not as good as they do at the Houses-I only had the basic soldier's training in these matters."

Legolas shook his head as he cradled the wrapped limb with his good hand. "It is fine, Henvain, thank you," he said in a low tone, before lifting his head and gazing blearily at the distant horizon. "Do you see any Orcish spears lying about? One of them would do as a staff for you to lean on, I would say."

Pursing his lips, Henvain gazed at the Orc corpses littering the ground around him. Their surviving comrades had already stripped them of their weapons, but perhaps...

"There's one," he said, climbing very carefully to his feet, grasping any nearby rock to support himself. The miruvor had eased his fatigue, but the pain was as piercing as ever.

A few steps away, a long wooden spear lay broken on the ground, its metal tip wrenched off near the top. Henvain hobbled over and lifted it up; it was roughly carved but seemed sturdy enough, and as he tested it he found it would bear his weight easily.

"A bit of luck at last," he thought, and was truly thankful for it.

"We must regain the road and set out at once," Legolas said, steadying himself on the tall rock next to him with one slender hand as he stood. "Although the way will be more difficult without Lord Faramir's map."

Henvain had settled the staff into a comfortable position, and was about to return to the Elf when he suddenly looked up and gasped, "Curse me, I almost forgot!"

Legolas frowned as the young soldier began limping back towards the large rocks that formed the bed of the road that had been traveling on. "What is it?"

"Beg your pardon, sir, I should have told you - you were likely still stunned from your fall," Henvain replied as he began combing through the jumble of boulders as quickly as his injuries would allow. "The Orcs didn't get the map-Lord Faramir must have hidden it before the fight started. They searched him and didn't find it."

He heard the Elf give a sigh of relief, and say quietly, "Bless you for your foresight, dear friend!"

"I thought for sure we'd had it when they went through his cloak," Henvain was saying as he went rock to rock, leaning in and peering behind each hulking form, "not they went any easier on him for not havin' it - ah!"

Reaching behind one massive stone, he extracted the large oilskin bag, now dusty and a bit crumpled. He pulled it out and threw the flap open, gazing hurriedly inside. He felt himself relax a bit; the contents were intact, and there was the map, safely folded away.

He closed the bag, looking up to where Legolas was facing him. "I think I can read this map to get us home well enough."

"I have no doubt of that, my friend," said the Elf as Henvain took his staff in hand and began limping back to him. "And from there it will guide our forces back to Karil's fortress, where his madness will at last be ended."

"Yes, sir," Henvain panted as he awkwardly pulled the bag over his shoulder while trying to hold on to the staff at the same time. He thought a bit and paused, a sudden sadness settling over him. "Do you - do you think Lord Faramir will still be alive then?"

The Elf's fair face grew somber. "I cannot tell," he said softly, his eyes dropping slightly. "He is one of the strongest and bravest men that I have ever known, and will endure what he must to stand between them and those he loves; he has done it before. Now we must pray that he has strength enough to last until the armies of Gondor can come to his aid."

The soldier pondered this solemnly, then nodded. There seemed to be nothing else to say.

They began to walk to a place where they could ascend back to the road, Henvain leaning on his staff with one hand and reaching out to steady Legolas with the other.

Some twenty paces along they came upon a slope that seemed to climb somewhat more gently than the others. Legolas reached out his one hand, found a rock to grab hold of, and slowly hoisted himself up.

It had taken some doing, but Legolas now stood on the road, and reached down to pull Henvain to the road. First the soldier handed him his staff, then grasped the Elf's hand tightly as he placed his healthy-or rather, less injured-leg upon the first stepping-rock. With Legolas' help, the effort was only moderately excruciating.

At length he half-climbed and was half-pulled onto the road, and once there, leaned heavily upon the broken spear, gulping for air. Once he had stopped moving, the pain seemed to catch up to him, and its effect left him rather breathless. Then he felt a hand settle gently on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Legolas facing him. The Elf was plainly suffering as well, but still his expression was one of encouragement.

"We cannot falter now, Lieutenant," said the Elf. "The burden of Faramir's life, and the peace for all our people, is with us now. Come! Rest your weight on me, and I shall let you guide my steps, and with the blessing of the Valar we will soon set all to right."

Henvain nodded, braced himself, and lifted his hand, and placing it firmly upon the Elf's shoulder. It was a bit uneven, as the Elf was taller than he was, but it did make the walking easier, and soon they were moving, slowly but steadily, down the road towards home.

Chapter Text

The sun was setting behind the eastern mountains, bathing Minas Tirith's white walls in the last of the day's glorious golden light. As Lord Tuornen hastened along the busy city street, carefully gathering his costly robes about him to keep them away from the dust raised by his fellow citizens who hurried beside him, he took no notice of the unfolding twilight beauty. He was too overcome with joy.

Before long he reached his destination, and entered a fashionable dining hall situated among the more posh of the city's side-streets. Here no tankards clanked or drunkards sang; here the lanterns and chandeliers burned low and tastefully, the talk quiet and refined. The air was perfumed with the scent of costly roasts and exotic dishes. Heads turned as he entered, and he could not suppress a smirk of satisfaction at the way the head steward immediately came to his service.

"Good evening, Lord Tuornen!" chirped the well-dressed attendant, folding his hands as he came to stand before his guest. "Lord Beleg has preceded you to your table; please follow me."

Tuornen did so, smiling and nodding to those he knew as he passed those he knew seated at other tables, other nobles like himself who had only just begun to enjoy the best of the city once more. His heart lifted at the mere thought of how much more enjoyable life would now be, now that the worst of his current problems seemed to be nearing an end.

"Ah! Tuornen," he heard Beleg say, and looked up to see the stout dark-haired noblemen nod at him from his seat at a elaborately set corner table. "Glad you could make it, I just got here myself."

"How could I refuse, with so much to celebrate?" was Tuornen's jubilant replied before he turned to the steward.

"Your best wine, and be quick about it," the white-haired Lord snapped, then sat himself down as the man bowed and scurried away.

Beleg chuckled as his friend settled himself. "I wager the King's not having as easy a dinner as we are, eh?"

The other man shook his head, grinning himself. "Serves the man right, King or no. We could have told him from the start this whole treaty business wouldn't work, that those barbaric Haradrim would never agree to our terms. He's got nobody else to blame that the talks are going to end in failure-well, failure for him and those Southrons, in any case. Success, for any true friend of Gondor!"

Beleg frowned as he cut into the loaf of fine bread that had been sent to the table. "Perhaps we should not be too hasty, my friend," he cautioned. "There are still a few more days to go before the talks are formally concluded; perhaps Elessar will find a way to make them agree after all. Bread?"

Tuornen waved one large hand. "Not before the wine comes-where is that rascal? As far as Elessar goes, he's already been more than fair with those desert-crawlers. By Gondor's own law, all treaties must be approved by the Council, and if the King concedes anything else to them, I'll make certain that doesn't happen. Right now there are more on our side than his, and it's going to stay that way - ah, Luganion! Wonderful to see you!"

Another had come to the table now, a well-dressed man with trim gray hair and a finely shaped beard, bearing a green bottle of wine. He smiled at being addressed and carefully set the bottle on the table.

"When I heard you two were here, I insisted on bringing the wine out to you myself," the man replied pleasantly, producing a cork-screw.

"Well, we could hardly stay away, my friend, now that you've got the place back open again," was Tuornen's answer. "You were one of the best before having to close last year after all that damage from the battle, and from what I've heard that's still true."

"Ah," Luganion scoffed modestly with a broad smile as he pulled the cork from the bottle, "the repair work took some doing, but Aviniel and I simply could not abandon the place. She puts her soul into it, really. So, is this a special occasion?"

Tuornen laughed. "If you call finally sending those Haradrim villains packing back to their cursed desert home like the beaten dogs they are a special occasion, than yes, it certainly is."

Their host looked at Tuornen with wide eyes. "The talks are over?" he gasped, the open wine bottle in his hand, poised over the first glass. "Did they sign a treaty?"

"No, and they never will, thank the Valar," insisted Tuornen gleefully, folding his hands before him on the table. "Seems they aren't pleased with our King's already over-abundant generosity to them, and their leader said today that if things are not changed, they will have no choice but to withdraw."

Luganion gaped. "No!"

"Yes!" the councilman exulted. "In three days they'll be riding out of here and we'll be rid of their filthy presence at last. Maybe after starving for a few years they'll be a little more willing to cooperate, and if not, good riddance to the lot of them." He looked expectantly at the still-empty glass. "Um-?"

"Oh," Luganion said suddenly, realizing his error. There was a gentle splashing sound as he began to fill the glasses. "My, the people will be amazed...they've talked of little else the past few weeks. Many hoped we might have peace at last with them."

"Hm - only fools thought that, I say," huffed Tuornen as he lifted his now-full glass and swirled the wine delicately around, studying its deep scarlet color sparkling in the golden lantern light. "Those of us who know better see that the only possible way the Haradrim can be at peace with us is to accept their new place, as a conquered people of Gondor, with nothing as their own unless by our leave." He sighed and set down the glass, peering solemnly at his friend. "They're lucky we don't just execute all the men right now, since they all have Gondorian blood on their hands."

Luganion appeared uneasy and cleared his throat as he poured the second glass. "But-isn't Lord Faramir in Mordor right now, searching for the Chieftain's son? He was very keen on this peace treaty. Won't he be disappointed to find the talks ended before he returned, with no result?"

"Oh, I'm sure he will recover," said Tuornen dismissively. "He's a dreamer just like the King, always hoping people have a better side. Perhaps he and the King will both wake up now, and realize that there are some people simply not worth bothering about. Besides, he's already been gone for over a week - he could be in Mordor tramping around for months looking for this Karil and his mysterious army of Orcs. I wouldn't be surprised if Adir is lying about the whole matter, simply to put us off of our guard."

His host eyed him with uncertainty. "That attack on the peace delegation was not imagined," he pointed out with slight hesitancy.

"A minor affair," the nobleman replied firmly. "That was probably the entire extent of Karil's forces, if he ever had any to begin with. Nothing more than a few straggling Orcs with old swords, looking to take a few more heads before our soldiers finish them off, and Adir is using them to better his position." He leaned forward and faced Luganion, jabbing the linen-covered tabletop with his finger for emphasis as he made every statement. "I would wager anyone a thousand gold pieces that there is *no* massive Orc army, *no* hidden fortress, and perhaps even *no* Prince Karil at all. It is a trick of the Haradrim to distract us and win our sympathy."

Luganion looked at him steadily for a moment, his lips compressed. "Hm," he said at length before a smile forced its way onto his face. "Ah, well, I suppose we shall see, eh? I fear I must go now. I will make certain that two of our best roasts are sent to your table, with my compliments. Please, enjoy your meals, and give my best to your lovely wives."

He bowed and walked away, soon losing himself among the other guests. Tuornen watched him go with a puzzled expression, then turned to Beleg, crossing his large arms on the table.

"You know," he said slowly, "I think he agreed more with the King than with us."

Beleg shrugged. "As long as the meal is without charge, does it matter?" he said with a smile, before taking a drink of the wine. After swallowing, he looked somberly at his comrade. "You perhaps shouldn't speak so freely about what may happen just yet, my friend. We have almost won the day, but it is not over yet."

"Huh! For the Haradrim, and anyone who supports this misguided treaty, it is," replied Tuornen with conviction as he wrapped his hand around the stem of his glass once more. "Adir has said he will not sign it as it is, I certainly am not going to give him one thing more, and even if by some miracle Lord Faramir returns in the next few days, I do not see what he could do or say that would possibly turn the tide. No, dear Beleg, I intend to fully enjoy myself tonight, for the first time since this miserable incident began. I suggest you do the same, for we have won!"

He clinked his glass with Beleg's and drank, happily envisioning a future with the Haradrim where they belonged - firmly under the steel-clad foot of Gondor.

The sunset's shadows were long inside the mountain cave of the Haradrim. Here and there patches of the day's last light stole in, painting small parts of the rock walls a fiery gold, but few of those inside had the heart to notice the dazzling brilliance before it was swallowed up by the darkness.

Jadim stood in the section of the cave where the food was being prepared, his handsome face as solemn as those of his fellows. Patiently he waited until the two bowls he held were filled with the evening meal, his dark eyes distant and pensive. When he had received his portion, he bowed his thanks and walked away with a word.

As he strode through the cave to its mouth, his head was bent in thought, and he paid little heed to the small clusters of Southron men who sat in every nook, quietly discussing the recent turn of events. Some voices were sad, others angry, and all touched with a note of helplessness.

The air around him grew lighter as he neared the entrance, the warm evening breeze stirring his fine ankle-length robe and long, loose black hair. The young man halted a short distance away from his destination, studying the solitary figure seated alone at the cave's mouth, bathed in the final rays of the setting sun. His expression grew somber, and he pursed his lips before continuing his trek, anger and sorrow mingling inside him.

At the front of the cave sat Mahrid Adir, still clad in his formal robes, his legs crossed, his fingers steepled and touching his lips as he stared into the sunset. The light was gone now, the sky painted with brilliant reds and golds, the soft glow from them gently washing over the old Southron's weathered face.

"I have brought food, father," Jadim said quietly, stepping around his parent and bending to hand down the steaming bowl of meat and vegetables.

For a moment, Adir did not move. The he suddenly looked up, as if just noticing his son's arrival, and his graceful hands reached up to cradle the bowl. "Thank you, Jadim," he whispered, settling the bowl in his lap and looking down into its contents. After a pause, he took up the eating utensil and began stirring the meal around slowly, but made no effort to move any of it to his mouth.

Jadim sat next to his father, watching him carefully and with increasing concern. He had not really expected his father to be hungry, but it still pained him to know that the food would become unfit before Adir would have the will to consume it. Alas, it was not his place to order his Chief to eat, even if it was his father.

He sighed and took a few bites of his own meal, watching the splendor of the twilight sky fade into night. The fiery peaks of the eastern mountains dimmed, flickered, and turned gray.

After forcing down a few swallows, he looked to Adir, who was still stirring his food around and staring at it, deeply lost in thought.

Jadim sighed again. "Father?"

Adir did not lift his head, but his tone was gentle. "Yes, my son?"

The young man hesitated. "I am sorry."

A moment passed, then Adir drew a deep sigh and raised his eyes, blessing his son with a melancholy smile. His eyes shone in the twilight's glow. "Perhaps I should have listened to you after all, Jadim," he said in a husky tone. "You did tell me they were not yet ready to hear us."

Jadim eyed his father sharply, then blinked and cast his eyes into his own bowl. "I had hoped I would be wrong," he replied, disappointment clear in his voice. "Some of the Gondorians here had seemed willing to deal with us as men. To the rest-" His lip twitched and he lifted his head to meet his father's eyes, his expression bitter. "To them we are still Sauron's dogs, to be treated as such. Nothing we do will earn their trust."

Adir nodded, looking out now over the rocks that bordered their sanctuary, to the heights of the mountains beyond. The horizon glowed pink-purple now, a few stars now shining in the velvet-soft sky.

"It was my wish that we might have peace before death closed my eyes," he said wistfully, gazing into the coming night. "A few of the Northern men shared this, I believe, King Elessar, Lord Faramir. The prince of Dol Amroth. But..." His voice trailed off and he shook his head, dropping his gaze once more. "After being enemies for so long, I was, perhaps, a fool to think we could be allies in so short a time."

Jadim studied his father. "It was not foolish of you to desire the best for our people," he offered quietly.

"Hm," Adir grunted with a thoughtful smile. "Our people - I hope they forgive me when we ride home with no agreement binding us with the trade and protection of the northern kingdoms."

The younger man frowned and scooped up another helping of his meal. "I think they would prefer that to some of the terms those fat councilmen demanded," he said sharply before lifting the food into his mouth.

The Chieftain looked up as his son chewed his food, directing his eyes to the heavens. "To their credit, I do not think the King or our friends agreed with those men," Adir observed. "But I know that by their law the King cannot act without their consent. I fear they will never give it." He sighed and turned his head to Jadim, his tone growing more concerned. "It is also my fear that this will drive more of our men to your brother's cause, as they will see no other way."

At this, Jadim's dark eyes flashed, his features grim in the warm torchlight now spilling from within the cave. "They will be slitting their own throats if they do," he proclaimed, staring steadily at his father. "When Lord Faramir finds their lair, Gondor will deal with them, treaty or not."

Adir's expression became pained, and he turned once more to stare into the blooming night.

His son hesitated, then said in a more sympathetic tone, "For your sake alone, Father, I hope Karil is spared. But we must not dwell too long on his fate when our own is yet uncertain. The men speak of leaving soon, perhaps tomorrow, as there is little faith left that our time here will be rewarded."

Silence fell between them, broken only by the faint sounds of the early summer evening awakening around them and the muted sounds of the life stirring within the cave behind them. When no response came, Jadim followed his father's gaze out across the mountaintops, pondering the night sky as he wordlessly ate his food.

"We will not leave so soon," murmured Adir after some time, his warm brown eyes never leaving the mountains. "A few days more, until I feel all hope is truly gone. It is as foolish and stubborn as I am, I fear, and will not depart from me so quickly. And I wish to stay to speak to Lord Faramir, if he returns before we depart. His heart is with our people, I believe, and he is a man of wisdom as well as peace. I would say farewell to him, as I doubt I will ever come to his White City again."

Jadim inclined his head to regard his father, their faces almost hidden now in the falling shadows.

"It shall be as you wish, my Chief," he said respectfully.

No more words were spoken, and they sat together and watched the night settle upon the land. The distant mountains standing guard around the land of Mordor soon faded completely from their view, shrouded by the night's dark cloak until, in the utter blackness, they could not be seen at all.

For Faramir, the night had fallen long before.

Once begun on their journey back to the fortress with their prize, the Orcs had rarely halted, and the young Steward, worn from the fatigue of battle and the wounds he had sustained there, had found himself forced to keep pace with them. Never once, however, had he allowed them to see his step falter, or lifted his voice in a plea for rest. They would see the strength of Gondor in him, he resolved, despite the fact that he was their prisoner.

On the rare occasions when they had ceased the relentless march, the Orcs had allowed Faramir to seat himself only because it would not do for him to drop from exhaustion and thus deprive the Prince of a chance to properly kill him. So he was pushed roughly down onto one of the rocks, still bound hand and throat, and watched keenly for any sign of trying to escape.

Desperately he hoped for water, but instead a foul Orc potion was forced down his throat. The taste was hideous, and he tried to ignore the harsh laughter of the creatures as he gagged on it. He stopped himself short of spitting it out, for he knew that, horrid as it was, it was likely a kind of restorative that would give him the ability to continue, and hopefully survive, the road ahead of him.

At such times, the Orcs would continue to ply him for information, although they did not try to strike him again. To all of their threats and questions he remained mute, and gave no indication to the truth or falsehood of their speculations.

"They musta just got into Mordor," suggested one Orc as he stood with his comrades round Faramir and studied him. "We'd'a seen 'em if they was comin' out of Mordor instead of goin' in."

The other Orcs muttered agreement.

"Ha!" snorted one fat creature. "You did good to get as far in as you did, maggot. Guess you was comin' to find the Prince. Well, you'll find him now, all right."

This was met with hearty laughter, to which Faramir gave no reaction, save a silent plea that Henvain had found the map, and that he and Legolas were safely on their way home with it. Gratitude also welled in his heart for the vanity of the Orcs, that they would think it so impossible for he and his friends to have already found the fortress. Had they known that he had seen its location, he doubtlessly would have been killed on the spot.

During the endless hours of marching, the young Steward had plenty of time to contemplate the situation. Little pity was spent on himself; his entire mind and heart were instead consumed with thoughts of Legolas and Henvain. There were no words to describe his joy upon seeing that they had survived, and escaped the notice of the Orcs. Beyond this knowledge, however, he had only hope-that Henvain was able to rouse Legolas, that the Elf had not been too terribly injured to move, that they had found the map and were now carrying it to Minas Tirith. In their hands lay the fate of peace, and as he was dragged and pushed along the rock-strewn path deeper into Mordor, he thought of his friends upon their own difficult road, and sent aloft his earnest prayers to sustain them.

The night faded into day, and day turned back into night, before their long journey was ended. Faramir recognized the land as they approached the fortress, although his hosts never knew it. As each step drew him nearer, he steeled himself, knowing the dire nature of what lay before him. All strength, all courage, all resolve that he possessed would be needed, and he silently summoned it as they crested the hill and looked over the sprawling fortress spread out in the valley below him, its vast field alight with torches and crawling with the forms of the Orcs army.

"Some sight, eh, maggot?" crowed one of the Orcs, giving Faramir a heavy push as they stood atop the ridge. "That's what you came to see, isn't it? Your people will see it, too, but they won't have to travel as far as you."

The Orcs burst into laughter at this, while Faramir said nothing, only peering at the army and the siege towers reaching into the starless night sky. Above them all reared the fortress, its gray form hulking ghost-like in the gloom, waiting. Faramir regarded it, a leaden air of dread pressing around his heart.

'Valar,' he prayed silently, 'grant me strength.'

"Move, you scum!" hollered the Uruk, and they were marching again, down the road into the valley.

Word of Faramir's capture had apparently been sent ahead, for it seemed every Orc on the plain was aware of his arrival, and came to gawk and jeer. Quickly he was hauled along the narrow path leading to the largest of the fortress' structures, perhaps to prevent the shrieking beasts that lined the path from causing him any premature harm. Pain and exhaustion assailed him now, but still he showed the creatures no weakness, meeting every mocking word with the proud air of a true son of Gondor.

The huge Orcs standing guard looked Faramir over with a sneer, then pulled open the gigantic wooden door.

"To the main chamber with this lot," commanded the largest of the two. "The Prince is waiting for him."

Abruptly Faramir was pulled through the door, almost choking as the Orc holding the rope around his throat eagerly dashed ahead. The Orcs swarmed around him now, hurrying as they pushed and pulled him along, the Uruk leading the way. Soon they were moving up a very long flight of dark stone steps, lit sporadically by torches mounted upon the walls. Gasping now for breath, his bruised lungs aching from the effort, Faramir thought they would never reach the top, until suddenly they burst onto a wide landing facing yet another guarded door.

Scarcely had Faramir time to catch his breath before the door was flung open, and he was hustled into the next room. Huge hands ruthlessly grabbed him and threw him to his knees upon the stone floor. He shuddered from the pain but remained silent, struggling himself to an upright position despite the hands firmly gripping his arms and shoulders, forcing him to stay where he was. After a few moments his sense cleared, and he lifted his head to see his surroundings.

It was a large room, lit with torches and lanterns, and within his sight were several tables laden with maps. Many figures stood before him now, some Uruks and Haradrim soldiers, men of high military rank by their appearance. Between these men and Uruks, some twenty feet away, was a slightly raised platform of stone surmounted by three short steps. Upon this platform was a carved wooden chair, and upon it sat a very young Haradrim man in rich robes, who was sitting back in the chair with one hand on his chin, studying him very closely with a cold smile upon his lips.

'Karil', thought Faramir; it could be no other. He could easily see some of Adir's features within this Southron's handsome face, but the traits which were warm and soft in the older man's visage were transformed on Karil into a mask of hardness and cruelty.

Faramir braced himself.

"So this is the spy that so dared to enter the Dark Lord's domain," Karil said in a bemused tone. He stood, his fine clothes rustling with the motion. "I bid you welcome to my Master's realm, Faramir, son of Denethor."

A piercing cold stabbed Faramir's heart as he looked at Karil, burying the dread surprise now enfolding him; it had been his hope that none there would know who he was.

"I hope you will not be foolish enough to deny it," Karil continued, striding down the short stairs from the platform towards him, the train of his courtly robes whispering along the floor behind him. "You and I have met across the field of battle many times. We men of Harad know the faces of our enemies; they are inscribed upon our hearts in the blood of our fallen warriors, so that we may recognize them when the gods deliver them to our justice."

He had come to within a few paces of Faramir now, and halted, smiling at Faramir with the grin of a starving predator. The Steward saw his eyes now, yellow as a wolf's and utterly without mercy.

Although he could barely move, Faramir strove to draw himself as straight as he could, and eyed the Southron steadily and without fear.

"I am not your enemy, Karil," he said softly. "It was Sauron who deceived you, he who led your people into generations of hatred and war. Your land is crippled now, its homes destitute and in need of healing. My King is willing to lend you his aid and protection, if you would but put aside the way of death and take his hand."

The young man eyed him for a moment, then swiftly reached down and grabbed the top of Faramir's head, wrenching his head back as he forced his gaze upwards. Faramir gasped but gave no other sign of pain, resolved to remain steadfast as he stared into Karil's face.

"You may save your Northern lies for fools such as my father and my brother, Steward of Gondor," the Prince growled, bending to bring himself closer to Faramir. "The Haradrim blood that stains your sword and your soul can never be washed away, save by the shedding of your own. And rest assured, it *will* be shed, and the injustice redressed, when I have taken what I want from you."

He released Faramir with a push and stepped back. The young Steward shook his head, trying to dispel the pain, forcing his thoughts to right themselves. He paid no attention to the threat to himself; there were other, more important matters to address.

"Prince Karil, I ask only that you heed me," Faramir replied when his panting for breath had eased enough to allow speech. He knew he would not have much time. "My people and yours have both suffered greatly; a chance has come to end that suffering, and I urge you to accept it. To send an army against Gondor is madness now, and will lead to only more pain for those we love."

Karil eyed him without moving, a faint scowl on his face.

"It is not too late to end this," urged Faramir in a quiet tone. "Disband your forces, and return to your father. He bears great love for you, and would welcome - "

The rest of the words were lost as Karil charged forward and sent his fist crashing across Faramir's face. Briefly, darkness clouded the Steward's vision, and the world seemed to reel around him. When he came back to himself, he felt blood trickling down his cheek, and saw Karil's enraged face only inches from his own, the Prince's hand fiercely gripping the throat-rope and pulling it taut.

"Do not dare speak again of that traitor to Harad and Sauron," snarled Karil in words dripping with bitter hatred. "What do I care for the love of one who allies himself with the murderers of our people? He has earned only damnation from me, and so he shall receive it, when all else has been fulfilled."

With a violent shake, he released the rope and swiftly stood. Faramir's eyes followed him, waiting, Adir's heartbroken words of love for his son spinning through his mind, mingling somehow with those spoken by his own father before the flames of the pyre consumed him. If only Karil could be made to understand...

But Karil seemed beyond understanding now, regarding Faramir with icy eyes as he stood above him. "You may wish to save your breath for yourself, dog of Gondor, for you do not have much left," he said, his tone now sharp and brisk. "Since hearing of your capture, I have been in consultation over what to do with you. It was suggested that I offer you in trade to your King for my father."

Faramir's blood turned cold over this thought; as much as he wanted the two men to meet again, it seemed obvious that Karil would horribly murder Adir before listening to any words of reconciliation.

"But I have decided that such an arrangement would not please me," Karil's voice broke through Faramir's thoughts, and he saw that Karil was pacing now, slowly walking back and forth in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back. "To allow you beyond the walls of this fortress alive would lead to its discovery, and while I would be avenged upon my father, I would be no closer to being avenged upon Gondor."

He ceased pacing and faced Faramir, his expression now somber as he studied his captive.

"It is clear to me that your deliverance into our hands was a gift, Steward of Gondor," he said in a hushed, reverent tone. "Our Dark Lord and Master can no longer honor us with his physical presence, but still his power reaches beyond the circles of death to bless his faithful servants. It is through you that his vengeance shall be wreaked upon those who broke their vow, beginning with my father, who for his crime shall never again set foot in Harad."

Faramir glared at him, motionless, saying nothing.

"I know that you have hidden him somewhere within your kingdom, so that he may form his unholy alliance in safety," Karil continued, his face shadowed with loathing. "Near to your city, I have presumed, although you have perhaps sequestered him elsewhere in an attempt to thwart my intents. My Orcs have been unable to locate him, and your land is too vast for my forces to search without discovery."

He paused, and smiled. "Now, through Sauron's blessing to us, we shall have our answer. As Gondor's Steward, you have broken bread with my father, and bandied the words of blood with which he would forsake our people. You shall tell me where they have hidden him, so that he may be brought here to face the justice of the almighty Lord of Mordor whom he has betrayed."

Faramir glared at him, motionless, saying nothing.

"I also know that your City has not yet rebuilt its walls to their former strength," the Prince continued, slowly walking back and forth in front of Faramir as he spoke. "You shall tell me where weakness yet prevails upon those walls, so that when my forces arrive there, their siege towers may finish what our mighty army of the past so nobly began. I would also know the number of soldiers you have now, and where the strengths and faults of your defenses lie."

Faramir watched the Prince as he strode to a large window nearby, his back now to the room as he gazed into the black night. Across the shrouded night, the distant mountains could be seen rising faintly in the farthest distance, and Faramir knew that among those forms was Mt. Orodruin's shattered peaks, and the ruins of Barad-Dur.

"And there is more we would do, when Gondor has suffered its share," the Prince intoned as he stood motionless, his hands clenched into fists behind his back. "Rohan must pay its price as well, as will the Halfling whose foul deed brought my Master to his destruction."

He whirled and paced swiftly back from the window, his cold eyes fixed on Faramir.

"Sauron's will has ordained you as the touch-stone, son of Denethor," he declared, his steps halting before the young Steward. "He has directed the winds of chance to carry you here for this purpose. You shall reveal all you know to me, and through the use of my Lord's gift I will make his wrath felt by those who have denied him."

Silence fell, broken only by the muted chuckling among the Orcs. For a long while Faramir said nothing, merely gazing resolutely at Karil, until at last the Steward's own voice made its answer.

Faramir's tone was unwavering as he quietly said, "I think not."

The Prince's yellow eyes smoldered, and reaching down he tightly grasped Faramir's chin beneath his slender fingers, forcing his prisoner to face him. "Consider your answer carefully," he whispered. "The Orcs, as you know, are capable of the most savage cruelties, and my people are also highly skilled in the art of interrogation. I shall have your knowledge, whether you are willing or no, and I believe you are wise enough to know what an unwilling nature will bring to you."

Faramir did know; but his gaze was still firm as he looked into the eyes of his captor.

"My answer will never change, Karil," he said softly.

A smile twitched Karil's lips.

"We shall see, dog of Gondor," he hissed, and pushed Faramir's head roughly away as he released his hold on him. Without another word, the Prince turned his back on him and strode away.

Faramir licked his dry lips, seeking in his mind for any way to turn the Prince from his deadly course. "Hear me, Karil," he said aloud, struggling slightly against the iron grip that held him down. "You cannot prevail; Rohan and Gondor together will crush any attack you might make, and take your life as payment. Do not add more to the portion of suffering and death that our people have endured."

The prince turned back to face him with a rustle of silk, the cold smile once more upon his lips. "I am touched by your desire to spare me from disappointment, son of Denethor," he replied in a bemused tone. "However, if my efforts bring to your people even a small amount of the anguish that Gondor has brought to mine, I will be satisfied. Once my fellow Haradrim, and others who were joined beneath Sauron's banner, see that it is possible to strike back against you, they will join me, and my forces that are counted in the thousands today will be numbered in the tens of thousands tomorrow."

He turned fully back to Faramir now, and very slowly stepped towards him, their eyes locked.

"No, fear not for me, son of Gondor," said Karil smoothly. "I am surrounded by a mighty host; you are alone. Your comrades are dead, there are none who know where you are or what has happened to you, and you are mine to deal with as I please. My traitor father and your King may continue to seek me, when they realize you have failed, but by then you will be unable to profit by their efforts. Think on this until our next meeting, for we shall speak again."

He waved his hand, and Faramir caught his breath as the Orcs hauled him roughly to his feet. No further words were spoken to him as he was dragged from the room. Still slightly dazed, Faramir kept pace as best he could as he was taken back into the hall, the Orc's hands clamped painfully around his arms and denying him even the slightest hint of movement.

At first he supposed they would go down the same way they had ascended; instead, they veered towards another set of winding stairs, darker and far more steep. Soon they were descending quickly, the air quickly becoming colder and more foul, the burning torches becoming fewer, their light more faint.

At last they emerged at the very bottom, into a small anteroom lit only by a single torch. Several large, open wooden doors faced them; it once might have been a cellar store-room long ago, when the fortress was in use by Men; but the rank stench of the air, and stains of blood upon the floor, told of its more recent and far darker purpose. Between the row of doors and the stairway was a long, dark corridor, whatever lay at its end lost in shadows.

Faramir was quickly bundled through one of the open doors, into a small chamber no more than a few yards square, without windows, its floor barely covered with filthy straw. He scarcely had time to notice this before he was thrown to the ground, his hands still bound behind him. He grimaced as his face struck the hard stone floor, pain erupting anew over his entire body. Gasping, he opened his eyes in time to see the Orcs pull the door closed, plunging the room into complete darkness. There was a loud clank as a lock in the door-handle was turned, followed by the muffled voices of the Orcs as they laughed over their success on the other side, and he was alone.

For several moments Faramir did not move, trying instead to compose his thoughts and his breathing. He blinked several times to clear the sweat from his eyes, although there was nothing to see; no light entered even beneath the door. Yet he still made the effort, and after several minutes had passed, he resolved to at least pull himself up.

It took several attempts for him to find a way to move his body so that it would obey him without too much pain; but very slowly he moved to the wall, and inch by inch heaved himself upright. His back brushed something cold and clanking as he slid along; 'Chains', he thought, and shuddered, but quickly put them out of his mind. He wanted no future dread to distract him from the present, for there was enough there to keep him fully occupied.

At last he was sitting up, and he did nothing but sit for a short while and collect his breath, willing a spirit of calm to fall over himself. It did little good to dwell on his misfortune, so he did not, his years of service having taught him the uselessness of such effort. His task now was to turn his attention to what lay before him, and prepare himself.

He had to allow himself at least a small smile, to recall Karil's confident words; he knew nothing of Henvain or Legolas' survival, or that a map containing the whereabouts of the fortress would soon be in the hands of the King of Gondor. Hope embraced his soul, for he knew he was not as abandoned as the Prince would have him believe. He would be delivered, when Gondor's avenging forces made their way to the Prince's lair. He had only to endure until then.

As he stared into the utter blackness, his mind moved back to the early days of his training, when men who had been soldiers for years would come to prepare the recruits for their lives as soldiers of Gondor. Part of this preparation involved the discussion of what to expect if one was ever captured by the enemy, and how best to face that circumstance. They spared no detail in this, and Faramir knew of more than one recruit who quit the army rather than live with the constant threat of such horrors. But as the Son of the Steward, he had no choice but to accept the danger, and regarded it, then as now, as part of the price for taking on the duty of protecting the land that he loved.

The air in the cell was biting, and he shivered as he gazed sightlessly ahead with somber eyes. There was no denying the fear that crept upon him at the idea of the torment he would soon be facing; he knew that to feel otherwise would be inhuman. Instead, he allowed the fear, drawing on the strength it gave to sustain him for his trial. He would feel far worse agony were he to exchange the knowledge sought by Karil for his own personal comfort; the very notion sickened him. He resolved instead to bear this, as he had borne other trials, until he could be freed, however long a wait that might be.

Tender thoughts of Eowyn now came to his mind, and he sighed, bowing his head as his longing for her swept over him. He closed his eyes, and she was with him, her smooth white arms around his neck, the soft skin of her cheek brushing his own, his face buried in his fragrant golden hair. He surrendered to the vision completely, the cold and darkness around him melting away before her radiance, the pain disappearing beneath her gentle touch. He nestled himself into her warm embrace, relishing its utter sweetness, all too aware of how soon it would be gone.

'Eowyn, beloved of my heart,' he whispered, 'the night before me is long and black indeed, but I swear to you I shall travel through it, using the light of your memory to bring me safely to the dawn on the other side. This shall weigh heavily on you, when you hear of it; I bid you be strong and do not despair, for I am resolved to survive this, and we shall meet again, when all of this is ended.'

Thus he remained, wrapped in her arms, until they came for him.

"Are they gone?"

These words crossed Henvain's mind for perhaps the hundredth time as he firmly pressed himself against the cold wall of the small cave, one hand tightly clutching his purloined Orc sword. He dared not voice it aloud, however, no matter how his heart was hammering; he could only gaze fervently at his Elvish companion, whose lithe form was crouched on the other side of the narrow opening of the tiny rock chamber that sheltered them both, and wait.

He swallowed and stared, thinking only that it was blasted hard to see his comrade's face. It was dim enough outside, what with the clouds masking the sun and twilight coming on, and the fact that the opening was barely large enough to allow both of them to squeeze in here was hardly helping matters. But they had had little choice when it came to hiding places along the road to Gondor.

Still, it was becoming easier to make out the Elf's features the longer they stayed in the darkness. Legolas appeared highly alert, although as worn out as Henvain was by the traveling and the pain of his injuries. His sight had improved a little, but it was his hearing that had saved them time and again from the Orcs who seemed to choose the absolute worst times to cross their path. Henvain had lost count of the times during their journey that the Elf had suddenly stopped moving, his expression as alert as a cat's, and whispered "Orcs!"

Then, it had been up to Henvain-who heard nothing but trusted Legolas' skills completely-to find a place for them to hide, and quickly, until the danger had passed and they could take the road once more.

So, as Henvain waited and wondered if this would be the time they'd be found, he decided that there was no question about it - he was *definitely* tired of this.

He had heard the Orcs go by - two of them this time, sounded like, and not particularly bright ones at that, though they hardly needed to be smart to be deadly - but knew that it was not until Legolas determined they were far enough away for safety that he could move again.

Finally he heard Legolas sigh a little and say softly, "They are gone."

Henvain sighed himself, much louder than the Elf, and quickly lowered the sword before his weariness forced him to drop it. Gasping in relief, he slumped against the cave wall. As the tension flowed out of his body, it was replaced by pain, the piercing ache of his injured knee, the various agonies resulting from their arduous journey. He winced but ignored the discomfort, for the most part; he'd gotten used to it by now.

"Thank the mercies!" Henvain groaned aloud as he closed his eyes, lying still for a moment as he caught his breath and willed his pounding heart to slow itself. "I don't believe I could have held this blasted Orc sword up much longer. I think it weighs more than I do."

"And yet you managed a good while," observed the Elf, and Henvain could hear the smile in his voice. "You have more strength in you than you know."

Henvain opened his eyes, looked at the Elf, and slowly slid the weapon back into his scabbard. "Thank you, sir," he replied wearily, scraping up just enough fortitude to appreciate the compliment, "but still, I'm going to find a good Gondorian sword when we get back to the City. If I'm going to fight with a blade I'd like to at least be able to lift it."

Legolas smiled again and blinked as he turned to peer outside. "We should rest here for a moment, I think, while we have the rocks to hide us," he suggested. "It has been long since we last took nourishment, and you should study the map once more while we still have light."

"Mmm," grunted Henvain in assent as he gingerly pulled the leather pack from his shoulder and set it on the ground before him. He wasn't sure how many hours had passed since they had stopped, but it certainly felt like it had been several at least. The pattern since they had set out three days before had varied little, comprised of walking as long as either of them could stand it, then collapsing for a few hours, eating, Henvain sleeping for a short while, then taking a few gulps of miruvor and continuing. The monotony of the walk was relieved only by the periodic and thoroughly unwelcome appearance of the Orcs.

Henvain unfolded the map before him, every joint hurting with the slightest motion. He pressed his lips together and disregarded it.

"I think we're just about there, sir," he said after looking over the finely-drawn figures for a few moments, his voice reviving ever so slightly. "One more half-day, I think, and we'll be to the Morgul Road."

There was a faint, dry-sounding *snap*, and Henvain looked up to see Legolas handing him a small piece of lembas bread. As Henvain accepted it, he saw the Elf nodding, a tight look on his fair face.

"That is well," Legolas said as Henvain took the morsel from his fingers. Then he fell silent and began to consume his portion.

Henvain eyed him with grave concern; the Elf looked so tired and pale. Well, of course, Henvain knew Elves were usually pale, but Legolas looked even more pale than he'd think normal, even for an Elf. But Legolas had shrugged off rest, insisting that his people could go for long periods without it. Henvain had no choice but to accept this - he knew little of Elves, after all, and he couldn't very well order a Prince about - but he still worried.

Now that was funny, Henvain mused as he solemnly chewed the Elvish waybread. Just last week the only care he had for the Elf was how he might use the friendship of one so highly placed to his own advantage. Now...well, he wouldn't say Lord Legolas was a bosom friend, but he had learned to admire him for more than just his title and rank. Lord Legolas really was a strong, decent fellow, and over the past three days had shown Henvain how tough Elves truly were. Most of the mistrust and fear he'd always felt about the Elves was gone now, replaced with respect and not a small amount of shame.

Silence fell for a short time, as they both ate and took meager drinks from their small store of water. Outside, the sun had set, and darkness was falling fast.

As Henvain put the map away, he heard Legolas say, "You should sleep now while you can, Lieutenant; there is a full moon tonight, and in a few hours we shall take the road again."

The soldier peered at the bright shaft of silver light now shining through the small mouth of the cave, indicating the truth of Legolas' words. Henvain hesitated and thought of Lord Faramir, although he knew he wouldn't last much longer without at least a little sleep.

"I-I think I can push on a little while longer, sir," he said, striving to sound as restored as possible. "For Lord Faramir's sake."

Legolas smiled again. "I fear your limbs may not be as strong as your will at the moment," was his gentle answer. "You are beyond exhaustion, my friend; I do not need my eyes to see this. Lord Faramir would be touched by your devotion, I am sure, but even more, he would not want you to suffer unduly on his behalf, however dutiful your intentions may be. It will serve neither of you well in the end."

Henvain's mouth twitched in a show of reluctance, even as his aching body screamed for the respite. It still didn't feel right. "Well..."

Legolas tilted his head up in his general direction, his manner light-hearted despite his evident fatigue. "I *can* make it an order, Lieutenant."

Knowing an insurmountable argument when he saw it, Henvain drew another sigh and slid carefully down onto the floor of the cave. "Yes, sir," he muttered, patting around on the dusty ground to make certain he wasn't about to lie down on any sharp rocks. "I'll be ready to march when you wake me, sir. A few hours is all I'll need, I'm sure."

"I shall speak to you again in a few hours, then," the Elf said. "Rest well, Henvain."

"Thank you, sir," Henvain replied, and turned his complete attention to getting comfortable. He sensed that being able to find rest on such an uninviting surface would be little trouble; he felt worn out enough to sleep hanging up on an iron hook.

Yet as he curled up and settled down, taking extra care with his throbbing leg, he found that sleep would not come so readily. The same had happened every time they stopped, as if his thoughts only had time to catch up with him when he was not moving. They had found him again, it seemed, and insisted on making themselves known before releasing him to the arms of slumber.

It was all so strange, he told himself as he closed his eyes. Never in a hundred years would he have ever imagined himself in such a position, with the life of two of the King's closest friends and Gondor's future in his hands. 'If only Faelor could see me,' he thought as he felt himself beginning to drift. 'He'd never believe it, never.' And a part of him sincerely wished his friend was there. As they had struggled along Mordor's roads and he had to think about the possibility that they might not make it, his thoughts often turned to those he had left behind, his mother, his comrades in the army. He even missed Turwaith.

And yet, he mused as everything around him began to fade away, what was even odder was the fact that as the days had passed, he had found himself less daunted by the awesome burden he now carried. At first he'd been terrified, certain he'd fail somehow and they'd be found and killed. Or he'd lead them down the wrong path, or miss something he should have been looking for. Doom had trod upon his heels with every step.

Still, they were very close to home now, and Henvain had found that when he turned his mind to what they had to do and just did it - did it, without thinking about what might happen or how he might make a mistake - it wasn't so bad. He was reading the map right, and getting on as well as he could on his injured leg, and guiding Lord Legolas along without getting him killed. It was very bewildering, this knowledge that he was capable of such things.

"Perhaps you were saved from that battle for a greater purpose yet unknown."

They were Lord Faramir's words, spoken many days before, and they came so clearly to Henvain's mind that he opened his eyes, almost expecting to see the Steward's kind face smiling at him from the shadows. But there was nothing, just the rocks and the dust shrouded in blackness, and after a moment his eyelids drooped closed again.

Strange that those words should come to him now, as if he had just heard them spoken, he thought. He had assumed, at the time, that the 'greater purpose' the Steward referred to was the honor and respect he would receive as a hero upon their triumphant return home. What other greater purpose could he ever hope to achieve?

He shivered a little and coughed, his thoughts turning darker as he reflected on how differently matters had turned out. He certainly didn't feel like a hero. He felt dirty and in a lot of pain and afraid and very, very tired. Now, the two powerful figures to whom he had looked for guidance and protection were relying on him to see them through. And he knew, somehow, he would. He was not sure where, exactly, this strength was coming from. He only understood that he saw his duty, and would simply put his head down and do it. He could figure the rest out later.

Lord Faramir's face came before him again, as it was on the day he had spoken to Henvain in the cave. He could see him distinctly, hear his patient, gentle voice, assuring Henvain that he may yet be able to prove his worth. The thought that he was suffering now in the merciless hands of the enemy twisted Henvain's heart, and it was not because he was facing the loss of the Steward's possible beneficence. Instead, it was the Steward's noble strength that moved him, the courage he had displayed in the face of evil. Such a good man did not deserve so cruel a fate. More than anything, he wanted to help Lord Faramir, and he knew there was only one way he could do so - by getting himself and Lord Legolas and the information they bore back to Gondor as fast as he could.

Only one more day, and they would be there. He'd make sure of it, somehow, and then they would set everything right again.

And maybe then Henvain could sit down, think for a good long while, and finally make sense out of it all.

For the moment, however, Henvain was content to leave such matters to the next dawn. At last his thoughts slowed, then stilled, and he felt himself slip away into blessed oblivion, there to stay until the time came to rise and walk again.

--------------------

Minas Tirith had fallen into its midnight silence beneath the bright spring moon. There were stirrings here and there, for such a great city could never fall completely quiet, but for the most part its wide and ancient streets lay still under the turning stars.

In her darkened chamber within the Citadel, Eowyn tossed fitfully upon her bed, striving to ward off the anxiety that had robbed her of any rest for the past ten days. Drifting uneasily at the very edge of the waking world, she sighed and frowned, trying to undo the knots within herself.

By habit, one hand stretched forth to where Faramir's tall form normally slept beside her. Her palm found only the soft, empty bed. Unwilling to be disappointed, even in her twilight state, she allowed her palm to rest there despite his absence, as if to touch him through the fact that he had once been there.

She could feel the hours pass, knew that she would soon face another weary dawn, but still it seemed that wakefulness would be her portion once more this night. After lying still for a long while, floating towards oblivion without ever crossing into it, she sighed again and opened her eyes.

The chamber was dim, the blue-gray shadows interspersed with gently sloping beams of silvery light streaming in through the open windows. A warm, light breeze scented with roses stirred the long curtains on the casements, sending their graceful folds to dancing within the moon's soft beams. For a while she lay and watched it, willing the tranquil sight to ease her mind and bring forgetfulness to the aching loneliness that consumed her.

Something stirred within the shadows of the chamber. She lifted her head a little and watched, unafraid but curious. It glided quietly towards her, coming swiftly into the dancing moonlight, and when the form became clear, she felt her entire being soar with joy.

It was Faramir, his handsome face beaming as he approached her, his long hair shining silver as he passed through the light. She lifted herself up, overwhelmed with happiness as she beheld him, longing to throw herself into his arms yet somehow unable to move.

He was by the bed now, and slowly he knelt beside it, his face very close to her. Tenderly he placed his hand over hers, and she felt herself tremble with gently violent emotion as she gazed at him. Yet as she studied his face, she was struck by how oddly he seemed to be looking at her. He was smiling a little, but his expression was mostly solemn, and a profound love such as she had never before seen blazed in his eyes.

She waited for him to speak, to explain his sudden return, but he said nothing, as if he wanted nothing more than to simply look at her. She found herself unable to utter a word, despite the numerous questions leaping now to her mind. The aspect of his countenance began to frighten her; there was undeniable love, as she had always seen, but something else abided there as well, darker and fearsome. In the dimness of the room, she saw tears glittering in the corners of his eyes.

Alarm began to creep into her heart, and she lifted one hand to his face, hoping it would soothe the nameless torment she saw there. Before she could touch him, a strange rushing sensation went through her, throwing everything in the room into a colder, sharper view, and with a shuddering gasp she came fully awake, her hand still reaching into the air.

She was alone.

Blinking, she looked about her as the world rebalanced itself, her hand dropping back onto the bed. A shiver ran through her as she realized what had happened; she must have fallen asleep without knowing it, and been visited by a dream.

A dream...Eowyn took a deep breath and sat up, clutching the sheets to her as she rubbed her face with one slender hand. Clearly, Faramir was not there. It had all been a fancy of her exhausted, worried mind. For a moment, she chided herself on being so foolish, then reminded herself that dreams of absent loved ones were common and no cause for shame. Both she and Faramir had often dreamt of those they had lost, as did many they knew. It was a sorrowful token of the times they had all lived through.

Yet as Eowyn settled herself back down into the bed, she thought of the dream, and suspected that it was no ordinary phantom of her mind. Faramir had seemed real enough to touch, and the intensity of his expression unsettled her to her innermost soul. She had seen so much there - resolution, weariness, perhaps pain, and above all, love. But she did not understand it at all.

After a few moment's thought, she rose and went to her wardrobe, removing a few articles of clothing from it and pulling them on over her shift. Sleep would not come soon, that much was certain; she needed to walk, and think, and soon her steps were directed to the pensive solitude of the moonlit courtyard below.

Quietly she padded through the Citadel's deserted halls, her steps echoing off the ancient polished stones. She passed only a few guards on her way, who simply eyed her with bored curiosity but said nothing. All was ghostly and still as she moved down corridors and stairways shrouded in blue-gray shadows, but she was not deterred by the eerie scene. It suited her mood perfectly.

Soon she was outside, and she breathed the air in deeply as she stepped onto the finely carved steps leading into the Citadel. The night breeze was cool, but it carried the heady fragrance of Ithilien upon its back. For a moment she closed her eyes, allowing its scent to overcome her, for it reminded her so strongly of her husband.

Then she opened her eyes and drew herself back to the world with a sigh, and traveling lightly down the steps, knowing where she had to go to find peace this night.

It was not far to the stables of the Citadel. As she neared it, she saw the solitary lantern that always remained lit at its door for those returning from late-night rides, and the single guardsman who kept watch by its door. It was a handsome structure, large and as ancient as the City itself, but Eowyn found herself frowning as she entered its courtyard, mildly displeased, as she always would be, that so much of it was made of stone. Wood was the only proper material for the home of the noble animals who lived here, not cold, hard rock, and she keenly missed the fine wooden stables of Rohan every time she visited their Gondorian counterparts.

However, she knew it was beyond her power to change such things, and smiled at the guard as she passed him on the way inside, satisfied in the knowledge that when their stables were built in Ithilien, they at least would definitely be made of wood.

A few lanterns were lit inside, casting their warm orange glow over the stalls and their quiet occupants. As Eowyn strolled down the wide aisle of the stables, she felt a long-familiar peace steal over her. The scents and sounds of the stable would always mean home to her, no matter where they stood, and she felt her soul ease with the gentle touch of many dear memories of Rohan and the better days of her past. She had practically grown up in the barns of Meduseld, and at times such as this, the brighter recollections of childhood far outshone the darker days. As she mused upon them now, she relished the remembered happiness that would forever accompany those memories, and embraced the peace they offered.

Her horse nodded in greeting as she came to her stall, and she smiled in reply as she undid the latch on the door and stepped inside. One hand went up to pet the animal's velvety nose, the hay crunching softly beneath the soles of her shoes.

"I see you cannot sleep, either," whispered Eowyn as she stroked the horse's nose and its dark, silky mane. How soft and warm her coat was, and Eowyn sighed as she leaned against the beast's head, one hand resting on its neck. "You are not used to the stone, I know," she murmured, as her hand lightly petted the animal's hide. "We shall go riding soon, I promise, when it is safe to venture again beyond these walls of stone. I would take you to Ithilien this night, if I could. I believe we would both find comfort there."

The horse nickered softly and blinked its large, liquid eyes at her. Eowyn sighed and stood motionless for a while, one hand continuing to glide over the horse's neck, her thoughts far away from the quiet stable.

Suddenly there came to her ears the clatter of hooves upon the cobblestones of the courtyard. Straightening in surprise, Eowyn looked up, wondering who else would possibly be awake and riding at this late hour.

The sounds of the shod hooves grew louder, and before long she saw the tall form of Prince Imrahil guiding his mount into the stable, his long brown hair flowing behind him as he trotted his horse to its stall.

He saw Eowyn the moment he entered, and in the glimmering lantern light she notice a smile cross his wearied face as he rode by her.

"Ah! Good evening, or good morning, to you, my dear," he said, his tone polite although he sounded quite tired. "Plotting a night-time escape?"

She returned the smile, walking to the nearby stall where he was dismounting. "Indeed not, Uncle," she answered lightly.

"Pity," he muttered, his nimble fingers beginning to undo the straps of his saddle once his tall form had solidly landed on the ground. "I was rather hoping I could escape with you, after all I've had to deal with tonight. It might keep me from committing some rather unwise acts upon certain very irritating persons."

His tone had become noticeably sharp, and Eowyn's brow knit with concern as she leaned upon the open stall door, her hands wrapped around its top-post. "What has happened?"

The saddle was loose now, and he carefully removed it from the horse's back. Having done so, he settled it in his hands and turned to her, heaving a disappointed sigh before speaking.

"The talks with the Haradrim have failed," he said quietly, his expression grave as he regarded her. "Aragorn has a few more ideas to try before officially ending them, but as of now the matter looks very black indeed."

Eowyn dropped her gaze, saddened at the news, mostly on Faramir's behalf. It had not been entirely unexpected, as Eomer had informed her every day of the negotiation's progress, but she had hoped for some way for her husband to return to more welcome news.

Imrahil stepped past her now, carrying the saddle to the rack close by.

"I have just spent many trying hours with Lord Tuornen," the Prince of Dol Amroth said as he walked, "for it is he and those of his mind, mostly, who have argued against allowing the Haradrim any further mercies. But he has proven most stubborn-" here Imrahil plopped the saddle onto its wooden home with a loud thump, raising a dusty cloud, "-and there will be no Council approval of the treaty without his assent and that of his followers."

He returned to his horse, giving it a pat on the head before unbuckling its bridle. "I fear Faramir will be be most sorrowed by this when he comes home," Imrahil continued, his tone and aspect solemn. "To see peace among all men of this region is one of his dearest wishes."

Eowyn nodded, leaning her chin upon the hands she had crossed atop the stall-post. "It will grieve him," she admitted, "but then I am sure he will strive all the harder to find success the next time." She smiled a little. "We both know he will not surrender so quickly."

Imrahil chuckled as he pulled the last of the bridle gently over the horse's head and folded it in his broad hands. "Yes, I do know that," he replied, striding over to a nearby storage trunk. "How I wish he were here! I have done my best, but I was not blessed with the wisdom and tact of my nephew. He very well might have had more good fortune than I, or the King."

"I am certain a future opportunity for peace will come again," Eowyn assured him, another smile tugging at one corner of her lips. "Then, you, Faramir and the King may all set your skills against Tuornen. His stubbornness will not stand a chance!"

The Prince laughed as he picked up a brush from the trunk. "A grand day that will be, indeed," he said as he went back to his patient mount and began brushing the dust from its coat. After a few strokes, he glanced back at Eowyn, his countenance now marked with worry. "Now that you have lifted my spirits, my dear, is there any assistance I may offer to ease your heart? For there is a certain sorrow about you tonight, even as you jest with me."

Eowyn sighed and shook her head. "Alas, that which may ease my heart is not to be found here, my Uncle. I long to see Faramir, but he is far across the mountains. I long to ride to Ithilien, to at least see our home and convince my heart once more that we will have a future there, but with the Orcs wandering the eastern woods, the danger is too great. I fear the King will never permit it."

"Hm." Imrahil frowned a little as he plied the brush, looking at Eowyn a few times as he worked in silence. She watched him sadly, wrapped in her own thoughts.

"I am afraid I can do nothing to bring my dear nephew back to your arms more swiftly," the Prince finally said aloud, when he had almost completed his task. "But a ride to Ithilien may not be impossible."

She lifted her head, her eyes wide.

He smiled at her, a hint of mischief in his blue eyes. "Well, am I not a prince of this region, with cause for concern over her safety?" he asked. "It is high time the area around your future home was once again inspected for any signs of Orc intrusion. You and I shall ride to Ithilien tomorrow, for there will be no further meetings with the Haradrim. We each have need to escape these city walls and breathe the free air, I believe, and I shall see to it that no peril threatens our venture."

The prospect caused Eowyn's face to brighten at once, and she stepped forward and took his hands, smiling with great relief as she said, "I would be so grateful, Uncle!"

"It would be my honor and pleasure, Eowyn," he replied, a warm expression on his handsome face as he regarded her. "Faramir has always been very dear to me, as are you, and I will do all I can to ease your burdens, for your sake and the sake of him whom we both love."

She found herself speechless as she gazed up at her husband's uncle, too overwhelmed by joy and anticipation to whisper anything other than, "Thank you."

Imrahil gave her a tender smile. "Return to your chamber and find rest for tomorrow; that will be thanks enough to satisfy me," he replied, and kissed her affectionately on the brow. "I shall send word when the arrangements have been made."

"I will," she answered, but as she bowed to Imrahil and gently released his hands, she knew it would be a difficult oath to keep. Once more she faced a restless night as she took her leave of the stable, but it would be a restlessness of a far more pleasant nature than before.

As she crossed the Courtyard of the White Tree, she felt her spirit soar within her. Tomorrow she would once more be able to ride free across the fields, the wind in her hair, the fresh spring breeze fanning her face. And soon she would be home, surrounded once again by the promise of the coming years she would share there with her beloved husband. She would be able to once more see it, and touch it, and know that it was real and would happen, and all dark dreams of other possible outcomes would be forever banished.

With a buoyant step Eowyn ascended to her bedchamber, anticipating the coming day with happy eagerness. Faramir loved Ithilien best of all the lands of Middle-earth; it was part of him, and she longed to be in its embrace once more, because it was so dear to him. It would almost be as if Faramir were with her again, murmuring to her once more the wonderful dreams of the life they would build there.

She hurried her pace up the stairs, as if that would make the time move faster, the expectant joy building in her with every step. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

----------------

//Click, click, click//

The soles of the tall Haradrim's boots echoed long on the cold stone steps leading down into the depths of the ancient stone fortress. His stride was even and almost elegant, as befit the advisor to a Prince of Harad, and as Masrak descended the stairs his movements were as graceful as if he were approaching a full court audience. Behind him trailed another member of his race, a far less regal-looking young man in more simple clothing, carrying a variety of items and doing his best not to tread upon the long train that whispered behind Masrak on the dusty steps.

At length Masrak reached the bottom of the stairs, and he studied the small, dimly lit antechamber and the locked wooden door that faced him, and sighed. He detested this area of the fortress; it was frigid and filthy, fit for Orcs and prisoners but hardly for the man who held the ear of Prince Karil. Still, this was part of the duty he had long been sworn to, and if his presence here hastened the release of Gondor's choking grip upon his people, he would bear it.

There was a shuffling and grunting, and an Orc appeared out of the darkness, a huge, slobbering brute in leather armor. Masrak flinched and did not bother hiding his digust; the creatures lacked the sensibility to discern it, anyway.

At the sight of the elder Southron, the Orc instantly adopted a servile manner and bowed, despite the fact that he was much larger than Masrak and could have easily broken him in half.

"What is your bidding, my lord?" he rasped.

'At least it has the brains to show some respect', thought Masrak; aloud, he said, "I am here to interview the prisoner."

A scowl appeared on the Orc's face as one of his large hands reached for the keys that dangled from his belt. "Huh! Maybe you can get somethin' out of 'im. He's been dumb as a post with us."

This was not welcome news, and Masrak's scowl went even deeper than the Orc's. "You have had him for almost three full days now," he said sharply, watching with growing irritation as the beast slowly sorted through the many keys on the ring. "Do you tell me that in all that time, he has said nothing useful?"

The Orc looked up from its task and snorted angrily. "It ain't our fault, sir! We know our job" he insisted. "He'd be beggin' to talk if the Prince hadn't given us all those orders about this. He don't want the maggot dyin', or losin' his mind from the pain, and you know, that holds the boys back a bit."

In the latest in a long string of instances, Masrak cursed the fact that Karil's victory rested on the assistance of these brainless creatures. "The prisoner is of no use to us dead or insane," he replied in a completely unsympathetic tone. "Did our Prince not make that very clear?"

The Orc snuffled as he picked out the correct key and began to amble over to the locked door. "Yes, he did, my lord," he answered with a loud cough. "An' he'll get what he wants, don't worry. Like I said, we know our job. See for yourself."

He turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open, stepping aside. Masrak felt his skin crawl a little at the cold air that rolled out of the small room and pulled his thick robes a little tighter about him.

Looking at the servant who was standing mutely several paces behind him, Masrak said firmly "Wait here", then gathered up his garments above the dirty floor and entered the cell, followed closely by the Orc guard carrying a torch.

At first Masrak could see nothing; the entire cell was masked in blackness. Then the Orc stepped into the doorway with the torch, throwing the small room into flickering brightness, and Masrak was then able quickly find the object of his visit.

The prisoner sat on the ground across from him, his arms spread out and chained to the wall by the wrists with iron manacles. His head was down and resting on one arm, the face hidden by his long hair, his legs stretched out in front of him. So small was the cell that Masrak had come very close to stepping on the man.

As the flames of the torch became more steady, Masrak studied the prisoner. The Orcs had followed their orders and stripped him of all but his shirt, leggings and boots, and it was plain even in the dancing light that these articles were now badly torn and heavily stained with blood. He could see numerous whip-marks and other wounds on the man's flesh easily enough, but cared to inspect him no further than that. He had little interest in the brutal methods of the Orcs, only in their results. And it was evident from the prisoner's exhausted posture and physical condition that the Orcs, indeed, knew their jobs.

He cleared his throat and said in a loud voice. "Man of Gondor!"

He had no intention of using Lord Faramir's name; it was not an honor due to any captive of Harad.

The prisoner's head moved a little, as if he were suddenly waking, then lay still.

Masrak grit his teeth; he did not want to stay there a moment more than necessary. "Man of Gondor!" he said, louder. "You will face me."

There was a pause, and he heard the man draw a very long breath, as if bracing himself. Then, slowly, the head lifted, the hair matted with sweat and dirt parted, and Masrak saw two blue eyes looking at him from a bruised and gravely wearied face, blinking quickly against the light which surely must have been blinding to him. Soon the blinking stopped, and Masrak closely studied the man's now-even gaze. There was no madness there, he was relieved to see, but there was stubbornness, and no trace of the terror he was used to seeing in his prisoners. He sighed to himself; this man was not broken yet. Karil would not be pleased.

He took one step forward, closing his robes against the chill of the chamber, and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another voice was heard, faint but steady.

"You are Karil's advisor," it said, and Masrak saw the prisoner raise his head a little higher and regard him calmly, as if they were meeting formally at court. The words were faint and slowly spoken as if with great effort. "I...saw you there, beside him, the day I was brought here."

Masrak knit his brows. "Yes," he answered, peering at the man with annoyance. How impudent he was, to address his captor before being spoken to. "I am Masrak, chief advisor to the Prince. You see much for one in your position, man of Gondor."

He waited for a response, but none came. Instead, the prisoner remained as he was, silently watching him, waiting. Studying //him//.

The elder Southron bent down now, keenly meeting the man's stare. "Then perhaps you see the wisdom of giving us what we seek from you," he said, his voice gaining the fine edge of a sword-blade.

The man looked at him for several moments, motionless save for a gentle trembling. Despite the chill, sweat glistened on the prisoner's face, and Masrak was satisfied to know that it could only have come from the exertion of bearing the terrific pain caused by the Orcs' torments. From his closeness the advisor could better see the Gondorian's many wounds, the deep bruises, the dull gleam of exquisite suffering in his eyes, and all of this gave great hope to his heart. Certainly beneath such affliction, he thought, the man would weaken now, and break.

But then the Steward of Gondor drew a deep breath and looked away with a shake of his head. The Southron scowled, disappointed. Clearly, sterner measures would have to be taken.

Reaching out with one gloved hand, he took the prisoner's chin and pulled, forcing the man to face him. In this attitude Masrak closely scrutinized his captive, as if the Gondorian were an insect pinned to a board. Yes, he noted, there was defiance still burning in those blue eyes, even through the agony. This was a fire that would have to be doused.

"For one claiming to have the gift of seeing, man of Gondor, you are most bitterly blind," Masrak intoned aloud. "I have met many of your kinsmen upon our battle-fields, and know the warriors of your race to be proud and stubborn, gripping every inch of ground to the last. But always they fell to our spears and arrows; always Sauron blessed us with victory, because we were stronger. It is the same here. Think not that you will gain the day by your refusal to yield. It will only win you suffering beyond description."

The prisoner's expression remained maddeningly calm as he looked at Masrak, and the Southron hated the tranquility he saw there. "It is not for myself that I do this, Lord Advisor," the man said in a quiet voice, the words still halting but spoken with unwavering conviction. "It is for my people, and yours, and the hope that one day our lands may join one another in the blessings of peace."

A smirk crossed Masrak's face. "That day will never come," he announced with complete confidence. "Not all of my people are as foolish as Adir. They remember your crimes against Harad, and yearn for the blood of your countrymen."

But grim resolution remained on the prisoner's battered face. "My heart does not believe that, Lord Masrak," he replied, with surprising firmness for one so weakened. "If your people were as eager to deal us death as you claim, Karil would have far more Haradrim, and far fewer Orcs, to man his forces."

The advisor glowered; the fact that so few of their brothers had heeded Karil's call had long troubled him, but he felt certain he knew the cause. "Our brothers wait only for a sign that victory against Gondor may be won," he answered. "Once that is accomplished, they will swarm to our side. You delude yourself to think otherwise."

The prisoner swallowed; Masrak could see great pain in his features, yet the man's gaze remained steady, the light of utter conviction battling the pain in his eyes. "It is not delusion; it is faith," he insisted, "and I shall never forsake that faith by lending aid to Karil's madness, nor by betraying my King and my land."

Masrak tilted his head back, narrowing his eyes. "Ah, but you will, Gondorian; you have no choice in that matter," he replied smoothly, hoping to see at least some fear in those eerily peaceful eyes. "Your choice is whether to speak it to me now, willingly, or utter it in screams later. Remember, you are at our mercy. There are none to save you, and your courage, however admirable, will result only in further pain. Death will not free you, for it has been forbidden to end your life. But you will suffer, and in darkness and ceaseless affliction you will spend the rest of your days. Is your King and land worth such a sacrifice?"

The words ended, and Masrak waited for some sign of uncertainty to cross the prisoner's face. The man was bound, cruelly injured, alone, and still he showed no fear. Perhaps he was mad, after all...

He studied the eyes again that so steadily peered into his own, and recognized at least a portion of the strength he saw there. The man had hope - for what, Masrak could not imagine, but he knew well that hope had to be destroyed if a prisoner was to be broken.

The Haradrim advisor bent in close, holding the man's chin firmly so that he could not pull away.

"Know this, man of Gondor: none of your allies will find here here," he said in a cold whisper. "Those who might have borne news of your fate to your people are dead. Even if one of them were to rise, they would never survive to return to their home. It is far to your land, and our people patrol the roads night and day. Beasts of prey haunt the sky and the earth; they would finish what our soldiers began. You are abandoned. Accept this, and end your foolish silence. You have no other hope of ceasing this torture."

Was there a flicker of hesitation, for just a moment? In the twilight of the cell, it was impossible to truly know. But no, the prisoner still appeared as willfull as before, staring at him with mute resolution, and Masrak felt a mantle of frustration settle heavily on his shoulders. This man had a soldier's spirit. A formidable obstacle to their ends, perhaps, but not an insurmountable one. Through their efforts, he vowed to himself, it would be soon be crushed.

He released the man's chin and stood, brushing the dirt off of his hands as he left the chamber, granting not even more glance to the prisoner.

"Lord Masrak."

It was the Gondorian's voice, hushed but audible, and Masrak looked at him now, wondering if he had succeeded in changing the captive's mind. The man was gazing at him, his expression one of respect.

The prisoner took a breath before continuing, his voice a little stronger now and charged with undeniable emotion. The chains binding him to the wall clanked a little as he pulled himself up to speak. "There is no reason for this," he said, a gentle strength in his quietly spoken words. "You know as well as I that Karil can gain nothing by attacking the lands of the West. I plead not for my life, but for that of your people and mine, that they may suffer no more from the ravages of war. You are the Prince's advisor-you must persuade him to forsake the path of violence he has set upon. We both know where it will lead him."

Masrak listened, his rage growing with every passing moment. He heard little beyond the first words, and when the prisoner had finished, he stepped forward so that he towered before him, peering at him with burning hatred.

"You say there is no reason for our holding you here, and standing against your people," Masrak replied, every word fraught with icy bitterness. "I have four reasons, man of Gondor - my sons, the last remnants of my blood, all dead upon your fields of Pelennor, their lives ended by the blades of Gondor and arrows of Rohan. Speak not to me of betraying my Prince, nor seek pity or mercy for your people. Rather, be assured that the suffering of the sons of Gondor shall not end with you."

Unable to bear the sight of the prisoner another moment, Masrak turned and hastened from the cell, his blood still running hot at the audacity of the man to ask forbearance of him. If he had had a sword upon him, the Gondorian's torments would have ended at that moment. But it was too soon for that.

"Told you he was a stubborn one," the Orc growled as he slammed and locked the door.

Masrak threw him a scowl as he shook out his robes, feeling his temper cool down despite the warmer air of the antechamber. "I do not recall that ever being a problem for the methods of your kind before," he observed, as he straightened. "Continue your efforts; I will return shortly. Our army will be ready to begin its movements soon, and the Prince will insist on having the prisoner broken before that time."

The Orc nodded. "Might be close, if we can't kill 'im, but I'm sure the boys can be counted on, sir."

"You may believe so," the Southron advisor replied in a critical tone, "but the Prince and I are nevertheless loath to take a chance on such matters. Upon his instruction, I will be sending men of our tribe to you, interrogators who are skilled in the Haradrim methods of withdrawing information from the unwilling. You are to follow their word in every matter, so that this business may be concluded as soon as possible."

The Orc seemed genuinely insulted at this, and awkwardly rubbed his large chin.

Sensing that having a dissatisfied Orc rabble on their hands would not be wise at the moment, Masrak added, "When this is over, the prisoner shall still be yours to dispose of as you wish, as was agreed."

At once the creature's face brightened, and he said, "Yes, sir!" with much enthusiasm. "We'll be ready for your men whenever you want to send 'em down. Might be a treat for the boys to see how you fellows do it."

"Very well," was Masrak's stern reply, and he beckoned to his servant before turning and climbing the stairs, grateful to be returning to the air and light of the world above him. There was some disappointment that the parchment he had brought for the prisoner's information had gone unused this time, but it faded with each step he took, replaced by confidence that it would be needed before long.

------------------

Faramir watched the advisor leave, and once the door had closed and the cold darkness enfolded him again, he leaned his head against his outstretched arm, heaving a sigh of utter exhaustion.

'If only they would be made to understand...' he thought sadly.

Pain lanced through every part of his body, as it had done constantly for the past...he knew not how many days. There was no way to discern the passage of time here, and Faramir had lost the reckoning. The routine in that time had not varied; they would spend hours interrogating him, then throw him into his cell to regain his strength for the next time. He had only just closed his eyes to rest, it seemed, before they came for him again, and so it had repeated. It felt as if he had been imprisoned at least a week.

Faramir licked his lips and swallowed, wishing for water. They saw fit to give him only enough food and drink to keep him alive, and no more, a few mouthfuls at most. Yet as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he willed it away; years of hard living as a soldier and a Ranger had fit him for enduring times of hardship and pain. Here was such a time, and thus he put aside all concerns for his comforts. There were more important matters to contemplate now.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine how long he had been there. Henvain and Legolas would be almost to Minas Tirith by now, if they had not reached it already. He resolved to ignore the advisor's words of the perils they would face; both were strong and able, and Faramir refused to allow any notion that they would not survive. Despair would be the only result, and he knew it would be fatal to his spirit. Instead, he uttered a silent prayer to the Valar to safeguard their journey, and speed the armies of the West to stop Karil's army before it could do harm.

The pain assaulted him again, sharper this time, and he grit his teeth and rode it out, as he had done several times over the past days. His hands ached from the hours spent clenching them into fists as he withstood the torments of the Orcs, but he clenched them now once more, bowing his head and waiting.

He could remember but little now of what they had actually done to him. There were hazy memories of the snap and bite of the lash, endlessly repeated, but the rest was lost in a fog of agony that had seemed to last for years, mingled with the hideous shouts of the Orcs as they ordered him to speak. Afterwards, he remembered the Orcs smearing something foul-smelling over the wounds, most likely a primitive treatment to forestall his death from their infliction. The pain, however, remained.

The agony slowly eased, and he gasped, relieved but knowing that his anguish was far from over. In the utter darkness, his eyes still saw the Orcs' repulsive faces before him, laughing as they plied their cruelty, reminding him that he could end his suffering if he only did as they asked. Although his mind would not summon the details of his ordeal, Faramir well remembered that the Orcs would say such things mostly at the very height of his affliction, when such an offer would seem the most tempting.

This memory was very clear to Faramir; he could still hear the Orcs shrieking at him, taunting him with the even worse things they would do if he refused their demands. Yet to all their threats he forced a deaf ear, striving to keep his spirit strong, no matter how weak his body might be.

As it had several times in the past days, Faramir's mind examined his choices, and as before knew in his soul what his decision would have to be.

To end his torment by breaking and giving in to Karil's demands was unthinkable, and dismissed out of hand at once.

To give the Orcs false information might end his suffering, but it would also end his life, for they would not allow him to live once he had served his purpose to them. This was also unthinkable; in the deepest reaches of his heart, Faramir had sworn to survive this, and return to Eowyn and Gondor.

He had also sworn to endure until the army of Gondor arrived to destroy the threat now posed to the West by Karil's army. He knew Karil would not move until he had the information he wanted, and as long as Faramir remained silent, the Orc army would stay where it was, and where the map would tell Aragorn he would find it. If Faramir pretended to relent, Karil would act on whatever false information he was given. Thus, when the King arrived, Faramir would be dead, and Karil's army departed to regions unknown. Even if the armies of the West acted with swiftness to try and find them, they would be unable to prevent the Orcs and Karil's Haradrim followers from slaughtering all they found.

Even one innocent death was too great for Faramir to bear. So this notion was unthinkable as well.

There was also the way of reason, one Faramir would try until the pain and weariness robbed him of speech. It appeared impossible; both Karil and Masrak had closed their hearts to his words, a fact that caused Faramir far more grief than his wounds. Yet still he would make the attempt, try to make them understand that it was their own souls blinded by the years of Sauron's lies and hatred, and not the malice of Gondor, that kept peace from their lands.

And then there was the final path open to him, the road he had already been treading the past dark days. It was the way of great suffering and darkness, but it was also the way of time, time enough for Legolas and Henvain to find their way home again. Time enough for Aragorn to summon his forces and bring them here, to drive Karil to surrender or destruction, and end this threat to Gondor's lasting peace. Time enough, perhaps, for Adir to find some way into his son's heart, and bind his people with Gondor in ties of everlasting brotherhood.

Faramir looked through the thick blackness around him, down the dim, red road that stretched to the unseen horizon. This path would be the most dangerous for him, but at its end he saw a brilliance unmatched upon any of the other choices he faced. There lay Gondor, secure in its peace; there lay Harad, its arms laid down, its people enjoying the blessings of Gondor's friendship and assistance. And, brightest and dearest of all, there stood Eowyn, opening her soft, white arms to him, welcoming him home. And he could go to her then, unbowed and unashamed, knowing that he had endured all for the sake of Gondor and peace.

This, then, was his decision, the only one his sense of duty and honor would permit him to make. He would urge them to heed Gondor's offer of peace until they heeded him or his strength failed, or until Aragorn's army arrived to present their own argument.

He had only to endure, and wait.

Eowyn paced impatiently within the confines of the Citadel stables, the skirts of her riding dress raising small clouds of dust and bits of hay as she walked back and forth, at a faster rate each time. Her eyes never left the entrance to the building, nor failed to note that the sun was nearly half on its way to the horizon. Soon, it would be too late to ride to Ithilien.

Where /was/ her uncle?

She crossed her arms, trying to fight back her growing sense of frustration. It was wrong of her to be so restless, for she knew Prince Imrahil had many important duties to attend to this day. All morning she had heard the talk-that the Haradrim would be leaving tomorrow, that the talks had failed, that there would be no peace with Harad in the future that could be seen. Her heart ached for Faramir, for she knew how saddened he would be at this news, but it also yearned all the more now for the beauty and quiet of Ithilien, where she might gain a better understanding of how to comfort him when he learned of this reverse.

Perhaps Imrahil will not come, she thought as she paced, unable to quell her troubled musings. Perhaps Aragorn learned of their plans and forbade the journey because of the still-present danger. Perhaps-

The sound of voices reached her ears, and she stopped short, her breath seized in her throat. Before she could move, Imrahil entered the stable, clad in his riding garments. Scarcely had relief begun to overcome her when she saw more figures appear behind him. They included Gimli and a tall dark-haired soldier she had seen before but could not name.

She opened her mouth, but Imrahil held up a hand, a smile on his gentle face that reminded her at once of Faramir.

"Fear not, my Lady, we still ride today," her uncle assured her. "Pray forgive my lateness, I was locating our traveling companions and military escort. You remember Lieutenant Faelor?"

He indicated the dark-haired soldier, who bowed to her.

She nodded in reply, prying a nervous smile onto her lips. "Certainly," she said. "And Master Gimli, you are most welcome as well."

"Don't think I'd be lettin' you go out there without the protection of a Dwarvish axe, my lady," was Gimli's response. "I've brought several of my choicest blades, just in case."

"I also have four of my men waiting for us outside," Faelor added.

Eowyn felt a little thrown, and looked at Imrahil. "It's not going to be a nice quiet ride to the river, is it?" she asked with a slight laugh.

The Prince shrugged. "I fear it will be a little more crowded than we had anticipated," he admitted, "but the protection may be needed. And, King Elessar insisted upon it, I'm afraid."

Eowyn's eyes grew wider at this unexpected announcement. "He knows we ride to Ithilien?"

Imrahil's smile grew a little broader, and he relaxed enough to lean one hand on the nearest post. "If you will believe it, my dear niece, he imagines this was his idea. We were disbanding this afternoon's council meeting-quite a long, tedious affair, and those of us who'd hoped for peace were most downhearted-and the King took me aside to express his gratitude for the assistance of myself and Faramir in this matter, although we did not prevail. Then he mentioned his concern for you, that he had seen how pale and weary you seemed of late, and asked if I might not see that you were able to leave the city walls and get some air, so that you would be well when Faramir returns."

Her eyes remained round, but they were now rimmed with grateful tears at her friend's kindness. Blinking them away, she drew a deep breath and smiled, unable for the moment to speak.

The Prince gave her a sympathetic smile and gently took one of her hands. "So, it seems we are now under the King's orders, my Lady," he said in a soft tone, "and we shall depart whenever you wish."

Before half an hour had passed, the group was free of the City, pounding across the Pelennor towards Ithilien.

Eowyn smiled to herself as she rode, feeling the pain and misery melt away from her as she flew across the plains. She had no words to describe how wonderful it was to have the wind blowing upon her face, her long golden hair streaming behind her, and to feel the muscles of her mount churning beneath her as it carried her forward. It could not completely ease the ache of her heart, but she did sense her melancholy lift at least a little. It would not be fully banished until she once more held Faramir in her arms.

After an hour's ride, Ithilien stretched before them, and Eowyn caught herself straining to catch the first breath of its fragrant air. Even before they entered its borders, she felt herself enveloped by the heavy scents of jasmine, heather, and wildflowers. As they entered into its lush forests, she allowed the aroma to softly enfold her, soothing her spirit because it reminded her so much of her husband.

She paid little heed to Imrahil's activities as he dismounted and gave instructions to his men. She imagined he was commanding them to seek out any signs of Orcs, but her mind was turned elsewhere. Spurring her horse up the nearby grassy hill, she soon found the site where they had been not two weeks before, where she and Faramir would build their home after he returned.

As she reined in her horse and slid from its back, she glanced around. So much had changed already; summer had fully ripened here, the trees were more full and lush, their bright green leaves now deepened to an emerald hue. The scent of flowers and grass was even thicker upon the warm air, and in the dense shadows of the trees and bushes that ringed the space, she could see insects darting in and out of the cool darkness. Butterflies and birds fluttered in and out of the sunlight; the whole area hummed with life.

She stood still for a few moments, quietly absorbing the tranquility around her. Then she turned back to her saddle and, ever mindful of the present danger, carefully lifted her sheathed sword from its resting place. She knew that soldiers were patrolling the surrounding woods and they would prevent any harm from coming to her, but she also was aware that it never hurt to be prepared.

Holding the scabbard in her hand, she slowly walked out to the middle of the clearing where their house would be built, part of her musing upon the day that would happen, and the other part keeping a watchful eye out for trouble.

Soon Eowyn reached a sun-drenched, soft patch of ground, and as she lay the sword down beside her and sank down upon the cool grass, she felt her heart soar within her. Surrounded by such wondrous beauty, it seemed impossible to think that Faramir would not soon return, and they would lives the rest of their lives here, together. This seemed to have been created for them, waiting only for his presence to become their home.

She closed her eyes and smiled, bending her face to the sunlight and willing its warmth to cleanse away the darkness that had so plagued her soul. A lazy drowsiness overcame her, and she relented to it, permitting her mind to drift on the gentle summer breeze, carrying her far away in her half-waking dreams to be with him.

-------------------

Faelor paced back and forth along the mouth of the Morgul Road, casting his eyes down the rocky path that led to Mordor and trying his best to ignore the misgivings hovering at the edge of his thoughts.

Henvain had been gone for over two weeks now, and Faelor hadn't thought he'd miss him this much. It seemed odd to turn around and not find him there; they'd been together since first joining the Army, except for Henvain's illness during the final days of the war. There were plenty of other soldiers to practice battle with and go drinking with, but still he missed his comrade. He even missed all the complaining.

His lip twitched with self-disgust as he marched back and forth across the road, keeping watch for any signs of Orcs. His mind had been going from not worrying about Henvain - he *was* a perfectly capable soldier, after all, and Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas were both highly skilled in battle - to being very worried indeed. Not only had his friend gone into Mordor, but he'd made that foolish jibe about wanting to gain some battle scars during the journey.

Faelor shook his head at the memory. After so many years in the army, he mused, a person would have thought that Henvain would know better than to tempt fate by saying such things!

"Is the road secure, lad?"

Faelor looked back towards Ithilien to see the sturdy form of the Dwarf Gimli coming down the road towards him, axe casually in hand.

The soldier nodded, turning his eyes back to the rocky valley before him. "Aye, Master Gimli, it is," he sighed. "No Orcs or other beasts about, it appears."

"Ah! Curse the luck," growled the Dwarf as he came to stand beside Faelor, following his gaze into Mordor. "I've a mind to cleave an Orc or two today, after so long sitting in those blasted negotiations." He almost spat the word. "And tree stumps have proven most unsatisfying."

Faelor found himself nodded with a smile, relieved to find some amusement if only for a moment. Battle would almost be a relief, after so much idleness, but having seen a good deal of it, Faelor knew better than to actively wish for conflict. Such desires never ended well.

"So," he heard Gimli say, after they had watched the road in silence for a short time, "no sign of life at all, eh?"

The dark-haired man shook his head. "None. Even the insects seem to stay clear of Mordor's air."

"Hm," grunted the Dwarf in reply, in a manner that suggested to Faelor that he was somewhat disappointed. "Well, I suppose that is both good and bad. At least there are no foul travelers upon that road."

"No," agreed Faelor as he settled into a wearied posture. "Nor friendly ones either, sad to say."

Gimli nodded. "Aye, that is true," he muttered, leaning upon his axe as he gazed wistfully down the wide path.

Silence fell for a short time.

"I wonder where they are now," Faelor mused softly, still looking ahead. "Probably having a high time of it, chasing Orcs around."

"No doubt," answered the Dwarf, "and when they get back, we'll have to sit and listen to them recount the grand adventure they had while we sat here and waited. The Elf will be insufferable!" Here Gimli shook his head with such vehemence that his armor rattled.

"Henvain won't be able to shut his mouth for weeks," bemoaned Faelor. "Always has to be the center of attention, you know. He'll be the hero of barracks. And it'll be even worse in the taverns - he'll have every lady in the place fawning all over him."

"Ha! You've got that wrong, my friend," insisted Gimli. "They'll be running after that Elf. And their fawning was bad enough before, with every lass in the City putting on airs in front of him. It'll be intolerable."

Faelor nodded. "Unbearable."

"Maddening."

"Unfair."

There was a pause, after which they both quietly sighed and continued to stare down the empty road. A powerful twinge of sadness wrenched Faelor's heart, and he wondered if Gimli wasn't thinking the same thing he was - that as bad as the situation would be when their friends got back, it couldn't happen soon enough.

"Well," Gimli said, after clearing his throat and hefting his axe onto his shoulder, "suppose I'll go see how the Prince is faring. Carry on, lad."

He gave the young soldier an encouraging pat on the arm, then turned and walked back towards the clearing.

Faelor watched him go, then turned back to his duty. He had been unsuccessful in keeping the melancholy at bay, so now, alone again with his thoughts, he simply surrendered to them, and sank into a somber mood of deep contemplation without a struggle.

The days ahead look almost as dark as that road to Mordor, Faelor mused as he eyed the path keenly for movement. Certainly the City would be a gloomy place for a while, what with the peace talks failing and the prospect of continued trouble with Harad on the horizon. Many were glad the Southrons were leaving, but there were also those who were bitterly disappointed. And as much as his fellow soldiers tried to make their burden light, there was still too much awareness of how many had fallen, and how few of them were left now to protect the land.

'Henvain's certainly going to find things hatefully dull when he gets back,' Faelor told himself, heaving another sigh.

After Faelor had stood pondering in this way for a short while, a movement caught his eye, far in the distance on the road, at a point where it bent and disappeared into Mordor. Faelor straightened a bit, puzzled, watching the speck as his earlier lethargy flew away at once. Was it an Orc, or merely a trick of his bored eyes?

'Whatever it is, it's moving slow enough,' he thought, and turned. Licking his lips, he gave a whistling call, then directed his attention back to the road.

After a few moments, there was a rustle, and two more Gondorian soldiers of Faelor's age appeared, coming to stand behind him. They were from the escort that had accompanied them all to Ithilien.

"The Prince sent us over to see if anything was happening here," said one in a casual tone. "It's rather boring back there, at the moment."

"What are you peering at?" asked the second with sharp curiosity, following Faelor's gaze.

In response, Faelor pointed. "Am I going mad, or is someone coming down that road?"

The two men looked.

"Your mind is as sound as it ever was, Fae, for what that is worth," said the second soldier with a wry grin. "I'll go tell the Prince - it might be an Orc."

He turned and ran off, as the other two ducked behind some covering bushes at the side of the road, keeping an eye on the moving figure.

"Looks like two of them," Faelor noted.

"Hm," the first soldier grunted, scratching his chin. "Strange how they're just walking in the middle of the road like that in daylight, don't you think? Usually they at least pretend to be clever, going behind trees and rocks and like that."

"Yes." Faelor was frowning. "And look how oddly they're moving, so slow, like they've been inj-"

The words stuck in his throat as a sudden realization struck him like a thunderbolt. His eyes widened painfully as he stared at the now-larger forms.

Without moving his head, he groped behind him with one hand, found his comrade's arm, and clutched at it with all of his might. He was trembling.

"Athir, go find the Prince, and Master Gimli," he choked; his throat suddenly felt very tight.

He could almost hear the other soldier blink in confusion. "But - Calen just went to tell him - "

"I know, I know!" Faelor cried, stumbling into the road and pulling his friend with him.

"Fae!" his comrade gasped. "What in-"

Faelor whipped his head around, peering at Athir with a gaze that could sear metal. "You've got to find the Prince and Gimli at the double-quick and bring them here NOW," he insisted. "That's a most highly urgent order!"

He released the other man, who staggered a bit, then composed himself swiftly and saluted. "Yes, sir, I'll do it, but-it's just a couple of Orcs."

"Those aren't Orcs," was Faelor's highly agitated reply, as he peered in disbelief at the two approaching figures. But he knew he wasn't wrong. "It's Lord Legolas and Henvain!"

Then he was gone, pounding down the road as fast as he could run. He knew somewhere in the cloud of dust he left after him, Athir was gaping in confused astonishment. But Faelor couldn't help him; he had no answers himself. He only knew he had to get to them.

It was a long way, much longer than it looked from the mouth of the road, but with every thudding step Faelor drew closer, his confusion increasing with every step. As he got near enough, he could see that he had been right, it was definitely Legolas and Henvain. He shouted and waved as he ran, not knowing where he got the breath, not caring if a hundred Orcs heard him. He only wanted his friend to know he was coming.

At once he saw one of the figures wave, and a very faint answering cry came to him on the air. A stab of relief pierced his heart, but it was quickly overwhelmed by an oppressive dread as a hundred questions flooded his mind, one chief among them.

Where was Lord Faramir?

He was getting closer now, closer, his long stride creating a rapid rhythm on the hard ground matched by the hammering of his heart, and he was thinking, mother of Morgoth, what happened to them? They've been in battle, an ambush or capture or something, Henvain can barely walk, there's a sling on Lord Legolas' arm, is Lord Faramir dead? Dear Valar, what will the Prince and Lady Eowyn do-

Only a hundred feet now, and he could see the dried blood and torn clothes, the bandages and bruises. They were supporting each other, walking with great weariness and pain, covered with dirt and grime, and as he closed the last yards Faelor was struck with a new question: When had all this happened?

As he skidded to a dusty stop in front of them, he heard Henvain give a loud groan, and Faelor held his arms out just in time to catch them as both Henvain and the Elf collapsed. All three fell to the earth, Faelor doing his best to keep hold of the other two. There was much grunting, moaning, and coughing as they fought to settle themselves into the least painful positions possible.

"By Eru, Faelor!" he heard Henvain choke out as the plume settled, his hands gripping Faelor's arms. "That was some fast running! For once I'm glad you've got those great long legs that make you so much taller than me!"

"Henvain!" was the only coherent reply Faelor could come up with at the moment. Urgently he searched the traveler's faces, brushing Henvain's fair hair away from his friend's eyes, trying to see how badly he was hurt. Henvain blinked and scowled irritably at him, but didn't push him away, a fact that worried Faelor greatly. They both looked so much worse up close, bloodied and pale and obviously exhausted. They seemed unable to move now, or do anything but gasp for air.

"Valar, Henvain-Lord Legolas-what-how-" Shaking his head at his own speechlessness, Faelor pulled off his canteen and handed it to Henvain, feeling thankful that it was full. "*What happened*?"

Lord Legolas turned to him, and Faelor was shocked at how drained the Elf looked. He thought Elves never tired.

"We came into foul fortune," was Legolas' quiet reply, his voice weak and breaking as he panted for breath. "We found Karil's lair, but during the return journey, the Orcs discovered us."

"I'll tell it, sir, you drink," Henvain broke in, pushing the still-full canteen at Legolas without taking a drop. "You need it more than me."

This surprised Faelor, as he'd always fancied Hanvain to be rather a selfish fellow, but he was equally surprised as how the Elf seemed to grope a bit before his slender hand found the canteen. Almost as if he couldn't see it.

"As long as somebody tells me the tale!" Faelor said aloud in exasperation, as Legolas began to drink from the canteen. "Lord Faramir-where is Lord Faramir? Has he been slain?"

Henvain's expression darkened, and it seemed difficult suddenly for him to speak. Instead, he sniffed and wiped at his face with one dust-covered sleeve.

"He fought so bravely, Faelor; oh, you should have seen him," his friend finally managed to utter, his voice thick with sorrow. Faelor had never heard him speak in this way before. "But there were too many of them, seemed like hundreds. He sent as many of them as he could down to Morgoth, but in the end, he couldn't hold them off."

A terrible coldness swept over Faelor, and he had to force his next words out of his throat. "Is he dead?"

It was Legolas' voice that calmly answered. The Elf had stopped drinking and was regarding Faelor with an expression of tremendous grief.

"Not slain," he said, "but he has fallen into the power of the enemy."

Faelor felt his heart almost stop; to most soldiers of Gondor, becoming a captive of the Orcs was far worse than death. He seized Henvain's arm. "They took him prisoner?"

There was a pause, then Henvain nodded ruefully. "Saw him taken away myself," he declared in a mournful tone. "He fought 'em every step, though. And look-"

Here Henvain yanked out a very dusty leather pouch he had slung over his shoulder.

"He made sure to hide the map we made." A faint smile crossed Henvain's sweat-stained face. "We know where Karil is, Faelor, and that's where they've taken him. We've got to go get him out of there, and put a stop to that army."

Faelor stared at him, not liking the dire sound of his friend's voice. "You saw Karil's army?"

The other man pursed his lips and nodded, a serious gleam coming to his pale eyes. "It's enormous, four or five thousand at least," he replied gravely. "Mostly Orcs, and I imagine they're spoiling for a fight something awful."

There was an interruption as Legolas handed the canteen to Henvain.

"The rest is for you, my friend," said the Elf, and this time Henvain did not hesitate to accept it.

"We must take the map to Aragorn," Legolas continued as Henvain drained the canteen. The water seemed to have revived him. "An army must be raised and taken to Karil's fortress at once, so that we may deliver Lord Faramir and put an end to Karil's insanity."

Faelor shook his head. "First we're getting you both to the Houses," he stated. His head was swimming with all that had happened, but he strove to set it all in order. "You've both been through enough for now; the King and the Council can take care of the map and the Orcs. Concern yourselves about nothing else; your troubles are over for now."

The sound of rapid hoofbeats reached his ears, and he turned to see a large group of riders thundering down the road towards them. At the front he could see Gimli, his features wild with worry; Prince Imrahil, his aspect stoic and grave; and Lady Eowyn, a deeply stricken expression plainly visible on her ashen face. Even from where he was, Faelor could see her wide, anxious blue eyes.

"For the rest of us, I fear," Faelor muttered as he watched the party approach, "the troubles are just beginning."

-------------------

The tranquility of the end of another day in Minas Tirith was abruptly broken as soon as the horses bearing Henvain and Legolas rode through the Great Gate.

As desirous as Imrahil was of making a quiet entry, it was impossible to conceal the identity and condition of the returned travelers. So it was that tongues that had been speaking all day of the failed peace talks and the imminent departure of the Haradrim now turned to frantic speculation as to what had happened to Lord Faramir's scouting party.

Word flew as swiftly as messengers could run or ride up the levels of the White City, and while Imrahil and Eowyn bore their injured friends to the Houses of Healing, news of their arrival spread like the fire of the setting sun.

The King and Queen had settled down to dinner, Arwen doing her best to console the disappointed Aragorn over the failure of the negotiations. Then before the first bite was consumed, Captain Irolas had burst into the room, his usual attention to decorum completely absent. Within moments, the room was empty, and the servants urged by the departing King himself to enjoy the royal meal, lest it go to waste.

Eomer had been in the stables, tending to his horse after a long, frustrating afternoon of council meetings. He had been mulling over the failed treaty with little sadness, and anticipating his return to Rohan, when a chorus of shouts caught his attention. He stepped outside just in time to see Imrahil and the others ride by to the Houses of Healing which lay up the street. After hastily relegating the rest of the tending to the stableboy, Eomer was soon seen tearing up the street after the riders, his long golden hair streaming behind him and an expression of utter dismay on his face.

In a fine house a few levels below, Lord Tuornen was hosting a celebration for his like-minded fellow councilmen over the ending of the peace negotiations with the hated Haradrim. Word soon came that Lord Faramir's party had returned, injured and without him, but that there was no word yet as to what had happened to them. This information was greeted by initial surprise by the host, followed swiftly by a healthy round of self-congratulation, for it was obvious to Tuornen that Faramir's party had been set upon by Haradrim and Orcs acting in accord with the treacherous Adir, who must have arranged it all as a trap. The talk of the gathering instantly turned to a speculation over what would happen now that the Haradrim's treachery had been exposed, and a good deal of wondering about whether Adir's peace delegation would be arrested, or simply executed.

---------------

"A force of five thousand? Are you certain?"

Aragorn's words filled the stone hall in the Houses of Healing. Some time had passed; Henvain and Legolas had both been bathed and dressed in new clothes, and they each now reclined on a raised bed while being seen to by a swarm of healers and attendants. At one end of the room roared a large fire in the chamber's enormous fireplace, with several iron pots of medicinal liquids hung over the flames on hooks and set to warm on the hearth. The entire room was cast in a warm glow, helped along by the torches and lanterns set along the wall, yet despite the bright light, the mood was dark indeed.

Gimli had not left Legolas' side since reuniting with the Elf upon the Morgul Road. At first, the dwarf was so beside himself with joy, grief, and rage that his speech was reduced to mere wordless sputterings. When his tongue regained its ability to form words, concern had caused the resulting flow of language to be unceasing, varying wildly from agonized queries after Legolas' health to snarling vows of vengeance against those responsible.

Only now had he fallen silent, too wearied and hoarse to say any more. Yet still he stood by Legolas' side, refusing to move except for the healers, and even then he was never more than an arm's length away, his blue eyes watching his dear friend closely.

Legolas bore all of this with a fond, half-waking smile. His broken arm had now been properly set, the wound in his side closed and wrapped, and the healers had declared that his sight would likely return to normal soon, as it had already improved markedly from the day he was injured. He now lay upon the bed, propped up on many pillows (half of which had been placed there by Gimli), and was endeavoring, along with Henvain, to inform Aragorn of all they had seen.

Of the two patients, Henvain had seemed much more unsettled by the experience of being seen to by so many healers. He had vague recollections of his time there when he had been suffering from dysentery; this was entirely different. Then, they had mostly left him alone; now they seemed all over him at once, bandaging his injuries, treating his twisted leg, asking him a thousand questions. He did not mind the treatment-it felt indescribably good to finally be clean, fed and a little rested-but he had no idea what the correct response was. As a result, he simply lay back and watched it all happen with wide eyes and an expression of complete bewilderment.

The farther one went from the center of the room, the more quiet the chamber became, but the air was still rife with unspoken feeling. Aragorn paced back and forth nearby the beds, his tall, lean frame set in a posture of building anguish. Anger, sadness, and resolve roiled together within his green eyes, and his handsome face had lost all traces of softness since first hearing of the travelers' return and the news they carried. Spread out on a table nearby was Faramir's map, and Aragorn glanced at it from time to time as he paced, the firm cast of his face indicating the grim thoughts now coursing through his mind.

Gondor would soon go to battle.

At the very edge of the room, farthest from the light and half-cloaked in shadow, nothing moved. There upon a bench sat Eowyn, her features hard and unreadable as she watched the group, save for an unmistakable aspect of the most profound sorrow. No tear stained her cheek, nor did any trembling afflict her frame, to signal the fathomless depths of agony flowing through her heart. Only the tumultuous aspect of her eyes, and the tight grip with which she held the hand of the Queen who sat beside her, gave any hint to the true state of her soul.

Standing next to Eowyn beside the stone bench was Imrahil, still dusty from his swift ride back from Ithilien, open concern plain upon his weathered brow as he studied the King, one hand placed lightly upon Eowyn's shoulder.

Behind Eowyn stood Eomer, his arms folded, as still as his sister. Unlike Eowyn, however, the emotions of his heart were clearly written upon every inch of his face. His eyes flashed like fire, and an attitude of deadly intent was marked large across every inch of his body. The fury in his countenance was unspeakable, and bode very ill for those responsible for Faramir's sufferings.

"Four thousand at the very least," Legolas said in reply to Aragorn's question, his voice much stronger now that he had rested. "It was mostly Orcs, but I saw many Uruks among them as well. They were building siege towers and trebuchets, and my guess is that he intends to once more attack the City."

Aragorn sighed and ceased his pacing, shaking his head. "Madness!" he whispered to himself, before looking up again at the two patients. "Did he appear to have many Haradrim in his numbers?"

Henvain, who was doing his best to ignore the healer who was cleaning one of the deep cuts on his forehead, looked at Aragorn and shook his head a little.

"No, sir-ow! Sorry-" here he threw an apologetic look to the healer who was tending the wound- "No, sir, at least I didn't see many. It was almost all Orcs."

"The Haradrim appeared to be acting as overseers to the efforts of the Orcs," Legolas added, as an attendant adjusted the linen sling in which his broken arm now rested. "But I saw no more than a hundred. If Karil was depending upon the support of his people, it seems he was disappointed."

Aragorn's lip twitched in wry amusement. "Some council members I know will be disappointed as well, to know that Karil's army is not composed entirely of bloodthirsty Southrons." He thought for a moment, then looked at Henvain and Legolas. "I must commend the both of you again for your strength and courage in the face of such hardship. Through your dedication and perseverance, we possess the means to deliver Faramir and destroy Karil's army."

Legolas' weary expression changed to one of melancholy. "It was our duty, my friend," he replied quietly, "and no more than Faramir would have done for us, had our fates been reversed."

"Lord Legolas is right, sir," said Henvain sadly. He was now holding a hot, wet cloth against his forehead while the healer prepared her treatment. "I mean, I'm very grateful for the King's kindness, but it's Lord Faramir who was truly brave, sir. Even after the Orcs tied him up and marched him off, he looked fit to spit in their eyes, every last one of 'em."

The King smiled a little. "Yes, as you said before," he murmured, sorrow pervading his voice. "I never would have expected less of him. Alas, that he should have met such a fate!"

There was a pause, then Aragorn lifted his head, his features set with steadfast resolve. "But fear not," he went on, his tone taking on the ring of steel, "for his bravery shall soon be rewarded, when we march upon the fortress, subdue Karil's forces, and open wide the door that now stands barred against our friend."

Turning, he strode across the room to Eomer, stopping before him.

"Gondor's army has grown since the end of the War, but our numbers are still far from what they were," said Aragorn, looking into his comrade's face.

Eomer regarded him in a somber manner, grief mingling with resolve in his dark eyes. "There is no cause to voice your need, my friend," he answered. "Set alight the beacons, and I will send forth riders to hasten the Eored along. You shall ride to Mordor with Rohan once more beside you, and together we shall bring our brother home."

Gratitude, though not surprise, flooded Aragorn's features as he clasped Eomer's arm in wordless thanks.

Gimli's deep voice next pierced the silence. "With your leave, Eomer King, I would have your messenger carry a word to my people now dwelling in the Glittering Caves," he said. "There are many Dwarf-warriors there who would no doubt welcome the chance to join our numbers, and turn their axes once more against our enemies."

"The Elves of Ithilien shall also go," added Legolas, pulling himself a bit more upright as he spoke. "You will find none more able to overtake the Orc sentries unseen and unheard, and thus clear the way for our soldiers to approach Karil's lair without detection."

"I shall summon my men in Dol Amroth as well," offered Imrahil. "My swiftest rider shall leave tonight. I have no doubt that they will rise to the call, not only for Gondor's sake, but for Faramir's as well, for he is much loved among us."

The King released Eomer's arm and grasped the Prince's shoulder. "It will be an honor to have the Swan Knights among us once more," proclaimed Aragorn, his tone rife with gratitude.

Then after a pause he looked down to where Eowyn sat, staring away into the fire, her face pale. Arwen still held her hand, and Aragorn met his wife's eyes as she sat beside her. There was understanding there, for the Queen had long lived with the possibility of never again beholding the man she loved, and knew its exquisite agony well.

Slowly Aragorn knelt before Eowyn, taking her hand as she drew her gaze from the fire and looked at him. Tears glittered in the corners of her eyes, but did not fall.

The King paused, considering what to say, before looking up at her. "We will return him to you," he vowed softly, "though the darkest powers of Morgoth stand in our way."

Eowyn stared at him, parted her lips slightly as if to speak, but said nothing.

Tenderly Aragorn placed his other hand over hers, his eyes never straying from her face. "If there is aught to be done that will ease your heart," he continued, "say the word, and I will see it done."

She blinked, and drew a long breath before saying, in a low but unwavering tone, "There is but one boon I would ask of you, my Lord."

Aragorn nodded slightly. "Speak, and I will grant it," he urged gently.

The next words were spoken by Eowyn without hesitation, her grip upon Aragorn's hand growing tighter as she pronounced them. "I would ride with you to Mordor."

It was not an unexpected request, but still Aragorn appeared wary as he studied her. Yet before he could protest, he response was interrupted by a short, bitter laugh from Eowyn herself.

"You need not utter the refusal I see hanging on your lips, my Lord!" she said. "You wish to remind me that it is dangerous, and that you would not risk the loss of both Faramir and myself. Yet danger I have faced, and survived, and would face again a hundred times more if it allowed me to be with my husband even a moment sooner than otherwise."

Aragorn peered at her. "My Lady, your bravery is not in doubt," he affirmed, "yet my heart is still broken over the fate that has befallen Faramir. Should you come to harm as well, I shall find no forgiveness for myself."

She gave him a mournful smile. "Yet I have already come to harm," she replied in a far more quiet voice than before. "There is no wound they can deal me that could do more to cleave my heart. Yet do not fear, for it is not my wish to ride to battle. I understand it is the custom for a small number of healers to follow your troops upon their campaigns; my place shall be with them, to lend them both my skills and my blade, if need be."

Silence fell as Aragorn seemed to consider this, then slowly nodded.

"Your boon shall be fulfilled," he promised. "I know Faramir would wish it, and I would not repay his suffering and yours by allowing you to be parted a moment longer than fate demands." He clasped her hand warmly between his won, and said softly, "Be at peace, my Lady, for I vow you will see him soon."

One tear slipped down Eowyn's cheek even as she smiled gratefully at the King. He returned the smile, rose, and gave her a brief kiss upon her brow before releasing her hand.

He turned to face the room, the mantle of leadership settling once more upon his shoulders.

"Tomorrow we shall begin our preparations," he announced. "A Council of War will be called, and a course of action set. When our armies are gathered, we shall depart, and not return until Faramir is safe and the last of Sauron's darkness swept away forever."

Silent expressions of unyielding determination met his words. After a moment, Aragorn turned his lips and turned to Imrahil.

"I shall leave you in power here, my friend," he said. "My next task will be to ride now to the camp of the Haradrim, and speak with Adir about this new matter. He may have knowledge that will aid our cause."

Imrahil nodded. "As you wish, my King," he answered. "But - will you still allow them to depart? Though I feel he is blameless, there will doubtless be those who feel the Chieftain is somehow involved with my nephew's plight."

The King sighed. "Such a thought has arisen in my mind as well," he admitted, "but I can find no cause in all of my dealings with Adir to suspect that he is in any way responsible for this. In my long years I have come across many men fair and foul, enough to recognize a dark heart cloaked in righteous robes, and I have discerned no such falseness in him."

There was a cough behind him. "Um-beg pardon? Your Majesty?"

At Henvain's timid summons, Aragorn turned and looked at him, somewhat surprised.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" said the King indulgently, his attitude marked with respect for the young soldier who had endured so much for Gondor.

Henvain seemed rather uncomfortable, for reasons that had nothing to do with the healer now wrapping his injured leg. "I'm sorry to eavesdrop, sir, but when you mentioned Adir, I remembered something that might be important. The Orcs mentioned him, right after they took Lord Faramir prisoner. I heard 'em plain as daylight."

Aragorn's gaze grew keen as he stepped over to Henvain's cot. "You have no need of repentance for overhearing us, my friend," he assured the soldier. "Can you recall their words?"

Henvain nodded firmly. "Yes, sir, and I don't think we have to worry about him bein' on their side. They called him a bastard traitor - er, pray excuse the language - " Here he threw an apologetic look to Arwen and Eowyn, before facing Aragorn once more - "and they seemed mighty keen on havin' Lord Faramir tell them where Adir was so's they could find him and kill him for tryin' to stop Karil. Not somethin' they'd do if he was actin' with him, I think. And they didn't know I was listenin', or they'd have killed me sure, so I don't think it was any sort of play-actin' on their part." He hesitated, then looked up. "That's all, sir."

"It is enough, Lieutenant," said Aragorn with an appreciative inclination of his head. "If Adir were truly allied with Karil in his madness, I am sure it would not be a secret from his troops. I shall go speak with him now; if he shows any signs of falseness, I shall take the proper action, but he and his people will be free to return home if I find no reason to keep them here."

He laid a hand lightly on Henvain's shoulder, a movement that caused the soldier to go wide-eyed and motionless with amazement.

"My thanks again to you, my brave friend, for your assistance in seeing Lord Legolas safely home, and seeing that Lord Faramir's sacrifice was not in vain," said the King. "I leave you both in the best possible care, but I should very much like to speak with you again, when all of this is past."

It took a few tries before Henvain was able to force out the words, "Yes, sir. Thank you, Sire."

In the next moment, a knock came at the door, and Irolas entered, his dark blue velvet cape swirling behind him as he walked in. His long blonde hair was slightly disheveled as if from a hasty ride.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing deeply before Aragorn, "your escort to the Haradrim camp has been assembled and awaits you."

"My thanks, Captain Irolas," returned Aragorn. "How stand the mood of the streets tonight?"

The young man frowned a little, and his efficient facade seemed to slip a bit, revealing a hint of uneasiness beneath the calm exterior. "The people are restive, your Highness, to be sure," he answered. "Lord Faramir's capture has aroused a good deal of anger towards the Haradrim; we have had to stop three seperate parties of armed men from going out to find and confront the delegation. There is talk of war with Harad."

The King shook his head. "It is with one renegade son of that land that our quarrel lies, and he shall be dealt with soon enough. Send forth word that a severe penalty awaits any who seek to cause harm to those who have entered our borders in peace."

Irolas nodded. "It shall be done, my King, and I have also sent more men to stand watch over the Haradrim camp, although it was a difficult matter to manage. Most of the soldiers agree with the people, and long to seek vengeance on any who would do Lord Faramir injury."

"And they shall have that chance," the King promised firmly, "but until I have reason to believe ill of them, Adir and his men are under my protection."

An uncertain expression flickered across Irolas' face for an instant. but if he had any reservations, he quickly hid them behind a perfectly executed military bow.

"I shall make it known, sire," he said. "We will depart when you are prepared to do so."

With these words, Irolas turned and went as swiftly as he had entered.

Aragorn now looked at each of the room's occupants in turn. "I leave you in excellent hands, my friends," he said, his tone light and encouraging. "Take your healing and rest now, so that together we shall have the strength to face the days of testing that still lie ahead."

Aragorn nodded his farewell to those assembled, and left his friends to their private thoughts of anxiousness, grief, and hope.

----------------

The King was approaching the stables, clad in his riding gear and flanked by his personal guards, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps coming upon him. He did not break his stride or turn, so intent was he upon his mission, and he felt little need to see who it was, for he felt he knew.

"Good evening, Lord Tuornen," he said aloud, without looking.

The visitor appeared beside him, trying with difficulty to match the monarch's long stride. "Good evening, Your Majesty," the Councilman replied. "You are quite perceptive, as always."

"It is a remnant of my days as a Ranger of the North," Aragorn said, not slowing his pace. "A quite useful one, I have often found."

"Quite so," the nobleman agreed, and Aragorn could hear the obsequious smirk in his voice. "Perhaps your Majesty also knows why I am here?"

There was a short silence as they continued across the Fountain Courtyard towards the royal stables, now bathed in moonlight.

"I would suppose it involves the Haradrim in some manner," guessed the King as he walked. "You must forgive me if I cannot attend you now, my Lord, for I am in haste. There will be a meeting of the Council tomorrow, and all will be made known then."

"It does involve the Haradrim, Sire, and I fear this cannot wait," insisted Tuornen; they were almost at the stables. "You will not be surprised to know that the news of the foul attack and Lord Faramir's capture has reached every level of the City."

"I am not surprised in the slightest," Aragorn remarked, as they entered the outer limits of the warm glow from the stables. "Nothing flies so fast as gossip, particularly when it is ill in nature."

"Then you will also understand that the people are outraged at this turn of events," Tuornen continued, struggling even more to keep up with the King; he was becoming winded. "They cry out for the blood of those responsible."

"And they shall be satisfied; even now the beacons are being set alight to call for Rohan's aid," said Aragorn. They had reached the stables, and he stopped now and faced the panting Councilman, impatience plainly written on his handsome features. "Our armies will soon gather, and march upon the enemy."

"Ah!" Tuornen exclaimed, smiling. "We go to battle with Harad, I trust?"

There was a noise inside the stables as the Kings' mount was prepared.

"We go to battle, but not with Harad," said Aragorn, a small smile on his lips. "We know the place of Karil's fortress, and his army, and both shall soon be ours."

Tuornen's face fell, and he seemed momentarily bewildered.

"An army?" he stammered, after a pause. "There is a...But-it is not an army of Haradrim?"

The King shook his head. "It is composed of Orcs and Uruks; what Haradrim there are are few and widely scattered. It may disappoint you, my friend, but it appears Karil acts apart from his people. Harad is not to blame for what will soon occur."

Tuornen frowned. "Are...are we certain of that?"

Aragorn's gaze grew hard. "I have the word of a soldier of Gondor, and Lord Legolas, whom I would trust to the death," he said firmly. The challenge in his tone was unmistakable.

The nobleman averted his eyes as he considered this new information. "I am sure," he remarked, sounding anything but certain. He then looked up, a new thought seeming to strike him. "But-but what of Adir and the Haradrim delegation now in the very shadow of our City?"

"I go to them now," was Aragorn's answer, as he glanced inside the stalls.

Tuornen's expression turned hopeful. "To detain them?"

The King did not bother to hide his distaste for the Councilman's eagerness to condemn the Haradrim. "If I find cause for such action, yes," he replied, looking down as he adjusted his riding gloves. "But at the moment, I seek merely to confer with Adir, and make certain that they are adequately supplied for their journey home tomorrow."

The other man's features instantly fell. "They will not be held?" he inquired, obviously confused.

Aragorn fixed him with a stern glance. "Gondor does not imprison men without reason," was his firm response.

Tuornen peered at him, then licked his lips, making every appearance of taking great care in forming his next words.

"Forgive me, your Majesty," he said in a calm but strained manner, executing a slight bow of apology, "but I feel the fact that they are Haradrim is reason enough. It is the belief of myself and others that this has all been a plot by the Southrons to ensnare us. Your intentions are most noble, but I beg your majesty not to let them blind you to the truth. Remember, Karil is Adir's son, and it is our view that they are working together to destroy us."

He finished speaking and eyed the King expectantly. Although his voice indicated the utmost respect, there was a marked tension in his features, and his eyes burned with tightly contained zeal.

Aragorn regarded him evenly, and his voice was tranquil and confident as he spoke. "A man may be blinded by base intentions as well as noble ones, my Lord," he said quietly. "I assure you my eyes have been open and clear; I am no callow dreamer, unwise to the treachery of Men. I had been walking within their world for many years when you were but a babe. Think you that if I had any notion that Adir sought to bring harm to Gondor, I would hesitate for the briefest moment to protect her?"

Tuornen stared at him, but if he had any thought for an answer, it remained within him.

"You would condemn Adir and his men because they are of Harad, as is Karil," continued Aragorn, his hushed voice gaining a harder edge. "I have learned it is unwise to denounce all for the sins of one. Shall you also condemn me, because I am of the line of Isildur, whose weakness almost brought about the destruction of Middle-earth? Or the men of Rohan, from whose midst Grima Wormtongue the traitor came forth? Would you deem it just to bear the blame for the sin of another of your house, though you yourself be faultless?"

Tuornen continued to stare, his mouth hanging slightly open. He was clearly trying to think of something to say, and failing miserably.

Wearied, Aragorn sighed and shook his head. "If you have proof beyond your suspicions of Adir's treachery, my Lord, I beg you to now produce it. Elsewise, I ask you to trust that Gondor lies safe in the care of her King, and I will honor my vow to turn my sword to her enemies as swiftly as I turn my open hand to her friends."

For a long moment the two men regarded each other, Aragorn's eyes burning in the dim light, Tuornen speechless.

A clopping sound came from inside the stable, and a groomsman emerged, leading the King's saddled horse into the bright moonlight.

Aragorn glanced at it, turned to Tuornen and nodded. "If there is nothing else, my Lord, I shall bid you good night, and see you tomorrow when the Council shall be called."

Tuornen looked at him sideways for a moment, his face suddenly drawn. There was a pause as if he were thinking, then he quickly shook his head. "No, Sire. There...there is nothing more. Good night."

In moments, Aragorn was mounted, and soon he and his guard were riding down to the Great Gate. Behind them, Tuornen stood alone beside the stables for a long while, staring after the departed riders in the shaken manner of a man bereft.

-----------------------

Night had completely fallen by the time Aragorn drew near to the caves where the Haradrim delegation was encamped. In the blue-black shade of the moonless night, he could plainly see the glow of the torches and lamps within.

He sighed to himself as he rode, despising the situation more with every breath. If his royal duties laid heavily on him before, they were crushing him now. Faramir taken, the peace talks failed, armies of many nations gathering in Gondor for battle-these were the sorts of trials he had sought exile to avoid, and they had seen fit to visit him all at once.

What does a king say or do at times like these? he wondered as he rode. Wisdom did not come with the crown; there seemed to be no special spirit of kingly knowledge, far greater than that of other men, that would alight upon him when needed. The urgings of his soul were the same as they had always been, bred of years of wandering and learning in the halls of Elves and men rather than the hushed chambers of regal tutelage.

Perhaps this was for the best, he mused as he guided his mount into the camp. Had he set his mind to think strictly upon the traditions observed by some of noble blood, he might be inclined to follow Tuornen's advice, and imprison Adir and his men without true cause. He felt far more at ease with the council of his own heart, which was to watch, listen, and judge by what was said and done, not by supposition and suspicion.

Inside the large boulders that bordered the clearing, all was in readiness for the morrow's journey back to Harad. Wrapped bundles and baskets were carefully piled all along the ground, and the Haradrim were all occupied with packing their belongings. At the sight of the King they stopped and stood, many glancing cautiously at the guardsmen who accompanied the King as if expecting an army to be riding behind them.

As Aragorn dismounted, he noticed Prince Jadim walking out of the cave towards him, his tall, lean form outlined in the fiery glow from the cave. The formal finery Aragorn was accustomed to seeing him wear was gone, replaced by plain, dark robes, his long, thick black hair flowing free down his back. The young man's face was grim as he stopped a few feet from Aragorn, waiting.

"Prince Jadim," Aragorn greeted him with a nod. "I trust my messenger has reached your camp?"

"He has, King Elessar," replied Jadim with a bow. "Be assured that we mourn with you over Lord Faramir's capture. I have spent the time since wishing many curses upon my brother for such a foul-hearted deed."

"It is a deed he will curse himself, if all goes as we intend," Aragorn answered. "I have come to seek council with Chieftain Adir."

Jadim frowned slightly. "I have sent word to him that you are here, but I am unsure if he is prepared to receive you, " he said. "When we were told of Lord Faramir's capture, my father sought to seclude himself, and has spoken to no one since. He is interceding with our gods on Lord Faramir's behalf, and asking them to send him some respite from the pain he is surely suffering."

Aragorn was silent for a moment, moved by the Chieftain's deep concern for Faramir. After a moment he looked into Jadim's eyes and asked, "And does Adir also pray for his son?"

Jadim's expression hardened at once.

"I do not believe there is any prayer that will save Karil now," he replied in a ice-cold voice.

There was some movement at the mouth of the cave, and Adir appeared, accompanied by his guards. Like Jadim, his form was clothed in unadorned black, his head uncovered, and it seemed to Aragorn that the elderly Southron had aged many years since they last met, his face far more careworn than before.

"King Elessar," hailed Adir, stopping several feet away and bowing low before Aragorn. He then straightened, undid his sword-belt, and knelt upon the ground, placing the belt and its sheathed weapon on the ground at Aragorn's feet.

Somewhat surprised, Aragorn studied him for a moment, then lifted his eyes to the mouth of the cave, where all of Adir's men had gathered. At his notice of them, they followed their Chieftain's action, undoing their sheathed swords, kneeling, and laying the weapons upon the ground before them.

As they finished, a hush fell, as every Haradrim present remained kneeling before the King, waiting.

Adir lifted his eyes to the King and said solemnly, "Lord of Gondor, I have placed at your feet the sword that has been carried by my fathers for many hundreds of years. I do not know if you have come to bid us farewell or take us prisoner, but we are prepared to submit to your will without resistance, to prove that we come not as enemies, but as allies."

Aragorn watched him carefully for any sign of guile, any of the treachery that Tuornen had been so frightened of, but there was none.

Raising his head, he studied each of the Haradrim without speaking for a few moments, wishing that those who denounced Adir and his men could see this sight. It might not completely change their minds, but it would possibly give them something new to think about.

Bending down, the King then carefully lifted Adir's sword from the ground and straightened, a smile on his lips as he looked at the Chieftain. "I am grateful for your demonstration of loyalty, Chieftain of the Seventh Tribe," he proclaimed in a regal tone. "Be assured that I have ever been persuaded of your faithfulness. You and your men have leave to rise, and take back your arms; I shall not imprison you, nor keep you from returning to your homes."

So saying, he held out the sword to Adir, and extended his open hand to him.

A great deal of rustling and clanking followed as the Haradrim retrieved their swords. Adir took to his feet and accepted the weapon from Aragorn, relief and gratitude plain upon his face.

"My thanks to you, King of Gondor," he said, fastening the belt once more around his waist. "I thought it best to convince you at this dark time that not all men of Harad are as abhorrent as Karil. My heart is broken over what has befallen Lord Faramir."

"I am grateful for your words, Chief of the Haradrim," Aragorn answered. "Grief haunts us all, yet there is also hope. The Valar have already granted the safe return of Lord Legolas and Lieutenant Henvain; we now pray that Lord Faramir will be delivered as well."

"May our gods and yours work together to make it so," vowed Adir with utmost sincerity.

Aragorn and Adir began to walk together slowly across the camp, conferring as the men returned to their preparations for departure. Jadim followed silently behind them, absorbed in his own thoughts.

"I desired to tell you what we have found in Mordor," said Aragorn as they went along. "Your son's lair has been discovered, in an abandoned fortress at the southern foot of the Ephel Duath Mountains. He is building an army there several thousand strong, and undoubtedly means to march upon Gondor."

Adir groaned and shook his head. "His madness is complete, then!" he said mournfully. "I feared it would be so. Once I hoped that we might be reconciled, but I see now that his soul is turned in ways forever opposed to my own. Lord Faramir is a most kind and noble man, and a friend of Harad. That Karil would see fit to imprison and torture such a one as an enemy sets him against me for all time."

"He shall soon meet justice for that crime," vowed Aragorn in reply. "From what we have been told, he seeks to continue the war lost by the Dark Lord. We are gathering our forces now, and shall march before this week is done."

There was a pause, and the Haradrim chieftain stayed his steps. Aragorn did likewise and stood, watching his elderly guest with curiousity in his eyes.

Adir peered at him for a moment before speaking. "I know we have signed no treaty, King Elessar," he remarked, "but the swords of my men and myself are at the service of your land, if you will accept them. Karil has been the cause of this, and I would offer my life if it would mean the eradication of his treachery."

Irolas' earlier words came at once to Aragorn's mind as he considered the request. "That is most brave and generous of you, my friend," he said softly, a hint of melancholy easing into his voice, "but alas, there is presently a great deal of ill feeling among my people towards the men of Harad, including the men of my army. They will know, in time, that you and your tribe are blameless in this matter, but for now I believe it would most benefit you to return to your land and prepare for our future meeting, when all is settled and peace will once more be possible."

His words ceased, and for several long moments Adir looked at him, as if deciding what to say in answer. Behind him, Jadim's reaction was more open, as disappointment, resignation and anger blended together in a dark shadow across his handsome features.

"It is as I suspected, father," he said in a low voice. "They would rather cut their own throats than accept our aid."

"Jadim!" the Chieftain replied in sharp rebuke, turning halfway towards his son to give him a disapproving glare. "You gain no honor by speaking so baldly in front of our host, who has done all he can for us. Do you imagine hundreds of years of hatred will change in a week?"

His son stared at Adir, their eyes locking for a short, tense instant. Then the younger man looked away, chastised, but with his dark golden eyes still smoldering.

Adir's anger then seemed to melt, and he sighed as he turned to Aragorn. "It will take time, I know," he said to Aragorn, his voice laden with rueful understanding. "More time than I had hoped, perhaps. My men and I shall leave your land, and look for better times when we may meet again."

The King studied him solemnly, his heart filled with regret that matters had ended thus. "Karil may yet wish to kill you," he said quietly. "I shall grant you an escort to your border, soldiers of Gondor who are kindly disposed to your people, that you may reach your land unhindered."

Adir nodded. "That is most generous of you, King of Gondor," he remarked, his sad tone lightening slightly. "I believe if we leave under cover of night, and take a few roads that lie farther west beyond his sight, we will arrive safely. Then your men shall return to you, and you may go and put an end to Karil's insanity."

Aragorn's expression was somber as he considered the battle to come. "If he comes beneath my sword, Chieftain Adir, I must see that justice is done. I regret only that I must spill the blood of your kin, for your sake alone, not his."

But Adir gave him a mournful shake of his head. "Hesitate not on my account, King of Gondor," he said, his own voice hardening as he spoke. "He has chosen his way, and must pay the price for it. Let it be as you will, for I am done with him."

For a short time Aragorn regarded him, his features marked with respect and sorrow.

"It shall be as the Valar wills it," he said softly, lifting one hand to touch his heart, lips and brow in turn. "Safe journey to your home, my friend, and may your gods favor you until we meet again."

Adir smiled, and placed one hand over his breast, bowing deeply. "Many blessings upon you, King of Gondor, for the kindness you have shown me and my people," he replied. "May victory be granted to your armies in the coming battle, and Lord Faramir safely returned to you and the arms of his brave, noble Lady."

An aspect of fierce determination cast itself over Aragorn's brow. "When next you come to our City to talk of peace," he stated solemnly, "I vow that he will be here to greet you, if it lies at all within my power to make it so."

Adir smiled and murmured softly, "May it be as you say. Fare well, King Elessar."

He bowed once more, as did Jadim and all of the men gathered there.

The King swept them with a respectful glance, then inclined his head to Adir and said quietly, "Fare well, Chieftain Adir."

All were silent as the two leaders exchanged final glances, their expressions marked plainly with admiration and warm regard. Then Aragorn turned, and with his guard walked to their horses, mounted, and slowly rode out of the clearing and back towards the city.

Behind him, Adir and Jadim watched them go, and when they were lost from view the elder Southron drew a long, mournful sigh.

"Jadim, inform the men that we shall depart as soon as the King's escort arrives; we dare not wait for the dawn," he said.

His son nodded. "It shall be done, father," was the reverent answer.

Adir stood in thought for a moment longer.

"And when you have finished that task, my son," Adir continued in a pensive tone, gazing after the path Aragorn had taken, "return to me. I would have words with you, upon a matter of the utmost importance."

---------------------

For Aragorn, it was a wearying ride back to the City, his thoughts heavily laden with regret over the day's events. He was near exhaustion when he guided his panting mount through the dark, deserted streets and up the seven layers to the royal stables. Once his horse had been tended to, Aragorn sent word to his Queen that he would be delayed, and turned his steps to the Steward's chambers nearby to discover the welfare of Eowyn.

Her stricken face haunted him as he made his way across the Fountain Court. She had said little since their return to Minas Tirith and clung to none but her brother. Aragorn's heart ached when he contemplated the grief and uncertainty that doubtless plagued his friend at this moment. He, too, had suffered the anguish of being parted from the partner of his soul without knowing if they would ever meet again, and dearly wished there were some way he could ease the piercing grief now tormenting the brave White Lady.

The King soon reached the stately building that housed the Steward's apartments. The open balcony of one of the upper stories housed Eowyn's large garden; he caught the fragrant scent of roses even as he approached the steps leading into the structure.

A figure moved in the courtyard before him, and Aragorn was not at all surprised to see the tall form of Eomer emerge from the shadows, his royal raiment cast off in favor of simple garb, his long blonde hair shining in the faint starlight. As the man of Rohan bowed to Aragorn, the King of Gondor could not help noticing how very tired his friend appeared.

"Good evening, my Lord," murmured Eomer wearily. As he straightened, Aragorn could see tears glittering in the corners of his eyes.

Aragorn returned the gesture and offered a slight, sympathetic smile. "You need not stand on ceremony, my friend; I come not as a King tonight," he replied quietly. "How fares the Lady of Ithilien?"

Eomer paused, deep sorrow passing over his face as he peered at the King and deliberated his answer. Finally, he sighed, and began slowly walking to the edge of the courtyard that overlooked the Pelennor Fields, Aragorn at his side.

"She has finally agreed to take some rest," answered Eomer after some time had passed, his head bowed in thought as they strode along. "I saw her to her bedchambers and made certain she retired, though I doubt she sleeps. All of her mind is fixed on him, and I fear she will not close her eyes until he is by her side once more. She has asked to be let alone a while."

Aragorn thought for a moment. "I know of some medicines that will aid her sleep," he offered, "and any other assistance I may provide is yours for the asking."

They had reached the edge of the courtyard, and their steps halted. Eomer gazed at the broad vista spreading in front of them, then scowled, a low growl rising from his throat.

"The assistance I most desire now is a sword, and a clear road through Mordor to that creature's lair," Eomer declared, his voice becoming steeled with rage. He looked at Aragorn, a helpless aspect in his gaze. "I have no fine words with which to comfort my sister, no delicate ways to assure her. I find being a King is utterly useless at a time like this, Aragorn; I am no more able with soothing speech than I was before I ascended the throne, and it is breaking my heart. When the day comes, I shall help Eowyn in the best way I am able - by destroying those who have brought her this unrelenting pain."

Aragorn regarded him carefully. "That chance will soon come, Eomer. I am sure that in the meanwhile, she will embrace all that you may do for her. A brother's kind words are never unwelcome, particularly when they are as needed as they are this night."

Eomer nodded, clearly unconvinced but apparently unwilling to speak any more on the subject. He glanced in the direction of the caves where Adir's men were lodged. "You have visited the Haradrim?"

It was impossible for Aragorn to hide the frustration in his expression as he nodded, following Eomer's gaze across the fields. "The negotiations have ended without success. Adir and his men ride tonight for Harad," was his response.

Eomer studied his friend, then turned away, nodding as he did so. "Good," he murmured, in a soft but firm tone.

A bit startled, Aragorn peered over at him, but his fellow monarch was steadfast as he returned the scrutiny.

"Forgive me, Aragorn, but it is for the best, truly," said the man of Rohan, his voice growing stronger. "I fear that treachery lies beneath their every move. Had they been in Rohan, I..." He paused, considered. "I would have dealt with them in a different manner."

He had always known Eomer felt this way, but it still grieved Aragorn to hear his comrade speak it. The memory of Adir's men kneeling, their swords at his feet, appeared before his mind; if only Eomer could have seen it.

"I saw no cause to hinder their departure; in my sight, Adir and his men have proven their honor," Aragorn observed, watching the starlit grasses of the fields blowing in the wind far below them, his hands clasped behind his back. "One day they may be moved again to seek peace, and if I still hold the throne, I will welcome them, unless it is shown to me that I should feel otherwise."

Eomer also stared across the plains, his expression growing darker by the instant. "If that day comes, and I am yet King," he replied, "Rohan's chair at that meeting will be vacant."

Aragorn looked at him again, disappointed, but Eomer's aspect was firm as he lifted his eyes and turned to the King of Gondor. "I shall ask no pardon for this, my friend, so I pray you do not look for it," Eomer declared. "A man of Harad has driven a sword into my sister's heart; she lies abed bathed in tears, all on his account, and the account of those Haradrim who have joined him. I desire no peace with them. For what they have done to Eowyn, and to Faramir, they will ever be the enemy of Rohan."

He hesitated, forming his words, then cast his eyes once more to the far horizon, his voice becoming laden with emotion as he spoke.

"I had some small hope before, that perhaps the men of Harad might prove worthy of Rohan's trust," he admitted, "but now, there is none. They are allied with Orcs, Aragorn. It is a thing no men of honor would do, and to think of Faramir..."

His voice trailed off, the words choked away, and there was some silence before he turned to Aragorn and spoke again.

"Tell me, my friend," Eomer said in a thick, hushed voice, "have you ever seen a man who has been tortured by Orcs?"

Aragorn made no reply, solemnly watching his comrade and waiting.

The King of Rohan paused, then looked away. "Often during the War, we would find men who had been taken and vilely used by the minions of Sauron," he said softly, horror in every word as he stared at some unknown point, his mind seeing a far different image than the starlit courtyard around them. "It was . . . The worst was when they were still alive."

Aragorn felt his blood go cold at the thought, but remained silent.

"I cannot tell you what it is, Aragorn, to hear a strong, brave soldier of Rohan beg for death," continued Eomer, never moving. "What shall I do, if we find Faramir, whom I love as my brother, and must end his suffering in the same way?"

He raised his head and peered at Aragorn, his handsome face wreathed in sorrow. "How shall I tell my sister, should that come to pass? It shatters me to the bone to think of it, yet I know I must, for it may be so. And I know that the Haradrim are as barbaric and merciless in their interrogations as the Orcs. It may be more of a mercy for Faramir if he is already dead, and the very thought sickens me. Shall I then hear pleas for peace from these same men, Aragorn? Shall I sit in the presence of those who bear the blood of my brother on their hands?"

Aragorn studied his companion, empathy softening his features.

"Those men will find their justice dealt at the end of Gondor's blade, and Rohan's," Aragorn assured him. "And if it is shown that Adir and his tribesmen are numbered among them, they will know my wrath as well. Until that time, I cannot condemn them, for they have shown themselves worthy to my sight. Faramir believed so as well; he would have trusted them with his life."

Eomer thought for a moment, then stood and faced the King of Gondor.

"Perhaps Faramir was wrong," he said quietly, then turned and stared once more onto the grasslands of the Pelennor, his eyes distant and filled with sorrow.

There was undeniable bitterness in Eomer's low tones, and Aragorn eyed him sadly, his soul torn and troubled. In his heart, he believed Adir and his men to be free of the evil that poisoned Karil. But Eomer's words held truth as well, and Aragorn found himself considering the possibility that Adir's tribe was truly alone among the Haradrim in its desire to end its alliance with the agents of Sauron. There seemed little hope for true peace with Harad if most of its people stood with Karil, determined to remain bound to the darkness.

Together they stood and watched the stars drift over the vast expanse below them, each man consumed by his own melancholy thoughts and saying nothing. After some time, Aragorn noticed a small cluster of dark forms moving across the fields in the distance, riding towards the South.

It took only an instant for the King to know that it was Adir and the Haradrim, beginning their long journey home under the cover of darkness.

Without speaking, he watched as they traveled on, faint black specks against the massive landscape. The mountains of Mordor loomed behind them, as if reminding Aragorn of the wickedness that yet dwelled there, waiting to crush all hopes of future peace. Adir and his men seemed so small as they passed before the hulking walls of stone, and for an instant it appeared impossible that mere men could ever dream to overthrow a darkness so old and powerful.

Yet still the distant horsemen rode on, crossing undaunted in the shadow of Sauron's ancient kingdom. Soon they passed to the south and were lost to his eyes, swallowed up in the thick blackness of the night.

---------------------

"Nothing! After all this time? Incompetent fools!"

Only the fact that the words were bellowed in outrage allowed them to cut through the thick fog of exhaustion that shrouded Faramir's mind. Slowly he struggled to pull himself back from the depths where he had been languishing, waiting for the day's torment to end. He had begun to believe that this time, it would never cease.

With great effort he emerged from his lethargy, even as the angry words fell upon his ears. Too weary to lift his head or open his eyes, Faramir soon knew nonetheless that little had changed since his last moments of complete consciousness. Tight ropes and cold chains still bound him upright to the wooden frame, on his knees, arms stretched out and above his head. The air was oppressively hot around him, and even through his closed eyelids he could see the harsh glare of dancing flames.

He was still in the Orc's chamber, he dully realized, and he shuddered inside. Doubtless they would soon continue, and a question fluttered sluggishly across his mind, as it had more and more during the slowly passing hours.

Why had the armies of Gondor not yet come?

Faramir swallowed, his dry throat rasping from the motion. He ignored the discomfort, determined instead to use this rare respite and gather his strength. He would not despair, he firmly told himself; the safety of Gondor depended upon his strength, and despair would only hasten his death. Legolas and Henvain lived; by this time they would surely have reached Gondor, it had been so long. Even now they were doubtless marshaling their forces, and he would soon be free. He had only to endure, just a few more days, perhaps merely one.

But even as his soul urgently whispered these words, darker thoughts crept swiftly behind them, and he was powerless to drive them away. Even one more day seemed far too long to withstand such agonies as he was now suffering. The beastly brutality of the Orcs seemed as nothing compared to the far more sophisticated and merciless techniques of their Haradrim counterparts. Since their arrival, the time had slowed, distorted and stretched until it blurred together.

More awake now, Faramir gasped for breath. His body screamed for rest, if they would just let him alone for a while. Yet he knew that even then he would find no solace, the anguish thwarting all chances of sleep. Instead he would drift in a strange, numb half-wakefulness, haunted by bizarre dreams in which he relived his torments. At times he was unsure whether he was truly awake, or trapped in the terrifying netherworld of his nightmares.

Dazed, Faramir shook his head against the encroaching darkness, determined to drive it back as long as he was able. As he had in the most dire times of his suffering, he struggled to place his thoughts where they would give him strength. Bright memories of Gondor, Eowyn, his beloved brother Boromir, his father, the poems and stories he cherished, and all those he loved, had lifted his heart throughout his trials. It was there he had found comfort as all manner of affliction was dealt against him. It had been enough.

But now they were becoming harder to see against the growing blackness. As before, he reached through the hopelessness for Eowyn's hand, but it was ever more difficult to grasp. He looked for the memory Boromir's smiling face; it glimmered farther away than before, dimmed by the shadows of weariness and sorrow. The sustaining words he read and loved no longer came at his bidding, their way choked now by the pain of his numerous wounds. Soon the only brightness left to him would be swallowed in tribulation, and he would break, die, or be consumed with madness.

Faramir shivered at the thought, closed his eyes tightly against it, clenching his bloodied fists weakly as if to beat the notion away. As he did so, his body erupted with searing pain from the motion, the sensation sweeping over him like a hungry flame. He grit his teeth in mute endurance, sweat dripping from his bloodied forehead as he rode it out.

The tide receded, and as Faramir emerged from his painful daze, he heard Masrak's voice once more, still furiously berating his torturers.

"...and still you could obtain nothing of value from him?" Masrak's words swam haltingly into coherence.

"Nothing," was the mild reply from one of the Haradrim interrogators. "He has uttered names at times, and phrases in the Elvish tongue. That is all."

He heard Masrak bark out a sound of impatient disgust. The sound of approaching bootsteps followed, and suddenly a strong hand clasped the hair at the top of his head and wrenched it upwards.

Choking from the pain, Faramir forced his eyes open, blinking away the sweat and blood. Masrak's stern face gazed fiercely into his own, the sharp eyes filled with coldness and disdain.

Faramir swayed a little as he hung from his bindings, too weak to pull himself from Masrak's pitiless grasp. Summoning every part of his remaining strength, Faramir looked full into the Minister's face, as defiant as if they were facing each other fully armed upon a battlefield.

The Southron stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "He is not mad; that is well for you," Masrak announced, turning his head slightly to the Haradrim behind him before returning his attention to Faramir. "He is simply a fool."

The Steward glared at him, motionless despite the indescribable misery he was in. Every wound burned, every bone felt broken, he could not halt the trembling of his sweat-soaked frame, yet his gaze never wavered from the dark eyes of Karil's chief advisor.

In response, Masrak laughed quietly. "You may save your courage, Gondorian; it will be much needed soon," he said. "These men have not yet started upon you. Only your divulgence of the information our Prince requires will halt what is coming next."

Faramir peered at him silently through dark tendrils of sweat-soaked hair. Then he raised his head slightly before whispering out a soft, single word.

"Never."

The declaration was barely able to be heard, yet undeniable in its resolution.

Masrak merely smiled. "Your bravery is misplaced, dog of Gondor," he said. "It will earn you nothing but untold agonies and the grave. I know your hope; you think perhaps that you shall be rescued. Yet I have made certain personally that all who know where you are are dead. Our men have retrieved the bodies of those who traveled with you, burned them to cinders and scattered their cursed remains to the winds of Mordor. Behold."

With his free hand, Masrak removed a pouch from his belt and poured its contents onto the floor of the chamber. Gray ashes and shards of bone flowed onto the floor, mixed with bits of gray and green cloth.

"It is but a portion of what the Orcs retained as a trophy of their demise," Masrak calmly informed him.

Faramir felt his heart go cold as he stared at the small pile of ashes. He knew it was not true; he had seen Legolas and Henvain alive before he was taken away. It was a lie.

But yet, a small voice muttered as if from afar, yet, it had been so long...

Masrak regarded his prisoner with an expression of mild amusement. "You doubt me, I know, but do not deceive yourself with false hope. You do not comprehend how long you have been here, I am sure. It has been many days. Would they not have come for you by now, if they knew where you were?"

Faramir continued to stare at him, determined not to allow his poisoned words into his heart despite what he saw. Trained to understand such tactics, he knew Masrak was simply trying to weaken his defenses, a common torturer's trick.

But still, in his wracked and wearied state, Faramir could not silence the small muttering of doubt whispered from the darkest corner of his mind.

After a moment, Masrak released Faramir and stood, his heels striking the ground sharply as he walked briskly away. Reeling from the treatment, Faramir allowed his head to fall to his chest, contemplating what had happened, confused thoughts swirling through his fevered mind. He knew Masrak was lying, knew his friends were alive, but as the crushing weight of endless affliction, blinding light, searing heat, and chilling darkness closed once more upon him, it somehow did not seem so unlikely that perhaps the worst had happened, and he would remain here forever.

As if from a distance Faramir heard an order given, and felt the Orcs roughly begin to untie him from the wooden frame. As he was brutally jostled the pain rose again, completely overwhelming his senses. This time he did not fight the swelling oblivion, hoping to find some form of rest there, just for a while. In the most solitary place of his heart he knew Legolas and Henvain were alive, and that Aragorn would ride for Mordor as soon as he was able. There was still hope, and as long as this remained for him, his strength would remain as well.

But as he slipped beneath the red-tinged darkness, he found that his last conscious thought was all too familiar.

Why had they not yet come?

------------------------

Masrak's boot heels continued their snapping rhythm as he marched back up the winding stone stairs, followed closely by the master interrogator.

"Continue your work," Masrak commanded sternly, his voice echoing off the ancient stones. "The army will soon be ready, and our chances of success are smaller without that maggot's knowledge."

"My Lord," replied the other Haradrim as they ascended, "I must tell you that if we continue now, he will die, and his knowledge will die with him. He is a strong-willed rascal; we will be able to break that will, but he must regain his strength if he is to withstand further interrogation without perishing."

Masrak growled. "How long?"

There was a pause. "One day; then we will ascertain his condition. No more than two."

The minister sighed, one hand straying to the depleted bag of ashes that hung from his belt. He was silent in contemplation for a short time, then halted his steps and turned to the interrogator, the torchlight from the wall behind him throwing his face into deep shadow.

"Very well," he said, holding up the empty bag as he spoke, "it shall be done as you say. I have crippled the hope that I believe has been sustaining him; you should now find your task far easier. Let him rot in agony and darkness, reflecting upon his position, until he is fit once more for your work. It may prove far more effective than anything you have done thus far."

The interrogator smiled. "We have often found such practices highly useful, my Lord," was the grateful response. "A man may withstand any assault save that launched from within his own mind. The Gondorian's despair, and the methods that we have learned in the dungeons of Barad-dur itself, shall soon deliver to our noble Prince all the information he desires."

"I hope so, my friend, for your sake as well as for the sake of our cause," was Masrak's cold reply. "Karil will not look with mercy upon failure."

The other man's stance was firm. "We will not fail," he vowed.

Masrak eyed his subordinate keenly for a moment, nodded, and the two men bowed to each other before turning to go their separate ways, Masrak climbing up into the growing light of day, the interrogator back down into the shadowed depths of the fortress to prepare for the coming days.

-----------------------

Three days had passed in Minas Tirith, and as the sun began its twilight journey on the third day, there were none in that magnificent city who doubted that a momentous battle was about to occur.

The army of Dol Amroth was the first to arrive, its silken banners bearing the emblem of the Swan Knights shimmering in the summer sunlight. They were eight hundred in number, each man bearing the marks of a hasty journey. They were led by Imrahil's eldest son, who was greeted with solemn joy and love by his father. There was no question that their kinsman Faramir was uppermost on the minds of both men.

Soon after, several legions of Elves from Ithilien made their appearance, summoned by Legolas' call. As the Elves marched and rode past the city to make their camp, the citizens gathered upon the walls to marvel at the sight, noting their grace as they moved and the elegant, deadly weapons they bore. Few of the men of Gondor had ever hoped to see two hundred members of that race in one time.

Upon the afternoon of the third day, the horsemen of Rohan thundered into view, their vast number turning the Pelennor Fields black as they galloped towards the City. Upon meeting their King at the city gate, they informed him that they had ridden with few halts to reach the City at all possible speed, a feat he praised with gratitude and pride.

At the end of the third day, a contingent of Dwarven warriors from the colony at the Glittering Caves appeared, following behind their Rohirrim comrades. Gimli welcomed them with delight, and promised all that the efforts of the Dwarves would soon send that rascal Karil scurrying back to the slime-hole from which he had emerged.

As the armies converged, the citizens of the City prepared as well. Families said their farewells, and soldiers met in large boisterous parties where laughter and tears mingled together. In the Houses of Healing, men and women with the needed skills were recruited to follow the army into Mordor and lend such aid as they were able.

Eowyn donated her abilities at every turn, assisting the healers in preparing medicines, bandages, the wagons, and other necessities, immersing herself in the work. Her pale face and grave demeanor were noted with much understanding and sympathy among the other women there, for they had all endured the dread uncertainty of a loved one possibly lost.

While the City hummed with talk of the armies and the coming battle, the warriors situated themselves upon the Pelennor in their camps. The Dwarves occupied the caves where Adir's men had recently lodged, while the rest set their tents upon the fields. A very large tent was pitched near the edge of the camps, distinguished by the black and silver banner of the King of Gondor. It was there, on the morning of the fourth day, that the commanders and officers of each army converged, to hear the plans of the invasion from the King Elessar himself.

-----------------------

"This day, gentlemen, will see the start of Sauron's final defeat."

Aragorn's confident words were heard in every corner of the large tent, where stood a small multitude of the armies' leading men. At its center was a wide table, upon which was spread a map of southern Gondor, its features rendered in great detail. The space glowed with the morning's sunlight, which had only recently breached the horizon, clearly illuminating all within.

Beside Aragorn stood the armies' commanders, joined by all of the Dwarf officers who otherwise would have been lost behind their taller comrades. Imrahil stood at Aragorn's right hand, clad in the armor of the Swan Knights, his expression grim. Men of Rohan and Gondor encircled the table, with the tall, keen-eyed Elves populating the outer edges of the crowd.

The sole exception to this was Legolas, who stood just behind Gimli, still a touch fragile-looking but otherwise apparently recovered. His arm had already healed and was out of its sling, and most of the color had returned to his fair features. Despite this, Gimli appeared somewhat agitated by his presence, and cast a glance back at him from time to time as if to reassure himself that his friend had not fallen over.

"Are you quite certain you're up to this, lad?" whispered Gimli, as Aragorn paused to study the map.

Legolas glanced down at him. "*Quite* certain," he replied. "I have told you, my sight has almost fully returned, and the swift healing powers of my kind have done their part on my other injuries as well. The masters of the Houses have blessed my joining this battle, and I would have insisted on it even if they had not. Cease your worry, my friend!"

"Oh! Well, I was not worried, precisely," blustered Gimli with a cough. "Merely making certain you have no feebleness that will cause you to miss your aim and put an arrow in my rump!"

An appreciative smiled crossed Legolas' lips, showing that he was not fooled by the Dwarf's brusqueness, but further discourse was silenced by Aragorn's voice, which now rose once more.

"Karil's fortress is here," he informed those assembled, indicating a point near the base of the Ephel Duath mountains inside of Mordor, near the Crossings of Poros to the south. "It is some four day's march away through Mordor. However, during our explorations of the Mountains last year, our men discovered a pass here, narrow but serviceable." His finger traced a path through the mountains close to the fortress.

The King lifted his head and looked at those around him. "It is my belief that if we move with all speed along the Harad Road, using the mountains and trees to hide our movement, we may cross the mountains and take Karil's army unawares in less than two day's time."

The commanders eyed the map and muttered among themselves, contemplating the King's proposal.

"What of Karil's sentinels?" inquired one Rohan general. "Surely he will not leave the passageways to his lair unguarded."

"You may leave that concern to the Elves," Legolas announced with some pride, glancing over at his comrades as he spoke. "It is our task to silence every guard and scout posted along our way. We shall make certain that Karil remains deaf and blind to our approach."

"The healers will ride some distance behind the army," continued Aragorn, "but they will be close enough to provide aid when the battle is done."

One of the Gondorian captains peered at him, his young face wrought with concern. "Is it known, sir, how you will find Lord Faramir when we arrive?" he asked.

The King paused, sadness draping his features. "I cannot say for now," was his soft response. "The interior of the fortress is unknown to us. We will do all we can when the time has come, and beseech the Valar to guide us to our Steward and friend. His deliverance, and Karil's defeat, shall be our utmost goals."

The warriors nodded at this, and the murmuring went on, until one more question was raised by one of the Dwarves, an old and hardened soldier with a flowing gray beard.

"We are prepared to follow you, King of Gondor," he declared, grasping his axe firmly. "We ask only to know the time we must depart, and we will be ready!"

Aragorn lifted his head. "We leave before the sun has reached its midday point," he declared in a tone ringing with resolution. "Time is precious, my friends, and we cannot delay. When we have concluded here, I will ask that you go at once to your armies and make ready to march, and we shall not stop until we set foot in the black lands of Mordor."

This statement was met with grim acceptance all around. As the others in the tent fell to talking amongst themselves, Aragorn lifted his his head, his solemn gaze falling upon the faces of Legolas and Gimli. They alone stood mute, having no need for words to convey what the coming work meant to each of them. It was plain from the determination in the eyes of Elf, Man, and Dwarf that, had every other living being there thrown down their sword and refused to march, the King and his two friends would have undertaken the task alone, so driven were they to see it accomplished.

Then the brief, silent moment passed, and each turned to his own kind, to see to the final preparations of their men before they once more set down the road to war.

----------------------

Faelor had never bounded up a set of stone stairs so fast, particularly when wearing his armor. But there was no help for it, at a time like this.

He panted as he swiftly traversed the steps upwards to the Houses of Healing, ignoring the odd looks he was getting from those around him. He soon reached the top, but did not pause for an instant, instead veering directly for one of the doors nearby that led to the private chambers. Here, those who were still healing found rest; and here Faelor know he would find the man-or, lunatic-that he was looking for.

He reached the plain wooden door, halted, and gasped for a few breaths, his expression intense as he gathered his thoughts. Then, pursing his lips in determination, he pushed open the door.

Inside, he saw exactly what he expected, and feared: Henvain, still pale and bandaged, trying to pull on a suit of leather armor. On the bed close by lay his discarded nightshirt, a small satchel, and a long, simple wooden walking stick.

At the sudden intrusion, Henvain glanced up and ceased his activities, the half-tied lacings of his vest still in his hands. The two friends looked at each other for a moment, then Henvain smiled a bit.

"Guess you heard," was all he said, before resuming his labors.

Faelor scowled ferociously; he felt ready to burst apart with anger. "Have you gone COMPLETELY mad?" he choked out.

"Perhaps," replied Henvain casually as he pulled the lacings tight.

Faelor sputtered a little, shook his head, and put his hands out. "How can you even /think/ of marching back into Mordor when you just got out of there almost dead?"

"It's quite easy, actually," the other man said as he reached down and carefully picked up his sword belt. As he buckled it on, he gave his friend a keen glance full of purpose. "I'm not bein' left behind, Faelor. Not again. Not /this/ time."

Confusion flooded Faelor's mind. "This time, Henvain, you've got far more than dysentery!" he exclaimed. "You've got four broken ribs, enough bandages on you to wrap an Oliphaunt, and you can barely walk!"

"All true," Henvain acknowledged with a shake of his head as he secured the belt. With that done, he looked up at Faelor sharply. "And not worth a damn to me, when it's told. The King himself heard me out and granted me leave to go; that's all I need."

He picked up the cane and limped to the head of the bed where the satchel lay, and began inspecting its contents.

"Henvain, *listen* to me!" Faelor pleaded. "We'll be marching fast and long."

"No matter to me," answered his fellow soldier in a chipper tone as he rooted in the bag. "I won't be marching with the army. King Elessar said I could help protect the healer's wagons; I'll be ridin' with them."

Faelor frowned. "What if you run into trouble? You can't fight on one leg!"

"Oh, no?" Henvain hooted, looking up with wide eyes. "Don't tell me you've forgot that tavern brawl in Bree last year!"

His friend gave him a disgusted look. "Fighting Orcs is far different than facing down drunkards in a tavern," he pointed out.

Henvain considered this. "Actually, I think those drunkards *were* Orcs," he muttered, before returning to the satchel. "Leastwise they sure *smelled* like 'em."

An exasperated grunt escaped Faelor's throat. "The fact is, you might be facing *real* Orcs here, and they'll be armed, and sober to boot," he said. "How will you protect the wagons when you can't stand and fight?"

There was a rustle and a sigh as Henvain looked up. "I'll have my bow and arrows - I'm not a bad shot, better than you, remember - and I can use my sword at short ranges. I'm also fair at clawin' and spittin'."

A helpless feeling consumed Faelor. It looked as if this insane thing really was going to happen.

"But-but what about your mother?" he asked, hoping he had found the answer.

"Saw her this morning, just before you got here," was Henvain's response as he drew the satchel closed, his tone becoming more quiet. "We hugged and cried, of course. She thinks I'm as mad as you do, but she knows why I have to go."

Faelor sighed, compressing his lips in frustration. "And why *is* that, exactly?" he asked angrily. "Is it because you're still sore about missing the battle at the Black Gate? Or is it just because you're jealous of your brother?"

Henvain looked up at him sharply, but said nothing.

"It's not worth risking your life, Henvain!" Faelor went on, sensing that perhaps he was beginning to get through to his friend.

Silence fell in the room for a few moments. Henvain dropped his gaze to the satchel and stood motionless as Faelor watched him, then sighed.

"You're right," murmured Henvain, slowly raising his head and fixing his eyes on his comrade. "Those reasons aren't enough. But, as it happens, neither of them are why I asked to go."

This caught Faelor by surprise. "Er...they aren't?"

"No," said the other man firmly. Then he thought a moment. "Well...maybe a little. But if it was *just* the Black Gate and Turwaith, no, I don't think it would be enough. It's not as if we won't have other battles to fight, someday."

Faelor nodded sadly and leaned wearily against the wall. "True," he agreed, before glancing over at Henvain. "So, what is it, then?"

A pensive expression crossed Henvain's face, and he glanced away, looking out of the open door at some distant point. "Oh, well,you know me, Fae," he said after a short pause, a frown creasing his brow. "I'm no good with puttin' such things into words that make any sense. I just know my duty, is all, and... this time it's just not right, me stayin' here when I can make at least some effort to help. I *know* it's mad, I *know* I'll probably get myself killed, and usually that'd be enough to keep me here. I don't fancy dyin'. But..."

His lip twitched, and he began fussing with the bag again, although it was already well situated and tied shut.

"Nobody else knows what we're marchin' into, but me an' Lord Legolas," he continued, in a lower tone full of concern. "I saw the army that Karil fellow put together, and I know it'll take every one of us to stop it. If we're goin' to stop him, an' get Lord Faramir out of there, the King will need each man he has, even if that man's busted up a bit."

His aspect turned melancholy, and he ceased his fussing with the bag and looked up at his friend. "I guess when I think of how brave Lord Faramir was, even when he was beat down, I know I got no cause to sit back and let everyone else march into danger, just because I'm afraid of what might happen to me. That doesn't seem so important, somehow. You know what he said to me, Fae?"

Here Henvain's voice trembled slightly with emotion. Faelor had no answer, and waited to hear the rest, highly intrigued.

"An excellent soldier, he called me. Nobody's said that to me, ever, not even Mother. I...I suppose I feel I ought to live up to that, and I can't think of no better way to do it than help stop those villains that are hurtin' him, and get him out of there."

He sighed, and coughed to clear his throat as he shrugged the satchel on across his shoulders.

It took a few moments for Faelor to decide the best way to respond. "Henvain, I've never heard you talk like that before," he said finally, impressed.

"Yeah, it scares me, too," was the slightly confused reply, as Henvain fetched his bow and quiver of arrows from the corner of his room. "Don't know what's come over me. Perhaps I have gone mad."

Faelor smiled. "Or more sane," he offered.

From somewhere in the City came the sound of a loud horn being blown. Soon it was joined by several more, some deep and booming, others high and musical.

Faelor turned his head to the door and listened, then glanced back at Henvain. "There's our call," he said, the smile fading, but not completely.

Henvain had gathered up all of his necessities, his walking stick last of all, and went to stand before Faelor, the cane thumping on the floor as he moved along.

"Yes, it is," he said with a quick sigh. "The last great battle of Mordor, I suppose."

"Let us hope," remarked Faelor, and together they left the chamber and began the journey to where their duties lay.

--------------------

The noonday sun blazed high overhead the city of Minas Tirith, its warming rays sweeping over the numerous citizens who once more lined the city's walls, preparing to witness the spectacle unfolding on the fields before them.

The armies had gathered, and were ready to march. At the front was Aragorn, in his kingly armor, his expression resolved but saddened as his final farewell to Arwen weighed heavily upon his mind. Behind him stretched the legions of Gondor, Faelor in their midst.

Behind the Gondor army stood the small but hardy regiment of Dwarves, their axes gleaming and flashing in the sun. At their head stood Gimli, clad once more in his old war-armor and helm, watching Aragorn with a cool eye, waiting for the order.

Next to the Dwarves were a small number of the Elven soldiers. The others, led by Legolas, had gone before, melting into the woods and foothills along the route to clear the way of any enemy eyes that might betray them.

At the rear of the armies rode the horsemen of Gondor and Rohan, side by side. Eomer and his lieutenants led the Rohirrim, and as fiercely as the sun was shining that day, it could not match the intensity of the King of Rohan's gaze.

Behind the horsemen rode a line of wagons, bearing supplies and the healers who would be needed when the fighting was done. Eowyn was among them, sitting quietly next to the driver of the lead conveyance, staring with solemn defiance at the tall mountains that stood between her and her beloved husband. The evil they harbored seemed to stand but little chance against the will of the shield-maiden of Rohan.

At the open Great gate of the city, waiting to see the armies away, stood Hurin, the Keeper of the Keys to the city, who had been appointed to reign in the King's stead while he was absent from the city. Beside him stood Irolas, watching anxiously, with the other officers of the Tower Guard behind him; the Queen, breathtaking in her beauty and sorrow; the members of the Council; and a small number of the city's most distinguished nobles. All eyes were on the dark columns, waiting for the signal.

Aragorn took a deep breath and bowed his head, sending a silent prayer to the Valar to grant them victory, and Faramir the strength to live until they arrived.

Then he raised his eyes to the horizon, their depths shining with firm commitment. Lightly he touched his spurs to the sides of his horse, Brego, and moved forward in the first steps of the long, dangerous journey.

There was a great rumbling as thousands of men and horses started in motion behind him. Cries of parting arose from the wall, a growing blend of voices united in farewell. Those gathered there waved and shouted, despite the impossibility that those in the ranks would see or hear them. Many in the armies turned as well, some lifting their arms to wave, knowing just as well as those they were leaving that the gesture could not be seen among so large a crowd. It soothed all of their hearts just the same.

It took several minutes for the army to disappear into the south, but it was all too soon to those who watched them leave. After a short time the last of the healer's wagons crossed out of sight down the Harad Road, the sun shining brightly through the golden dust clouds raised by the tramping feet and trotting hooves. Some lingered on the wall, loathe to even see the dust settle; others hurried back to their business, as if distraction would speed the time when the men would return.

The afternoon began to wear on. The crowd cleared, and life resumed, if in a far more anxious state than before. There was nothing for the citizens of the City to do now but wait and pray, and watch the road for news of the battle when it was fought.

The coming days would be very long indeed.

-----------------------

Far away, in his cell beneath the fortress, Faramir forced himself out of the twilight realm where he had been wandering, and opened his eyes to darkness.

The pain had never left him, even in his half-conscious state, so it was not so much of a burden to bear when awareness fully returned to him. He shifted a little on the cold stone floor, bracing himself against the anguish, relieved to find that at least this time the Orcs had not bothered to bind him. Perhaps they had seen little use in it, as he could no longer stand, let alone attempt to escape.

For several long minutes he stared into the utter blackness, allowing his mind to fully right itself after so long adrift. How long had it been this time? he wondered. It had seemed like ages since they had returned him to his cell and not come back for him, far longer than before, although his ability to discern time had completely fled. But he somehow felt that they ought to have taken him back to the chamber before now...

The ever-present visions of the chamber flashed before his mind's eye, and he shivered, the recollection causing the pain to flare anew as if the wounds were still being inflicted. Every bone and muscle in his arms throbbed from the endless hours he had been bound to the wooden frame, his wrists torn from the ropes that cruelly held him there. Terrifying memories filled his mind, and it was only through the force of his will that he drove them back to the nether regions of his mind.

As before, his wounds had been crudely tended so as not to kill him. This was not a comfort, as he fully understood the reasoning behind it, just as he knew why they had not come back for him as quickly as before. The rest they were granting him now was not a boon, but merely a prelude to worse torment; they were only ensuring that he would not die from their efforts until he had given them the information they sought.

Faramir considered this as he lay still upon the floor, curled on his side to ease his raw back, determined to find solace in the respite even though he knew what lay at the end of it. There was much to think upon, and he was resolved to do so while his mind was clear. In recent days there had been periods, growing longer each time, when he could not seem to control his mind, and he would become consumed with dreadful imaginings formed from his torments. Thus he was determined to arrange his thoughts while he could, before the darkness fell upon him again.

Masrak's foul words concerning the fate of Henvain and Legolas came back to him, and he fixed upon them for a start. As a commander, he knew the prudence of examining every possible aspect of a situation, no matter how unpleasant, so as to determine the best solution. He had no belief that the Orcs had found and burned their bodies, yet he was still forced to consider the possibility that his comrades may be dead nonetheless, as much as the mere thought grieved him.

He had not been imprisoned as long as Masrak had claimed, he felt certain of that, and yet Faramir knew it had been a long time. Long enough to make him wonder if, perhaps, fate had been against them, and his friends had indeed perished upon the road to Gondor. Nightmares of their deaths had plagued his fitful slumber; he had seen them wandering, lost and bloodied, in the wide empty spaces of Mordor, their path fraught with increasing peril until it seemed impossible that they could have reached Minas Tirith alive. He had already begun to mourn them, asking their forgiveness even as he knew they would lay no blame on him. They had known their duty and sought to do it, even as he sought to do his.

It was the form that duty would take that was the question. In the earliest days of his captivity, he had faced a similar choice; but then he had been stronger, and there was more of a chance that his plight would soon be remedied. Now his strength hung by the merest thread, and there seemed more of a likelihood that none knew where he was, or even that he had been taken at all.

What, now, would be his course?

One matter had not changed. Never, he knew, would he betray his king and his people by even pretending to comply with Karil's demands. No matter how often they promised a swift and painless death in return, and how tempting such an offer seemed to be, the very idea was unthinkable.

Yet, as the Orcs and the Haradrim delighted in reminding him, such stubbornness would only lead to further, unspeakable torment for him. How was he to withstand the affliction without breaking, or entering into madness, now that hope for deliverance had all but vanished?

A memory struggled through the numb fog of his wearied mind, whispered from the many tales of lore he had recited to himself during his torment to preserve his mind and lift his heart. True, it murmured to him, release may not come from without.

But perhaps it could be found within.

Faramir's thoughts drifted back to the days of his youth, when he had often heard tales of Gondor's ancient ancestors, the Numenoreans. When their lives were near their natural end, it was said, the Numenoreans were blessed with the ability to appoint the time of their deaths, and slip from their mortal bodies of their own will. As the ages passed, as the stories went, the sons of Numenor lost this ability, except for those whose veins beat with the purest blood of their forebears.

In Faramir, the blood of Numenor ran nearly pure.

The prospect rose before him now, and he studied it, hope and fear entwining in his breast. He knew that weakness and exhaustion had driven his strength to the very edge of its endurance; he sensed himself drawing closer to death with each passing hour, at least as close as his ancient kin who had reached that state due to their great age. It would be but a small effort, he believed, to release what grasp he still held upon life, and embrace the Gift of Men at an hour of his own choosing, as they had done.

Almost he could see himself accepting the bequest of his ancestors, abandoning the ceaseless agony of his torn body simply by willing it so. His suffering had been too great for words, his weariness without end; surely there would be none who would deny that he had fulfilled all that Gondor could ask of him? If Henvain and Legolas were slain, it may be months before the fortress was discovered. He would certainly be dead by that time; Karil would not remain patient for much longer. Aragorn would know Faramir had done his duty to the fullest; his family would understand, particularly if they were able to learn what he had endured; and Eowyn...

Her face came again before him, beautiful, strong and gentle, and he felt tears sting the corners of his eyes. Eowyn would not want him to suffer needlessly, and with escape impossible, compliance unthinkable, and rescue ever more unlikely, the suffering would be needless, indeed. He would die either way; was it not more wise to do so quickly, at his own will and without pain, rather than allow himself to be torn apart by the merciless hands of his tormentors? Had he not earned this?

Even as he mused upon this course, however, Faramir knew that he could not take it. He yearned dearly for salvation, and he felt certain that it would be his if he simply yielded to the desire for it, so thoroughly exhausted was he in body and spirit. Yet it was that wearied spirit that strove against such an end for himself; it would win him a swift and easy rest, but the cost of such an act would render such rest a troubled one indeed.

The more Faramir mused upon his choice, the more clear it became, and he firmly cast aside the notion of slipping silently into death. Hopeless his plight might be, yet he would not accept defeat placidly, and shrug his life away without a struggle. Perhaps he would not be rescued, but Karil would find no satisfaction in seeing Faramir despair because of it. He was the Steward of Gondor, sworn to protect his beloved land to the last breath; and so he would, thwarting his enemy's plans with the only means left to him.

Gondor rose before him in his mind, its beauty and splendor washing over him as a refreshing rain, until his could almost smell the fragrance of its fields and feel the gentle breezes blowing over its boundless hills. Would he consent to die now, and lose any chance of returning there? There was still much he longed to accomplish for his people, much healing and rebuilding that needed to be done.

He thought of Adir, and the hope for peace that he still nurtured. Gondor would need him if all was to be set right between his land and Harad. At times during his suffering it had been very easy to believe that the ancient hatred between their lands could never be breached; certainly he had no kind thoughts for the Southron demons who afflicted him. Yet even as the wicked faces of the Haradrim interrogators loomed before him, Faramir fought to recall the nobility of Adir and his men. Not all Haradrim accepted the will of evil; this he had seen himself. As long as there was one man in Harad such as Adir, and one man in Gondor such as his King, Faramir knew there would be hope for peace, and he swore to himself that he would live to see it.

He saw Ithilien in his mind as well, blooming in springtime, his new-built home shining in the sunlight, surrounded by breathtaking gardens bathed in utter radiance. Eowyn was also there; upon seeing her face, his heart broke with longing, and he knew with even greater conviction that he would bear any cost to be with her once more. She would not want him to suffer; but even more, she would not want him to leave her before every chance of survival and reunion had been exhausted. For the love of her, and his people, he would continue to bear the agony and darkness, grasping life to the last possible moment. If he was fated to perish beneath the hands of his tormentors, he would do so as a soldier and Steward, with the names of Eowyn and Gondor upon his lips.

The bright vision stayed with him for a short time, then faded, and the icy air of the cell and the anguish of his wounds pierced his senses anew. He felt himself trembling; it seemed as if he had been drifting in the shadows for days, yet the rest had done nothing to diminish the pain and exhaustion wracking his body. The interrogators would come for him soon; Karil's army was surely close to readiness, and the Prince would be eager to begin his assault.

Yet with his decision came a newfound sense of calmness. It settled over him slowly, clearing the troubled thoughts from his mind, uplifting his anguished soul. Faramir welcomed the serenity without question; his mind was utterly clear now, his heart unafraid. Never had he seen his duty more plainly, and never had he more willingly accepted it.

Faramir bowed his head in the blackness, his lips moving now in an earnest prayer for strength. The words came from the depths of his heart, hopeful, sorrowful, and steeled with resolve. Long unmarked moments passed, and still he prayed, committing his spirit to the hands of Eru.

After a time he fell into a strange half-swoon; a drowsy, pleasant warmth flowed through him, the agony and cold lifting away until it was almost entirely gone. He did not know if it was a trick of his wearied mind, or if his nearness to death had sharpened his perception, but as he whispered his hushed supplications, he began to feel that he was no longer alone in the darkness. A multitude of unseen spirits seemed to fill the lightless air around him; he saw nothing before him, yet sensed their presence, their strength enfolding him in an undeniable embrace.

'A dream', he thought, closing his eyes as he slipped deeper into the soothing trance. There he felt more clearly those who were with him, though they remained unseen; his grandfather Ecthelion, his father and mother, friends and fellow soldiers, numerous others lost to him over the years and now found again. Perhaps they had always been there, and only now could he be aware of it, feel their gentle touches and profound, undying love.

He lay silent for a while, falling gradually into a sweet slumber without pain, the first he had enjoyed since his capture. As he faded away, he sensed one more spirit had come beside him, one he knew well and had dearly missed. Perhaps it was a dream that he felt this spirit take his hand, and tenderly stroke his hair. It might have been a mere fancy that caused him to feel a soft kiss touch his brow, and hear affectionate words murmured into his ear, the voice faint as if from a great distance, but one that Faramir knew without question.

'Sleep well, little brother!'

Faramir, however, preferred to believe otherwise.

-------------------

Eowyn sighed wearily to herself, and wondered if the night would ever end.

Around her bustled the rest of her fellow healers, working as quickly as they could to tend their duties during the short time the army would be halted. Overhead, the moonless sky was ablaze with stars; it was well past midnight, and the sky was already moving towards dawn. To the east loomed the black shapes of the Ephel Duath, its foothills rife with legions of sleepless Elvish soldiers clearing the way for the army to continue its march unnoticed. In a few hours, they would be on the march again, and not stop until they reached the enemy's fortress.

She swallowed the sorrow that was choking her, and returned her attention to her task at hand, arranging the handfuls of letters given to her by soldiers who wished to send word to their loved ones should this battle prove to be their last. She was seated on an empty barrel by one of the wagons, waiting for more letters to arrive, turning a pleasant face to all who approached her, and wiping her tears when they departed.

Her heart trembled to think of the morrow, much as she fought to still its fluttering. Earlier she had declared no desire to fight; now it filled her to the brim of her soul, and she was helpless to deny it. She was devoted to her healer's art, but longed for nothing more now than the feel of cold steel in her hand, to smite and vanquish her enemies as she had done before. There was a comforting oblivion to battle, a single-minded nature that drove all other thoughts away. When one was fighting to survive, the mind had room for no other troubles.

But no, she thought with a rueful smile as she tied the letters together with a string, she would find no solace in battle when dawn came. This was her calling now, and she understood why it would be folly for her to don armor once again. The longing to see Faramir again overwhelmed her senses, and she knew he would need her as well; what would they tell him, if he survived his ordeal only to learn she had fallen in battle? How then would her spirit find peace?

'Ah, my husband!' she thought, lifting her tear-filled eyes to gaze at the stars above her. The sight of them brought her no joy; she thought only of the stars they had watched the last night they were together, the love they had shared, his gentle arms holding her, his soft lips upon her skin. He was not dead; this she knew, for if he had died, she would feel a part of herself die as well, no matter how far apart they were. But was it truly a comfort to know this, when the alternative was for him to be alive, and enduring unbearable suffering? What would they find when they reached the fortress at dawn?

"Eowyn?"

She blinked, and looked up to see Eomer coming toward her, without his armor and clad in his camp-clothes. He was eying her with concern, but when he drew closer, she could plainly see that he was as wearied as she was.

She rose quickly and embraced him, and for a few moments they stood, held strongly in each other's arms.

"I feared I would not see you before the battle," she admitted quietly, nestling her head into his shoulder.

He chuckled softly, stroking her golden hair. "I shall tell Aragorn to have the healer's wagons placed closer to our camps next time," he offered.

Eowyn smiled and looked fondly up at her brother. In reply, he gently touched her face, and frowned a bit.

"You've been weeping," he noted in a worried tone, then shook his head at himself and pulled her close once more. "Well, but that was a foolish thing to say. You have cause enough, my sister; your brother's heart weeps with you."

"That, I have never doubted," she said, relenting to the embrace for a few more moments before stepping back and looking up at him. "I am as blessed to have you for a brother as Rohan is to have you for her King."

He took her hands and smiled. "'Brother' is the title I far prefer," he confessed as he studied her. "As a King, I fear I can offer you little comfort, but as a brother, it is fully within my power."

She gave him a halfhearted smile, and dropped her eyes.

He peered at her, uncertain, and gripped her hands so that she looked up at him again.

"We will find him, Eowyn. He *is* alive," Eomer insisted.

She regarded him solemnly, then nodded, whispering, "I know."

"We shall bring you to him the moment it is safe," he promised.

Eowyn sighed. "It will still seem so long," she said.

He smiled. "We will make short work of the Orcs and their Haradrim allies, I swear to you," he declared. "At dawn we attack; by noon they will all be in Morgoth's realm, and you will be with Faramir once more."

There was a pause as he glanced down at the horn that hung by his side. His fingers touched it, then he lifted his gaze to her, a resolute glint in his eyes.

"You know the voice of my horn," he said. "When Faramir is found, I shall sound it for you. If you hear three notes, you will know he lives." He hesitated before adding, "I will sound two if it be otherwise, but that will /not/ happen! Then you will have only to wait a short time, and I will come to bring you both together."

She smiled at the thought, her unfallen tears glittering in the starlight.

"It will be my gift to you both," Eomer went on, leaning close to her, "for nothing will heal Faramir more swiftly, than to know you will soon be with him."

She nodded, pursing her lips and lowering her gaze as one tear dropped from her eye. There was a pause, then she heard him take one step forward and felt a brotherly kiss touch her brow.

The sound of slow footsteps caused them both to look up. Henvain was walking carefully towards them, clad in his light leather armor, leaning most of his weight upon the cane he swung in one hand.

"Oh! Er, beg pardon, your Majesty, milady," he coughed, an embarassed look crossing his plain features. "Didn't mean to interrupt...um..." He let the words trail off, then abandoned that sentence and straightened as if assuming an official capacity. "King Eomer, King Elessar's wantin' all the leaders in his tent for a briefing before we move on again. They asked me to tell you."

Eomer sighed, gave the soldier a nod of acknowledgement, and turned back to Eowyn.

She lifted her face and examined him. "It feels impossible that soon it will all be over," she observed in a somber tone. "The past few days have seemed an unending lifetime."

Her brother gently caressed her hair. "There will be a good ending, we will make certain of it," he promised.

For a few moments Eomer gazed at her, thinking, then shook his head.

"I would leave you with profound words, my sister, but I fear my tongue is not as nimble as that of Faramir or Aragorn," he said, his quiet voice beginning to tremble. "I can only tell you farewell, and should I not return, recall always in your heart how much your brother loved you."

She smiled, and they embraced again, tears shining in her eyes once more. "You need say nothing else," she whispered, kissing him fondly on the cheek. "Tomorrow you shall make proud the house of Eorl. Farewell!"

They stood together for a few more moments, unspeaking, before duty called Eomer away. Once he departed, Eowyn stood alone, her arms crossed as if to ward off a bitter cold, looking down the now-empty path he had trod, a painful mixture of anticipation and dread for the coming day filling her heart.

After a short time, Henvain limped back to her side, studying her with a anxious expression.

"Is there anything I can do for you, milady?" he asked in a plain, worried voice.

She rallied herself from her somber reverie and looked at him, shaking her head. "No, Lieutenant, I thank you," she said quickly, gracefully wiping her damp eyes. "Naught but the contest of arms may answer my cares now; they have moved beyond our helping."

Henvain pondered this. "Suppose that's true enough," he mused, before giving her an encouraging look. "But I'll tell you, milady, don't worry about Lord Faramir. If anybody has the courage to spit in the eyes of them Orcs, and that Karil, it's him. He'll be all right."

"So Eomer has promised, along with many others," sighed Eowyn as she walked back to where she had been sitting, the pile of letters awaiting her. "And I know it to be true, but my heart is too heavy to truly believe it, until I behold him with my own eyes."

She stood silent for a moment, then turned to him, squaring her shoulders. "But I shall not think so much of myself, when our duty now bids us to look to the cares of others above our own," she asserted. "We shall march again soon; is all in readiness?"

Henvain bobbed his head in affirmation. "Yes, milady, I checked, and all the water-skins are filled, the horses fed and properly rested, and here-" He reached into a pocket inside his cloak and withdrew a small stack of letters, "-are a few more letters from the boys."

She accepted them with as much of a smile as she could summon.

"Oh," added Henvain with a cough, reaching into another pocket and giving her two more, slightly crumpled missives,"and, um, here's a few from me. I know we're not expected to be attacked, but just in case."

"They shall be well cared for, fear not," she promised, her smile widening a bit.

He seemed slightly nervous yet. "Now, I'd like those back if I live, is that all right?" he asked. "I mean...nobody will read them."

"If you wish it," replied Eowyn, sitting down and adding the letters to the pile.

"Good," Henvain nodded, "because if my brother Turwaith ever reads what I wrote him while I'm still around, he'll never stop teasin' me about it, and, well, he's hard enough to put up with as it is."

"He is in the army, is he not?" asked Eowyn, looking up at him. "Is he not here?"

Henvain shook his head firmly. "No, he's up north, too far off to get called back in time," he answered, shifting his cloak around his shoulders and glancing off into the distance. "Haven't seen him for months, really. Odd, when he left I wasn't all that sorry, but now after all that's happened, I feel like it'd be nice to see him again. And I keep thinkin', what if somethin' happens and I don't?"

His lip twitched and he leaned against the wagon, fiddling with the head of his cane. "Didn't think I'd ever really miss him, but I do, and I'm not too sure what to do about it."

Eowyn gazed at him with sympathy, then reached up and laid one hand gently on his arm. He looked up at her, surprised.

"You shall do as we all must do, Henvain, all that we have left to us," she said softly. "You shall do your duty."

He gazed at her for a short, silent time, then nodded.

"Yes, milady," he said quietly.

She grasped his arm briefly, to encourage him, then released it. For the rest of the time, they remained together without speaking, Eowyn lost in her thoughts as she sorted the letters, and Henvain watching as the stars turned silently overhead, relentlessly drawing them all closer to the momentous dawn.

------------------------

On the other side of the mountains, Karil also watched the skies, but his manner was far less patient.

His was a spectacular view from atop the fortress' highest tower. From there he could see the glittering heavens expanding from horizon to horizon above the plains of Mordor. It was a sight of breathtaking beauty, but he had no care for it; his interest was wholly taken up by the scene in the valley below him.

Torches and fires blazed across the valley floor, the barren land crawling with thousands of Orcs as they labored to make ready the Prince's army. The siege towers loomed over all, their massive wooden frames appearing as the skeletons of fearsome beasts against the night sky. The land rang with the falling of hammers and the clanging of steel as armor and weapons were forged and finished. Piles of swords and helmets gleamed in the firelight, waiting to be donned by the Orcs. A pall of dread hung over the scene, as if the very air knew that evil was preparing to make its savage assault.

Karil then turned to the two Haradrim interrogators who had been standing silently beside him, waiting. One bore a scroll of parchment.

Nearby, half-cloaked in the shadows, Masrak stood watching in silence.

"And you are certain he will break tomorrow?" the Prince asked in a sharp tone.

"There is no doubt of it, sire," said the elder Haradrim with a slight bow. "I have seen him myself, today; he has recovered some of his strength, but it is still near its end. He will not endure long, once we have begun our work."

"Pray that it is so!" barked Karil, fixing them both with his piercing wolf's glare. "Had you succeeded in your tasks as I expected, we might have begun our march upon Gondor two days ago."

"I am certain the wait will prove beneficial, my prince," the older man offered. "He has yet enough strength within him to tell us what he knows; two days ago, this would not have been the case."

Karil grunted and scowled at them, shaking his head.

"I have far too merciful with that Westron dog," he proclaimed with self-disgust, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing back and forth across the tower floor. "He should have been suffering the torments of Sauron from the first day. There is some of my father's weak nature in me, I fear, but that shall end this night!"

At length, he halted, and looked keenly at the interrogators. "You shall commence at once, and do not cease until he has given me all the information that I require."

The two men glanced at each other, then bowed together before the Prince.

"It shall be done as you command, sire," said the elder Haradrim. "We need only some time to prepare. Irons must be heated, blades sharpened, and the leathers and nettles of our whips oiled and honed. By dawn, we will able to begin."

The younger interrogator hesitated before adding, "It is probable, sire, that our methods will not be long in taking his life."

Karil gave him a furious look.

"That matter no longer concerns me," he snapped, his burning gaze fixing them both in their places. "Let him die, and be damned, so long as his will is broken, and the secrets of his City are mine."

The interrogators swiftly bowed, even lower than before.

"Fear not, my Prince," said the senior of the pair, "he shall be pleading for death before the sun's first hour has passed."

"It should be so," replied the Prince in a chilling voice, "else you find yourselves in his place. I am sure the Orcs would have great curiosity to try the methods you have suggested."

The ingratiating smiles of the two men slipped slightly.

Karil waved a hand behind him, and Masrak stepped forward from the shadows. "Masrak will see to your needs. Come to me when he has broken, and you will find the reward for your success as great as your punishment should you fail."

At this, the smiles returned, and the two men bowed and followed Masrak down the steps from the tower to the depths of the dungeon below.

Behind them, Karil resumed his stance, gazing with great joy at the sea of fire and death before him. In his mind, he saw his army sweeping through the green fields of Gondor and across the plains of Rohan, killing and burning all that stood in their path.

He saw Minas Tirith ablaze, its people falling dead before the flaming missiles of his siege towers and the poisoned arrows of his Orcs.

He saw the bloodied body of Gondor's Steward hoisted before his troops as the war's first spoils, reminding them of what they had conquered, and what the fate of the West would be if they only followed him.

He saw hundreds, thousands, of his fellow Haradrim, casting off the chains of reluctance at last to follow him, redeeming his land from its current shame of defeat and slavery.

Most wonderful of all, he saw the name of Sauron glorified once more, his master's death forever avenged, and his standard raised on high over all of Middle-earth as it should have been before the foul betrayal. Karil would be his voice and hands, and through him, the spirit of the Dark Lord would cover all the lands, as had been ordained from the beginning of the ages.

Karil saw all of this as he beheld the teeming scene below him. As the joyous visions filled his mind, he turned his eyes to the stars at last, eagerly watching to see them extinguished, so that the day, and his victory, would ascend all the faster.

---------------------

The hours passed, swiftly for some, too slow for others, and soon the eastern horizon grew pale with the day's approach.

At that hour, Karil stood in his map room, his commanders by his side, discussing the first villages of Gondor that would be destroyed when his army began its march. In the valley below them, the restless Orcs were making the last refinements to their machines of war and complaining to each other about the maddening delay.

In the dungeon chamber of the Fortress, the Haradrim interrogators were completing their preparations, overlooking the condition of their tools with varying degrees of satisfaction. As the two men studied the blades, whips, and instruments, they felt ever more confident that they would not disappoint their Prince.

Nearby, in the eternal shadows of his cell, Faramir still slept, his untroubled spirit far away from the agony and darkness. Earlier, the Orcs had tied his hands with rope in preparation for taking him to the chamber. They had been sorely confounded to find that, instead of being awake and utterly terrified, the prisoner was slumbering as peacefully as a child. Unable to rouse him, they had bound his wrists together and left him in the cell, laughing as they locked the door over the rude awakening the man had in store for him.

Across the mountains, deep in the pass that led into Mordor, Eowyn stood with the other healers by the wagons, her eyes staring anxiously down the path into that black land.

Moving silently up the other end of the pass was the army of the West, horsemen of Rohan and Gondor on one side, soldiers of Gondor and the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth on the other, as well as the regiments of Elves and Dwarves. Many Elves went before them, seeking out and dispatching all Orc sentries who might give warning of their approach.

And at the head of the armies rode Aragorn, clad in his kingly armor, sword in hand, his hazel eyes peering at the bright opening of the pass that grew nearer with every soft-trodden step. Beyond lay the forces of Karil, and the remaining legions of Sauron, a mighty host but not invincible. And not least of all, Faramir awaited them, doubtless weary and ill, having suffered much to gain them the time they needed to come and end Karil's madness.

An iron resolve braced Aragorn's heart. His brave Steward's sacrifice would not be in vain.

They drew closer to the mouth of the pass. In ancient times, a tall iron gate had been built to guard its entrance. On the rocks above the gate, the King could make out the dark forms of several Orcs, walking back and forth as they patroled the area.

Elvish bows sang, and the Orc sentries fell silently dead. With silent steps the swiftest of the Elves dashed forward and pulled open the towering metal doors, as quickly and quietly as possible. The guards had had no time to sound an alert, so their actions had as yet gone unnoticed.

They marched rapidly now to the end of the pass. Aragorn could see the plains opening before them, the thousands of Orcs moving against the gray landscape like swarms of ants. He could see one of the siege towers, and hear the growing babble of their monstrous creators as they worked. A dim, gray light hung over it all, heralding the near arrival of the morning.

The King's heart pounded as he lifted his sword. He glanced over at Eomer who led the horsemen, and Imrahil who rode beside Legolas and Gimli at the head of the footsoldiers. They knew their orders; the time had come to fulfill them.

Behind Aragorn, several of the Rohirrim had raised their horns to their lips.

Aragorn spurred forward a few feet, until he was at the mouth of the pass. He could see the entire valley now; before them spread the Prince's army, and to the south - some distance off, with most of the Orcs in the way - lay the fortress, nestled in the jutting foothills of the mountains. He stared briefly at the sight, astounded at the enormity of the evil Karil had gathered there.

It lasted but a moment, before he drew a deep breath and raised Anduril on high, his gaze becoming hard as steel.

The sun climbed above the mountains, its first rays striking his sword and setting the gleaming blade aflame.

A few Orcs happened to glance in that direction, and froze, mouths agape, too stunned to move.

It would have availed them naught, for in the next moment Aragorn uttered a single cry that echoed across the valley, mingled with the music of the horns of Rohan.

"FORWARD!"

And they surged ahead with a roar, a mighty rumbling arising as thousands of men and horses spilled at once into the valley, the air ringing with the war cries of Man, Elf and Dwarf.

In the valley, the Orc, trolls, and few Haradrim looked up from their labors in utter surprise, at first not understanding as they saw enemy soldiers pouring from the mountain pass. Then cries of alarm were raised, orders shouted, and the Orcs bellowed in wordless fury as they snatched up sword, pike, arrow and bow against the invaders. Many ran to block the way between the foe and the fortress; soon a solid wall of Orcs surrounded its perimeter. Others rushed to meet the enemy head on, but not before the full force of the Western armies had moved through the pass. They had fully taken to the field, and they charged forward towards the Orcs, until the two armies met in a shattering collision of flesh and steel.

The dawn had come.

---------------------

Karil had just been marking the map to indicate the doomed cities of Gondor when the first horn-blasts echoed throughout the room.

He stood sharply, his eyes wide as he turned to gaze through the large window at the other end of the room. Then the pen in his hand was thrown down, and in three steps he had charged across the space, followed closely by his commanders.

At first, the sight that met his eyes was too horrific to be believed. Thousands of enemy soldiers were pouring from the northern pass, men on horse and on foot, and there was no mistaking the figure riding at the head of all of them, his sword flashing in the sun. A tremendous roar reached his ears, the clashing of metal on metal as the first of the invaders met the front line of the vast sea of Orcs surrounding the fortress.

Karil began to shake as an unspeakable rage consumed him. At first, he could not force a single sound from his mouth, for what he saw was too horrible to articulate. He had been betrayed; somehow, Gondor had learned of his plan; and they had dared to come upon him in secret, like the cowards they were, to further their blasphemy upon the land of his Master.

The fury built inside him, until he uttered a choked exclamation of Haradrim profanity and whirling dashed away from the window, his silken robes billowing with the speed of his stride.

"To your regiments!" he spat at the Haradrim commanders as he moved quickly by them.

They bowed and hurried away.

Karil's steps soon took him hurtling from the tower room and down the nearest flight of stone steps. Masrak and the young boy who served as the advisor's scribe ran after him, hastening to keep pace.

"Summon my attendants to the royal armory at once," Karil snapped at Masrak. "I shall meet these dogs in battle. Send archers to the battlements; they must kill all who draw near."

Masrak nodded. "At once, sire," he said hastily. "Sire, the prisoner...he must have known this would happen..."

Karil stopped and turned to glare at Masrak.

"What he knows is now worth nothing to me, Masrak," the Prince replied in a voice quivering with rage. "When you have issued my orders, attend me at once in the armory. There is still a way that piece of filth may be of use to us."

Masrak bowed, and they parted.

--------------------

Faramir was dreaming of thunder.

He was a young child again, lying half-asleep in Boromir's arms. A summer storm had banished them to the nursery, and they were waiting there for it to pass. Their mother had warned them far away from the window, and they rested now on Boromir's bed. Boromir liked storms, but he knew his little brother was still frightened of them, and had not refused when Faramir curled up against him in fear of what was coming.

The thunder had started, far away but steady.

Faramir's eyes were closed, so all was dark, but he could feel Boromir's arms holding him tight. He smiled, knowing he was perfectly safe. A cool, clean-smelling wind blew across his face, bearing upon it the restless scent of the approaching rain.

The thunder was growing louder.

He felt Boromir give him a small hug.

"Don't worry, little brother. The storm will pass soon, you'll see," he heard his brother gently say.

The thunder grew louder still, and it was strange, but Faramir noticed that it never stopped, but kept on rolling, getting closer with every passing second.

Then it all began to fade, and he felt himself pulled out of Boromir's arms. The cool, pleasant breeze turned still and bitterly cold. He began to ache, and the ache turned quickly to pain. He couldn't move his hands.

But the thunder continued.

Faramir drew a breath, coming awake. For a few moments he blinked in the darkness of his cell, his spinning mind slowly settling back to full awareness. He lay on his side, trying to be still, bracing himself as the agonies of his wounds stung him with every movement.

Gingerly, he twisted his hands. Rope bit into his raw wrists, and he pressed his lips together with concern. They had bound him again for a reason, and he suspected he would soon know what it was.

But he yet heard the thunder of his dream, and he frowned, certain that he no longer slept. It was faint, but there was no mistaking the constant rumble that reached his ears; it rang through the floor and walls of his cell, which had been carved from the depths of the earth. Faramir stayed still, too weakened bu pain and exhaustion to move, listening, puzzled.

Then his eyes widened. He knew that sound, had heard it countless times upon the battlefield. Often it had echoed in his dreams of past days, as he swept across the Pelennor towards Osgiliath.

It was the sound of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of charging horses.

Holding his breath, Faramir became aware that the ground was trembling beneath him as he lay on the cold floor of his cell, the motion increasing until the entire room seemed to shake.

He gasped, tears standing at the corners of his eyes as he stared into the blackness. His mind was without words, overwhelmed by a formless surge of blinding hope.

A shout came from the other side of his cell door, and the voice of one of the Orcs reached him, muffled through the heavy wood but completely distinct.

"You, there!" it screamed. "Grab your swords and come up! We're bein' invaded!"

"What, all of us?" replied an incredulous voice, one of the Orc interrogators.

"Prince's orders!" was the snarled answer, spoken as if its owner was already halfway up the stairs and out of the anteroom. "He wants all Orcs on the battlefield. Looks like all of Gondor an' Rohan is out there! Move it!"

If the second Orc made a reply, Faramir did not hear it. His whole being was awash in such a powerful sensation of relief that it threatened to carry him back into unconsciousness.

For a long while he stayed motionless, listening to the growing roar, his body trembling as greatly as the walls and floor beneath him. A series of realizations flooded his thoughts, each more joyous than the last.

Henvain, or Legolas, or both, had survived, and returned to Minas Tirith.

Aragorn and Eomer had come.

Karil's madness would be destroyed this day, and never harm his people.

Every moment of agony he had suffered had been worth its cost; he had kept Gondor safe, and Karil unable to move his forces against the West.

Soon, it would be finished.

And soon, he would be with Eowyn once more.

All of this spun through Faramir's mind, and for a short time he regarded it with great elation, thinking of nothing else. Then the tide of emotion withdrew, and he sobered, understanding that his battle was not yet ended. Karil now had no need now to keep him alive, and there was no knowing yet what the Prince would do with him, now that his knowledge was needed no longer.

Faramir sent up a swift prayer for the victory of the West, and braced himself to wait.

---------------

In the valley, the serenity of the morning had dissolved into complete chaos.

Hoarse screams and cries of every tongue filled the air, punctuated by the endless ringing of blade meeting blade. Most of the battle churned before the fortress, where a solid wall of Orcs and their Haradrim commanders had formed a wide ring to drive back the encroaching armies. Out upon the plains, other horsemen and soldiers of the West had aimed for the siege towers and other mechanics of war. The Orcs and trolls were defending these no less ardently than the fortress, their battle howls rising to the sky as they clambered up the wooden structures, determined to fight. Overhead, Elvish arrows hummed through the air, answered by the thick missiles of the foe.

Aragorn drove Brego through the Orcs, his sword slashing at every enemy in his path. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, he strove to ascertain their position. The fortress lay before them, but a vast host of Orcs blocked their path. Arrows began to sail from above them, and Aragorn could see lines of archers along the ancient building's highest walls.

He heard a shout, and a mighty rumbling of hooves behind him. Briefly turning his gaze, he saw Eomer and several Rohirrim, followed by Imrahil and a host of Swan Knights, making their way around to the northern side of the fortress to try and break through their right flank.

The King redoubled his efforts against the Orcs before him, resolved that they would not be able to hinder his friends' advance. The soldiers of Gondor who were with him did the same, and the bloodshed continued unabated.

-------------------

By the time Masrak arrived in the Royal Armory, the Prince's attendants had almost completed fitting him with his armor. They were just tying off the chestplate made of thickly woven wicker as the advisor ran through the door, followed closely by his servant.

"The orders have been issued, sire, and our forces have met them," he panted after completing a bow.

"No doubt they will prevail," announced Karil, his young face marked with a wide smirk as his cloth-swathed helmet was settled over his long black hair. "This has made it all the easier for me, Masrak-we shall simply destroy the armies of Gondor here, and march into their land already victorious. Now, as to that Gondorian scum downstairs."

"Yes, sire," Masrak stepped forward, a curious aspect in his expression.

Karil was not looking at him, but was examining his jeweled sword in its sheath. "I want his head and skin mounted upon a pole and born before our troops," he said casually, before handing the weapon to his aide, "so that they will be inspired, and the Western invaders will see it and know my power. The Haradrim interrogators will know how to remove his hide quickly, and in suitable condition."

Masrak considered this. "It will be a mighty trophy indeed to bear before our forces, sire," he agreed, relishing the idea of repaying the Gondorian for his defiance, "although the Orcs will be disappointed at losing their chance at him. It was promised he would be theirs when we were through with him."

Karil snorted as the sword was buckled around his waist by his aide. "I have little concern for what disappointments those empty-headed beasts might suffer," he replied with scorn. "You have my orders. Go at once!"

The advisor bowed and hastened out without hesitation, his steps bound for the lower chambers. behind him, the Prince continued his prepatations to ride out and face his foes, his handsome face wreathed in an anticipatory smile at his coming glorious victory.

-------------------

Although Eomer knew a good deal of Rohirric profanity, the battle had caused him to completely exhaust his vocabulary.

He and Imrahil had moved against the right flank before the fortress, but now were mired there, held in place by the tenacious Orcs who stood resolutely in their path.

The fight was raging all around him now. To his left he could see Aragorn and the Gondorians relentlessly hammering away at the center of the line. Behind him, the rest of the armies were assailing the Orcs on the plains. Elvish arrows tipped with flame arced through the air towards the tall siege towers, their smoke-trails hanging in the morning air. One wooden frame was partially alight. The fight was ferocious there as well; it looked to be a long struggle.

He glanced to his right, where the foothills of the mountains rose above him, their slopes littered with immense boulders that had fallen there over the ages. A few jagged large spurs of rock jutted out high above him, close enough to the fortress to form a proper place from which to assail the enemy. But there was no way to scale the rock in time, and it was clear that any who attempted it would be slain by the bowmen atop the fortress walls.

A roar came up from the Orcs on the far left flank. Eomer saw them part, heard a distant cheer from enemy throats, and knew that Karil had taken the field. From so far away he could not clearly see, but from the way the Orcs seemed to surround and protect the Prince, he thought he could mark Karil's progress as he made his way around the outer edge of the valley. His intention appeared to be to rally his forces around the siege towers, perhaps to then use their might to crush the Western army.

Then the Prince was lost among the mass of warriors, and Eomer turned his thoughts back to the bitter task of gaining the fortress, knowing that Faramir awaited them behind those walls of stone. Karil would have to wait.

--------------------

"It is as the old days, is it not, master Elf?"

Gimli's jocular voice cut through the din even as his axe swiped off the head of an Orc who had been attempting to split the Dwarf in half. They were with Aragorn's forces near the center of the line assaulting the fortress, striving to break through the horde of enemies blocking their way.

"Indeed it is," replied Legolas as he nocked and fired another arrow at the archers atop the fortress above them. "I believe I have slain twice as many as you already."

Gimli snorted and glanced at the Elf's target, who had returned unharmed to the wall. "For now" he said with a grunt as he drove his weapon into another attacking Orc. "But with shooting like that, I'll soon have the lead!"

His friend scowled as he swiftly pulled another arrow from his quiver. "They are high, and protected by that stone wall," he replied, his lilting voice rife with aggravation. "I shall take my forces to that precipice by the right flank, and-"

Gimli heard the Elf bite off his words, and turned to see him staring in the direction of the fortresses' northern walls. Several dark shapes holding bows and arrows had appeared upon the large rock shelf jutting above the right flank, and the Dwarf could see several more behind them in the rocks of the foothills nearby.

"An ambush!" choked Gimli, his eyes growing wide, and he looked around. "Where is Aragorn? We must throw all of our strength to Rohan and Imrahil before they are destroyed!"

He turned and began to hurry off to find the King when he was stopped by Legolas' hand. The Elf was still peering at the new arrivals, his expression more of amazement than horror.

"No," he said quickly, before Gimli could take another step, "Wait!"

---------------------

Eomer felt a good deal of satisfaction as he succeeded in cleaving another Orc in half, but the sensation was short-lived as another took its place. As he fell once more to battle, anger swamped him; it would take hours to break this line, time Faramir did not have.

"Sir!"

The shout of one of his lieutenants drew Eomer's attention. After swiftly slicing the Orc's chest open with his blade, he looked in the direction of the cry. The young Rider was pointing to the ledge Eomer had been eying only moments before, and now many of the men were looking up there.

Wheeling his horse around, Eomer saw with horror that the ledge was now full of Haradrim archers, lifting their bows.

Remarkably, Eomer found one more profanity to spit out, and quickly sought out his captain of the Rohirrim archers. From the corner of his eye, he saw Imrahil struggling to guide his horse towards him through the mass of soldiers.

"Captain!" Eomer shouter. "We are being outflanked from above! All arrows-"

He felt a hand frantically grab his arm, and turned to see Imrahil next to him, covered with sweat and Orc blood, his brown eyes large with urgency.

"Eomer, no!" the Prince cried. "They are not Karil's Haradrim! See where they aim, and who is leading them - it is Jadim!"

Before the words fully left his lips, the mysterious archers had finished lifting their bows, aiming not at the men of the West, but at the archers at the top of the fortress.

"Jadim?" Eomer gasped in bewilderment, staring once more above him. Then he realized that, indeed, among the armor-clad figures was the lean form of Adir's eldest son, who was shouting orders at his men and pointing his sword at the fortress walls.

The men's bows shot as one; a host of arrows soared through the air, and half of the archers atop the fortress fell dead.

--------------------

At the center of the line, Aragorn watched amazed, dividing his attention between killing the Orcs at hand and the scene unfolding to the north. he had seen the archers appear, and his heart had fallen, until their bows were lifted against their enemies and he understood.

"Legolas!" Aragorn shouted, to his friend who stood nearby. "Who is there upon the high rocks? Can you see?"

The Elf fired his bow into the Orcs as he talked. "I see Jadim," he cried in answer, "and many Haradrim with him, but all without Karil's mark, and bearing a white band of truce around their right arms. And there are men there not of his tribe, Aragorn-it seems others of his people have elected to join us!"

The fortress bowmen who survived the first barrage had now turned their weapons upon the Haradrim on the ledge. before many of their arrows had flown, Jadim's men had cut more of them down.

The Orcs on the plains below them seemed stunned and confused, and fought all the harder against the Western armies trying to get past them. Their anger only increased when the bellowing sound of several Haradrim horns pierced the air behind them, and from the great rocks of the foothills behind their lines came pouring several Haradrim men on horseback, bearing long spears and swords. They were led by Adir, his long red and gold war robes flowing as he plowed his horsemen directly into the huge mass of Orcs.

Aragorn paused, astonished and exceedingly grateful, to watch the Haradrim horsemen pour onto the field and into the Orcs, amid many fierce war cries and the blasting of deep-throated horns. He could see that it was as Legolas stated-there were men there not only of Adir's tribe, but of other tribes as well, distinguished by their varied armor and the colors of their war-robes. But none bore the blue mark of allegiance to Karil, and all wore a white band upon their right arm, a sign Aragorn at once recognized as one to set them apart from Karil's Haradrim followers.

Then the King redoubled his efforts, for he sensed the tide had turned.

-------------------

For a moment, Eomer found that he could not move, as he watched the Haradrim horsemen, nearly two hundred in all, charge into the unprotected rear flank of the Orcs who assaulted them. His mind spun, not simply with the noise and confusion of the battle. What was happening? Was this some strange trick-would the Haradrim turn and slaughter them next? Yet not a single one had raised a weapon against them, despite many perfect chances to do so...

Then an Orc battle-cry called him back to himself, and Eomer swiftly awoke and drove his sword through the head of the foul beast charging him. Then Imrahil was at his side once more, grinning like a madman.

"Forward, my friend, forward!" the Prince of Dol Amroth cried. "The way before us is almost clear!"

He then rode forward, the Knights behind him, and Eomer looked and saw with great surprise that it was true. Of the masses of Orcs who had stood in their way, many had now been pushed off to the center or slain where they stood by the Haradrim, and the enemy's right flank had nearly collapsed.

Resolved to fight now and try to understand it all later, Eomer hefted his sword aloft and charged ahead.

------------------

Inside, the fortress seemed eerily vacant as Masrak moved down the stone steps to the depths of the building, followed by his young servant. Here and there, soldiers ran out to join the defense of the structure, but for the most part, all was still and silent.

He reached the landing that led to the final set of stairs into the cellar. A large window onto the valley opened there, and he paused before it, studying the chaotic scene below.

The forces of Gondor were pressing mightily to reach the fortress. On the plains beyond, he could see the remainder of the enemy laying siege to the towers and war machines, and doing battle with the rest of the Orcs. It was a scene of madness, and there was no knowing yet who would be triumphant.

Then as he watched, hordes of Haradrim horsemen streamed into his vision from behind the Orcs, smashing into their rear lines, demolishing all in their path. Masrak gaped with shock, recognizing at once who they were. His blood ran cold with rage.

A figure appeared on the steps above him.

"Lord Masrak!"

He turned to look. It was one of the Haradrim bowmen that had been at the top of the fortress, his right arm hanging limp and covered with blood.

"Traitors from Adir's tribe have slain most of our archers, my Lord!" the man declared. "What are the orders now?"

He hesitated, then glared up at the young warrior.

"All who are left must defend this fortress," he replied. "I shall join you soon."

The archer nodded and vanished.

Masrak then paused, glanced once more out the window, then walked on, intent on his mission.

They had not lost yet.

---------------

The scene before the fortress had dissolved into a churning sea of Orcs, Haradrim horsemen in robes of many colors, Gondorians, Elves, dwarves, Rohirrim, and Swan Knights. A deafening clamor filled the air, screams of men and horses, thrums of bowstrings, and the endless din of sword meeting sword. Blinding clouds of gray dust filled the air, mingling with streams of red and black blood.

Somehow in this confusion, Aragorn found Adir. The Haradrim leader was coated with dust, his robes torn and bloodied, his helmet gone so that his long gray haired flew about his broad shoulders. Upon seeing the Gondorian king, Adir smiled and offered a quick salute.

"Greetings, King of Gondor," he said, before plunging his horse forward and hacking an Orc across the neck.

"And to you, Chief of the Seventh Tribe," replied Aragorn as he fended off a tenacious opponent. "I see you and your men did not quite reach Harad."

Adir laughed slightly as he hefted his bloodied sword. "That is not quite the truth of it," he responded. "When we have delivered your brave Steward to safety, I shall tell all. For now, we must only fight!"

With those words, he dove back into the battle, and Aragorn followed, his heart in complete agreement.

------------------------

When Masrak reached the depths of the fortress, he was very surprised to see the small antechamber populated with six burly Orcs.

"Why are you not above, defending the fortress?" he asked them sharply, stepping into the chamber. His servant remained behind on the stairs.

The large Orc jailer came forward, his small eyes gleaming dully in the torchlight. He jerked one thick thumb towards the locked cell door.

"Had to guard the prisoner," he growled.

Masrak frowned. "Six of you to guard one almost dead Gondorian?"

The two Haradrim interrogators appeared from the shadows of the hallway leading to the far chamber.

"Ah, Lord Masrak!" the elder said in a pleased tone. "We had word of an attack above. How goes the battle?"

Masrak cleared his throat. "Not as well as Karil had expected, I fear," he said. "Adir and his traitors have come, and fight against us."

The interrogators seemed shocked.

"Fell news indeed, my Lord!" the younger proclaimed.

"Is it possible that they might prevail?" asked the younger man in disbelief. The Orcs were throwing dour glances at each other.

Masrak thought carefully before he spoke. "They may at least take the fortress," he confessed. "Even now, their forces have nearly broken through. The Orcs are failing to hold their positions in its defense."

At this scornful statement, the Orcs lifted their heads and gave the advisor stares of extreme offense. He paid them no heed; after all, they were only Orcs.

"The Prince had ordered the prisoner slain, so that his hide may serve as standard around which our forces might rally," the advisor informed them in a hasty tone. "This must be done at once."

Masrak looked at the large Orc jailer. "You will open the door and bring out the prisoner."

The Orc stood glaring at him and did not move.

Masrak had taken a step towards the door in anticipation of it being opened, and peered at the Orc in surprise when he saw him remain motionless.

"Did you hear me?" Masrak asked sternly. "Open the door and give us the prisoner."

A smile slowly crept across the Orc's ugly face as he looked Masrak up and down.

"No," the beast said slowly. "No, I don't think so."

The advisor's face contorted with fury.

"Orc," he said in a warning tone, "obey me! I am the right hand of the Prince."

The Orc drew himself up and took a long, deep breath, still smiling.

"Don't think that counts for much right now, the way I sees it," he said.

Masrak noticed the other five Orcs were very slowly surrounding him.

"How dare you," he said, looking around at them and taking a step backwards. "You are sworn to Prince Karil's service. This is treason!"

"I don't care no more what you or that Prince got to say," the huge Orc rumbled. "First you said my boys could torture the prisoner, then you gave 'im to these Haradrim instead. Then you said we could have 'im when they was finished with 'im, now you say you're gonna kill 'im now, an' blamin' us for the fact you're losin'. Well, I say, we're sick of scrapin' to you Haradrim, an' I don't think we got to do it anymore."

Masrak put his hand on his sword, backing towards the staircase, his eyes wide. Behind the Orcs, the interrogators both wore expressions of increasing terror.

"We coulda been on the march two days ago if it weren't for your bloody Prince and these bloody fool Haradrim who don't know the first thing about gettin' a fellow to talk," the Orc jailer continued, his deep voice turning angry. "Karil promised he'd lead us back to power, an' instead what's left of us Orcs is out there gettin' killed. Now it's all fallin' apart, an' I guess you Haradrim got to fall with it. But we don't."

Before he could say another word, Masrak drew his sword. At once, three of the Orcs fell on him, the small room filling with their howls as they wrenched the blade from his hand. The sword was thrown aside, and apart from his intense struggles and cries for help, there was little Masrak could do, for all of the guards in the fortress had been sent to battle.

At this, the two Haradrim interrogators attempted to bolt. They were quickly stopped by the other three Orcs, who seized them in their powerful grip and dragged them back into the shadows of the hall. The jailer and the two Orcs went after them, Masrak furiously fighting every step of the way, his shouts becoming hysterical, his eyes bulging with horror.

The servant stood forgotten on the stairs, rooted there with paralyzing fright. From the shadows the screams of Masrak and the interrogators went on, growing increasingly louder and higher as they mingled with the raucous laughter of the Orcs.

The young boy pressed himself against the wall, trembling, as he listened to the agonized howls of his master. After a few moments he broke and fled in blind panic up the stairs, the wails of anguish still echoing in his ears.

-------------------

There was a certain mindset of battle that Eomer was quite familiar with, in which the warrior ceased to dwell on any conscious thought, but acted upon one instinct alone: to fight and win.

As the King of Rohan fought against the Orcs in his path, he found himself in that place. All around him vanished except for the enemy before him, all other considerations, including his own life, melted away until only the single goal remained. The din of combat, the hot sun and clouds of dust, the smell of blood and sweat, faded completely from his mind. His sword-arm seemed to act of its own accord, and all who stepped into his path soon found themselves quickly fallen out of it.

It was not until the last Orc between him and the fortress fell beneath his sword that Eomer drew himself from his trance. Lifting his sword, he uttered a Rohirric cry of victory and spurred his mount forward to the stronghold.

The Orcs' right flank had collapsed at last.

Behind him, he heard a great cheer, and he was soon joined by a host of Rohirrim and Swan Knights as they streamed over the dead Orc bodies and onto the fortress grounds. As he neared the great stone walls of the stronghold, he turned to see Imrahil riding beside him. The Prince's face was grim as he surveyed the enormous keep, and Eomer knew that there would be no sense of triumph for Imrahil - or truly, for any of them - until Faramir was found.

More shouts arose behind him, and he looked to see the center of the Orcs' line falling now, Aragorn cleaving several Orcs in succession as he followed Rohan and Dol Amroth to the fortress' walls. The King of Gondor galloped up to them, his armor now covered with black blood, his dark hair gray with dust.

As soon as he was close enough, Aragorn reined Brego to a halt and swung from the saddle, sword in hand, and faced the troops following behind him.

"Secure the citadel in the name of the West," he cried, "and let no friend of Gondor rest until her Steward is found!"

Aragorn paused only to pull one of his saddle-bags from his mount and throw it over one shoulder. Turning, he then charged into the keep, slaying the few Orcs who strove to block his way. Imrahil and Eomer were at his heels, Gimli and Legolas not far behind.

-------------------

In the depths of the fortress, Faramir awoke to screams.

At first, he was unsure of its reality, and he waited a few moments while his heavily fogged mind struggled to clear itself. He had been drifting in and out of wakefulness, until he was no longer certain of how much time had passed since he was last aware. Only the searing pain told him that this was no dream.

Too weak to do aught but lay perfectly still, Faramir struggled mightily to discern what was happening as much as his sluggish reason would allow. The screams were horrible to hear, even muffled as they were through the heavy door of his cell. Questions tumbled slowly through his mind. Who was screaming? Had the battle ended? Who had won? He took a deep breath, wincing against the dizzying pain that even that slight motion caused. So drowsy had his intellect become that he was no longer certain whether the battle had not been merely a fancy born of his exhaustion.

His mind began to spin; all seemed to fall away from him for a moment, and when it returned, he realized that the cries of agony had stopped. The noise of voices and laughter reached him, voices he knew as the Orcs who oversaw his imprisonment. Then, the jingle of keys from behind the door.

Faramir forced as much of the dullness from his mind as he could, and braced himself.

There was a crash as the door was kicked open, and Faramir squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding light now pouring into the cell. Suddenly his bound hands were seized, and he was hauled upright. Unspeakable agony erupted through his body, and in shock he opened his eyes and saw the Orc jailer looming over him, covered horribly with red blood.

"Looks like he's still alive, boys!" he heard the jailer announce, to the rough cheers of those he could not see beyond the door. "Guess the fun's just starting."

Knife-sharp agony assaulted every inch of Faramir's frame as the Orc pulled him from the cell and dumped him onto the stone floor of the anteroom. For a moment his senses swam severely as he lay on the unforgiving stone, gasping for breath. Darkness edged in on his vision as he hung on the brink of swooning; he pushed the faintness back as far as he could, and looked up.

The Orc now stood over him. In one hand Faramir saw that he bore a short whip with several knotted tails. Reaching down, the creature savagely grabbed Faramir's shoulder and slammed him onto his raw back.

The young Steward bit off a cry, his teeth clenched defiantly as he stared through hazy blue eyes at his tormentor. His thoughts reeled from the terrific pain, the scene around him awash in the strange, unworldly cast of a nightmare. As the Steward strove to find his reason again, he hazily wondered if he was dead now, and suffering in the pits of Morgoth.

The darkness closed in on him further.

"You knew they were comin' all along, didn't you, you filthy Tark?" the Orc shrieked, before rearing back and striking Faramir a blow with the whip. Faramir gasped as new wounds were laid open on the bare skin of his chest, his bound hands fisted tightly in response to the anguish, but he remained mute as he turned his gaze back to the Orc.

"Still not talkin'?" the creature bellowed. "By Morgoth, I'll change that! You're of no more use to that Prince, but I'll hear you beg for mercy before we're done with you!"

Faramir was shaking violently now, sweat pouring over his wounded frame, but still he clenched his jaw, glared at the Orc, and said nothing. All was growing darker now, save for the pain, yet Faramir still perceived some truths through the stifling fog settling over his thoughts. He still lived, though his spirit felt as if it were hanging on to his body by the merest finger-hold. Aragorn was there; soon the Orcs would be destroyed, even if he did not live to see it. Faramir had no wish to die, but even more he did not want to give his tormentor the slightest measure of satisfaction. His strength was all he had left to give for Gondor now.

Another blow fell, more vicious than the first. Oblivion consumed Faramir very briefly, and he regained his senses to find the Orc shouting insults into his face, his loathsome visage and gleaming eyes filling his sight.

As Faramir defiantly faced him, determined to look the foul beast in the eye to the last, he found the creature's words suddenly growing faint and far distant. A warm, tranquil numbness washed over him as his vision grew rapidly dim; everything was fading quickly now, and he was falling far away.

He watched as the Orc's foul visage shimmered and vanished into a soft, black mist. He was sinking faster now; there was only time to think of Eowyn, and whisper a prayer in his heart to the Valar to protect his land and those he loved.

Then all was darkness.

-------------------

The stone halls of the old citadel echoed with the urgent steps of hundreds of Western soldiers, all bent upon the same mission: to find the Steward of Gondor.

Aragorn could not help but feel mounting frustration as he ran down one of the upper corridors, with Imrahil, Eomer, Legolas and Gimli trailing behind, as well as three soldiers of Gondor. The fortress had apparently been largely abandoned once the battle had started, with all of its occupants gone to the fight. Searches were being made as quickly as possible, but it was a large keep, with many doors, and there was no telling which, if any, would lead to Faramir.

So far they had found nothing of importance, save a map-room and what appeared to be the Prince's bed-chamber. Most of the stronghold was empty and unused, and there was no telling where a prisoner might be kept. The bowels would be the obvious choice, but as yet they had not located the way into the depths of the keep.

They turned a corner and found themselves facing a long corridor full of dust and shadows, lit only by three tall windows.

Legolas jumped forward and grabbed Aragorn's arm, pointing with his bow.

"Aragorn, there!" he exclaimed.

In the farthest and darkest corner, Aragorn saw a figure huddled. They ran to the end of the hall, and he saw that it was a Haradrim boy of no more than eleven years.

At their approach, the boy turned to face them, and Aragorn heard him choke back a sob. They were no more than ten feet away when the child leapt up and cast himself on the ground before them, covering his face with his hands.

"Mercy!" the boy cried, and made no further move.

The group stopped, and Aragorn moved quickly forward.

"Carefully, Aragorn!" warned Eomer, who was gripping his sword tightly and glaring at the boy with deep suspicion.

Aragorn came within two steps of the child and halted, aiming the point of Anduril in his direction.

"You will find mercy if you do as I command," he replied firmly.

The boy shuddered and looked up, his aspect one of utter confusion, and he spoke a few quavering words in Haradric.

Imrahil hurried forward, placing one hand on the King's arm. "He may not understand your Westron speech, sire, save that one word," he said. "I have a small knowledge of his tongue, if you will allow me."

Aragorn nodded, and the Prince went forward and spoke a few short phrases in the Southron language. The boy sobbed and nodded, uttering a short, miserable reply. Imrahil made another declaration in a stern voice, whereupon the child leapt to his feet and began to hurry away down the hall.

Imrahil faced his comrades. "He knows the way to where Faramir has been imprisoned; he says his master was slain there," he said quickly. "I have promised him mercy if he will show us the way without any falseness. We must hasten!"

Aragorn nodded, and they ran down the hall after the Haradrim slave.

-----------------

For several minutes they ran along, taking many turns. Aragorn stayed at the lead, ever mindful of the chances for a trap.

At length they came to a doorway at the top of a set of stone stairs leading down into the lower portion of the fortress. From far below wafted up the rough, unintelligible sounds of Orc voices.

The boy stopped and pointed down the steps.

Aragorn nodded, settling his sword in one hand as he looked to the two Gondorian soldiers. "Watch him," he ordered, before turning his stern gaze to the boy. "You will come to no harm, as long as you make no move against us."

Imrahil repeated the words to the child in Haradric. The boy's eyes went wide with fear, and he silently nodded his head.

The King then raised his sword and moved down the staircase, followed by the others.

Years of living as a ranger had taught Aragorn the ability to move swiftly and silently, and he made no noise as he descended the twisting steps. Even Gimli, he noticed, was making no sound as he walked. His keen eyes and ears stayed utterly alert for any signs of a trap, yet all was clear.

The Orc voices continued, and as they drew closer to the bottom, the foul words became ever more distinct.

"Just kill him, Agrak, and let's be out of here!" he heard one of the creatures urge. "Them Gondorians will be in here any minute, from what old Masrak was sayin'."

"Not a chance!" bellowed another, far deeper voice. "All the time we wasted tryin' to break this scum, an' he never told us a thing. I'm gonna have 'im broke an' screamin' if I have to wear out both arms t'do it!"

They ran the rest of the way, and burst onto the landing below.

There, Aragorn saw a small, narrow room lit with torches, and populated with six Orcs, all standing in a circle and looking at something on the ground. The largest and most gruesome of them had one of his arms raised, a bloodied whip in his upright hand.

Before the arm fell, an arrow from Legolas' bow had become firmly embedded between the creature's eyes.

As the huge Orc toppled backwards, lifeless, the other five turned and drew their weapons with varying shouts of surprise.

From the stairs, Gimli launched himself atop the closest Orc, knocking him flat to the ground and soundly thrashing him with his axe, all the while uttering a steady stream of profane-sounding Dwarvish.

While the Dwarf was thus occupied, another Orc hurled itself at Legolas, determined to disarm the Elven archer. Legolas stepped back and in one smooth motion unsheathed his twin fighting knives, and he and the Orc fell quickly to combat. It was an intense contest, the Orc's brutish attacks in stark contrast to the speed and agility of the Elven warrior. Agility proved victorious, as the Orc soon found itself quickly and efficiently carved to death by the elegant, deadly blades.

Aragorn's sword clashed with the weapon of the largest of the surviving beasts as he leapt into the chamber. They struggled for several moments, charging and pushing each other back, until a chance presented itself, and Aragorn buried Anduril up to its hilt in the creature's chest.

Nearby was Eomer, war cries spilling from his lips, his eyes wide with fury as he drove himself into another of the Orcs, driving him back against one of the stone walls. Eomer's opponent offered a good deal of resistance, but soon found itself no match for the monarch's manic rage. Eomer hurled himself at the beast like a man possessed, driving at the Orc over and over with his sword. In seconds the Orc was on the ground mortally wounded, and still Eomer hacked at him with his blade, screaming with outrage as he stabbed repeatedly into his foe, avenging Faramir and Eowyn with every blow.

Imrahil leapt into the chamber, searching intently for Faramir. At first he could discern nothing among the flailing combatants; then his eyes found a still, bloodied form lying upon the floor, and the Prince felt his heart break within him.

With a loud snarl, the last Orc not already engaged in combat jumped between the Prince and Faramir, the beast's sword raised as he spit a laugh directly at his foe.

His face contorted with an unusually savage fury, Imrahil lunged forward, his sword-point aimed at the creature's heart. Their weapons met, and they fought, but in less than three strokes the Orc collapsed lifeless to the ground, his throat torn open by the blade of the Prince of Dol Amroth.

The tumult of the room around him was completely forgotten as Imrahil kicked the carcass of his enemy away and fell to his knees beside his nephew. Horror filled him as he quickly studied Faramir's motionless figure. Every inch of his flesh seemed to be marked with stripes, wounds, and bruises. What little that was left of his clothing was almost black and stiffened with blood, and his hair was matted down with blood and dirt.

Imrahil was trembling, tears standing in his eyes, as he drew his knife and cut the bonds around his nephew's wrists. He tossed away the bloodied ropes, then bent forward and gently placed his hands upon either side of Faramir's face, mindful of the swollen bruises and cuts that marred the skin there.

"Faramir, Faramir," he called softly, his heart pounding as he looked upon his beloved kin. Faramir was so pale, almost white, and yet his expression was one of perfect tranquility. With one hand he cradled Faramir's cheek, while the other tenderly brushed the matted hair away from his nephew's brow. "Faramir, we are here, please, hear me, and return to us!"

Long moments passed. He sensed Legolas and Gimli had come behind him, and after a moment Aragorn and Eomer were also at his side, but his full attention was given only to his nephew.

Then he felt Faramir's head shift beneath his touch, and heard the young man draw a slow, deep breath. The eyes fluttered and opened slightly, seeming to search for a moment before resting on Imrahil's face.

Imrahil smiled with great relief, trying to appear calm as he leaned closer and met Faramir's gaze. He saw no madness there, as he had feared, but still there was an odd quality to his nephew's gaze, as if he were looking at the Prince from across a vast distance.

For a moment Faramir stared at him, his gaze cloudy, as if trying to understand what was before him. Then he gasped, very faintly, drawing his breath in sharply as if overcome with an unspeakable joy. Recognition and profound love dawned in Faramir's eyes, and a drowsy smile tugged slightly at his parched lips.

"Uncle," was the word his lips formed, though no sound came forth. "Uncle..."

Imrahil smiled, gladness flowing through him that Faramir's mind appeared sound, if utterly exhausted. Unable to think of a single coherent word to say, Imrahil merely nodded, his hand lightly stroking Faramir's hair once more as if to convince his nephew of his reality.

The Prince felt something move at his elbow, and he looked over to see Aragorn handing him his opened water skin.

"It contains miruvor," the King explained quietly, never taking his eyes from Faramir.

Imrahil gave him a hurried nod of thanks, understanding that the Elven draught would give Faramir the strength he needed to endure until the healers could be safely brought to tend him. Bending over his kinsman, Imrahil carefully lowered the vessel to Faramir's lips.

"Hush, nephew - drink, if you can, but slowly, and mind nothing else! All is well," the Prince said in a quiet voice, tears standing in his eyes.

Faramir obeyed, closing his eyes and resting his head upon Imrahil's hand as he slowly drank the precious restorative. After a few long swallows, Faramir turned from the skin, apparently satisfied. He then settled back with a sigh into his uncle's hand, appearing to fall back to sleep.

The Prince glanced at Aragorn, who knelt next to him, studying his Steward with an expression of great sorrow and esteem. The King reached forward and lightly caressed Faramir's brow once in blessing, then quickly stood.

"Let us bear him to the bed-chamber upstairs at once; I have provisions upon me such that we may make a start at treating his wounds," the King declared. "I fear we shall then have to leave him to others, for the battle is not yet ended, and Karil has much to answer for."

"I fear no punishment will be enough," murmured Imrahil as he eased one arm around Faramir's shoulders and made to rise, tears now streaking the blood and dust upon his face.

Eomer's eyes were blazing. "I am certain we will at least be able to come close," he said in a low tone, as moved to assist Imrahil. "Woe to those who meet my blade, once we have borne Faramir hence and retake the field!"

"My axe is ready as well," growled Gimli, as they settled Faramir in Imrahil's arms. "It wants more than the life of one Orc to atone for this barbarity!"

"There are many outside awaiting payment," Legolas assured him, a shadow of grief falling across the Elf's fair face as he regarded his wounded friend. "Let us do all we may for him now, and hasten to complete our task."

Without hesitation they ascended the stairs, Imrahil cradling Faramir in his arms with great care.

-----------------

Their strides were swift as they reached the top of the steps. As he swept onto the landing, Aragorn assumed a masterful air and laid his gaze upon the two Gondorian guards who waited there with the slave child. The others were some distance behind him, taking ease in moving the injured Steward.

"See that this boy is kept safe until the battle is done; he will be free to depart, provided he makes no move against us," he said.

"Yes, sire," one soldier said quickly, with a bow. His expression was worried as he stood. "Sire, I must ask-Captain Faramir-was he found...alive?"

"He was, and to that end lies my next command," was Aragorn's firm reply. "Bring all clean linens in the fortress to the main bed-chamber. Seek out the nearest hearth, and find means to heat as much water that can be found upon it. And see that this news is spread to all friends of Gondor: Lord Faramir lives, and we will complete this day's work in his name."

The faces of the two soldiers lit with relief at the information, and they hastened away, guiding the boy as they went. Within moments Aragorn heard Imrahil's footfall upon the top step, and he turned to see the Prince emerge, Faramir nestled against his shoulder.

No more words were spoken as they moved with quickened steps to the large bed-chamber. As they hurried, they encountered many men from different armies, who had come to see the truth for themselves. At the sight of Faramir, the expressions were nearly identical: joy at his being found, and oaths of vengeance sworn against those who had used him so cruelly.

They soon reached the chamber, a mostly bare room save for some tables laden with books and maps, a tall wardrobe, and a large bed set near a narrow window overlooking the valley.

Imrahil hastened to the bed and cautiously settled Faramir upon it, placing him on his side to ease the pain of his savagely torn back. The young Steward's battered condition was even more shocking in the full light of day, and he gave no sign of awareness as he sank into the softness of the bed.

"I shall go see to the water at once, Sire," Imrahil said, pausing to gaze sadly at his nephew and stroke his hair before he departed. "Alas, that we should have to leave Faramir now! But he would want us to end this."

He sighed, then stood and looked at Aragorn. "There is a man among my Knights, Adorhil, well trained in the healing arts, to whom we look for care in times of battle when the services of a true healer are impossible. I have trusted him with my life many times during the war, and I would not hesitate in placing Faramir within his care. He came with us into the castle; I shall bring him here at once."

He bowed and hurried away. At once Aragorn stepped to Faramir's side, pulling off his gloves and casting them away.

"Legolas, how goes the battle?" he asked in a hurried tone as he began to gently examine Faramir. He exercised the lightest touch he could manage, and during the process Faramir gave no sign of waking.

The Elf went to the window and peered out. "One of the siege towers has ablaze," he replied. "The battle has been taken to the plains. Karil yet lives, and his forces are fighting still; I fear we cannot tarry here much longer."

Aragorn sighed in frustration, wishing there was a way he could divide himself and accomplish two tasks at once. But as King and leader of his men, he knew where his duty had to lie, and he knew that Faramir would be the first to insist upon it.

Imrahil soon returned. With him were five of the Swan Knights and a man of the Prince's age, his beardless face lined with the beginnings of advancing age, his head crowned with short silver hair. Upon one shoulder he carried a large oilskin bag.

"They have found water, sire, and it will be heated and brought in as soon as can be managed," said Imrahil, and indicated the older fellow Knight. "This is Commander Adorhil, one of my most trusted officers, friend and healer."

The man bowed to Aragorn, his blue eyes filled with respect.

"I am at your complete disposal, sire," he announced in a deep, measured voice. "My father was a healer, and I learned the arts from him before devoting my life to the military service of Dol Amroth. These Knights with me also know the tending of the wounded, and we come prepared to do all in our power for Lord Faramir, who is as dear to us as he is to those in Gondor."

The King nodded to them as they bowed their heads to him. "You have put me in your debt with this assistance, my friend," he said. "Lord Faramir must be bathed, and his wounds cleaned at once. I have medicines and provisions here in my pack, such that might sustain him until the healers may be safely brought."

In the next minutes, the King had rapidly removed and explained all that was in his saddlebags. Adorhil and the King conferred, and Aragorn was pleased to find the captain's knowledge of healing quite advanced indeed. His own oilskin pack contained further supplies for the care of the wounded, and Aragorn was quickly convinced that Faramir would receive the best possible care until more aid could be summoned.

When this was finished, Aragorn paused at Faramir's bedside, sorrow overwhelming his features. He quickly knelt, gently taking one of Faramir's hands, and laying his other hand upon Faramir's warm brow. All in the room watched solemnly as the King bent his head close to the Steward's ear, whispering brief Elvish words of encouragement and gratitude meant for Faramir alone.

Faramir's eyes remained closed, and he appeared to still lie insensible. Yet as the King spoke, the Steward's weary expression softened, as if he had heard and gained solace from Aragorn's words even in the immeasurable darkness where he slept.

Aragorn saw this, and was clearly heartened by the sight. He then lightly pressed Faramir's hand between both of his own and settled it back at his friend's side, stood, and faced his comrades, his hazel eyes gleaming with fierce resolve.

"I shall return as soon as this battle has ended," Aragorn vowed as he slipped his leather gloves back over his hands and stepped away from the bed. "Time and my travels have taught me many ways that may relieve his suffering, and I fear he will be in great need of them."

Adorhil moved to Faramir's side, eying the unconscious Steward with great sorrow as he prepared to begin his work. "Alas, I have no doubt of that, Sire," he replied in a somber tone, facing them. "May the Valar protect you all upon the field of war!"

Gimli, who had been silently watching all of this, chuckled in a grim manner and hefted his axe.

"It's the Orcs and that cursed Prince who shall need protection," he vowed, "but they shall find none this day!"

They hastened from the bed-chamber, weapons in hand, their hurried steps bearing them back to the fight.

Eomer drew next to the King. "I shall be upon the field shortly, Aragorn," he said, "but now that Faramir has been placed in safety, I must leave the battle for but a moment. One oath I swore has been fulfilled; the time had come to honor still another."

The King nodded to him with a smile. "It is well; go sound your horn, my friend. Let all know that Faramir is alive, and that Karil's defeat this day has only just begun."

The King of Rohan made his bow and vanished, while the remaining members of their group hastened to the raging seat of war.

---------------------

Eowyn sighed at herself with frustration, completely unable to concentrate on her task of preparing bandages for the many wounded that would surely come from the day's battle. For a while she had been able to tend to the tearing of linen, but as the morning had drawn on, she found herself unsuited for any activity other than pacing before the wagon where she had been working, staring up the pass towards Mordor, and waiting.

Behind her, Henvain kept watch over the encampment, his bow and arrow ready to fend off any enemy who saw fit to threaten them. He had offered a few words of encouragement at first, until these ran dry. Now he simply sat mute, waiting for news as anxiously as the White Lady.

'It's been hours', she thought, gazing down the dusty path. Surely they had found him by now; surely, Eomer would have sent out his call, for good or ill. Yet no call came, sending even more doubts to flock across her mind like carrion crows. Perhaps the West had failed; perhaps Eomer had fallen; perhaps Faramir was dead and her brother had not the heart to send the news.

As soon as these dark fancies intruded upon her thoughts, she firmly drove them away, and turned her eyes to the east. It did no good to dwell on dire possibilities; only when she knew the worst for certain would she grieve.

But still, a portion of her heart grew more anxious with each passing moment.

She had felt sure the noon hour had been reached several times during the morning, yet every time she looked to the sky, the sun in truth had barely moved from its early-hour position. At last, resigned to the fact that this was the most sluggish morning that ever had dawned upon Arda, Eowyn returned to her duties, her thoughts far away, her ears straining for the sound of her brother's horn.

----------------

Out upon the field of battle, Karil was enjoying one of the most thrilling battles of his career.

As his armored steed plowed through the ranks of the enemy, his sword striking out right and left, the young Haradrim wondered how he had lived so long without the taste of battle. To feel his weapon sink into the flesh of his foe, to watch as one more adversary of Sauron fell lifeless at the thrust of his blade, was a sensation too glorious for words. His heart rejoiced that they had been found, for it meant he could begin slaying the men of Rohan and Gondor all the sooner.

All around him was confusion, the legions of the West crashing upon the regiments of Orcs and Uruk-Hai on the plains. One of the siege towers had partially fallen, its wooden skeleton ablaze. But more still stood, enough for Karil to think they would soon crush their opponents with their might. Already one catapult had begun sending its missiles against the invaders; soon it would be more.

As Karil plied his weapon against his enemies, he heard a great roar coming from the West. Turning, he saw the fortress being overrun, the Orcs collapsing and falling away like pebbles before an irresistible tide. He scowled with disgust at their weakness, but had little fear. The fortress was unimportant now, after all. His might was here, upon the field, in his army that was even now destroying the foe man by man. Masrak's fate concerned him little, and the idea that they might find what was left of the Steward of Gondor concerned him even less. He did not truly need either of them any more.

He turned his attention back to the enemy before him, and soon lost the reckoning of time as he allowed himself to be pulled into the mindless haze of constant slaughter. At first, he did not hear the cries of his chief Haradrim commander, until the man had ridden almost on top of him.

"Sire! Sire!" the man was shouting when his voice at last pierced Karil's murderous reverie.

The younger man whirled on him, glaring through the sweat and blood covering his face. "What is it?" he snarled, furious at being interrupted.

The commander pointed his sword at the fortress. "The fortress is lost!"

"That is known to me!" the Prince shouted angrily. "Our victory will be here, not at that miserable heap of stone!"

He began to move away, only to feel the commander's hand grasp his sleeve beseechingly. Karil faced the officer, scowling ferociously at the insubordination.

"Sire, you do not know all!" his commander yelled, nodding towards the fortress. "See who has given the West their triumph against us-it is your brother and your father, Chief Adir!"

Karil's jaw dropped, and the fury melted into disbelief. That was simply impossible, to think that his kins' treachery would extend that far. But closer searching revealed it to be true. He could see the banners of the Seventh Tribe riding into battle along with Rohan and Gondor, and upon the rocks above the fortress he saw Jadim and a band of Haradrim archers making their way down to the ground. The fortress battlement, which had been full of Karil's Orc and Haradrim followers, was now deserted, and it was all too evident who had slain them.

For a moment he stared, too stunned to move or think. Never had he dreamed of such a horrific sight, to see men of Harad battling alongside their ancient enemies.

Then, just as the insensibility receded and his mind had ceased its reeling, he heard the horn.

---------------------

Eomer had never ascended a set of steps quite so fast as he did that morning.

It had taken a short time to locate the way to the top of the citadel, but once the stairs were found, he wasted no time. Faramir had been settled in one of the fortress' bed chambers, and was even now being tended by those in the Swan Knights who knew of the healing arts, including Imrahil's personal healer who also rode as a captain. The moment Eomer knew his sister-husband was cared for, he had hastened to announce the news to all.

Ever higher he mounted the ancient stone steps, paying little heed to the steepness of the stairs or the narrowness of the passageway. He saw naught but the light at the top, growing ever nearer, and thought of the joy that would soon lighten his sister's heart, and nothing else. If only he could bring her here now...

He reached the summit, and found himself atop a flat stone battlement surrounded by a wall some four feet in height. Many dead Orc and Haradrim archers littered the ground there. A few of the wounded Haradrim still lived, who were tending to the even more seriously injured whose breath had not yet left them. They offered Eomer no resistance at all, giving him only weary looks as several Gondorian soldiers appeared behind the King of Rohan to secure the roof.

Eomer had no concern for this as he rushed to the edge of the battlement, pulling his horn from his side. For a moment he paused, his eyes sweeping the scene; the fight still raged upon the plains, and from here he could see the great battle that still lay ahead for them. It was not over yet.

Yet one, crucial part of the history had been decided. With fierce resolve, Eomer put his horn to his lips, and soon three mighty blasts soared through the air, causing the mountainside to ring with their power and joy.

---------------------

Eowyn had just begun to rend another linen sheet when her ears heard the sound. Her head came up at once, her blue eyes wide, uncertain if it were merely an anxious dream.

Three clear notes, sounded one after the other upon her brother's horn, faint but clear, and coming from the east.

She climbed quickly to her feet, her gaze unswerving as she stared up the road. Behind her, she heard Henvain gasp and jump down from the wagon seat where he had been resting.

Then they came again, another set of three, followed by the distant sound of mighty cheering, as if every friend of Gondor on the field was acclaiming the news.

For a moment Eowyn stood without moving, the linen fragment crumpled in her hands. She was aware of no recognizable thought, only an overwhelming realization of formless, indescribable joy.

Gradually, she heard the great bustle behind her, as all of the healers and the soldiers who guarded them exchanged their gladness over the signal. She felt someone at her elbow, and turned to see Henvain. He was standing as she had done a moment earlier, staring wide-eyed down the road, his expression a mixture of relief and incredulity, as if he were still wondering if such good tidings could be true.

The notes came a third time, and there was no doubt of it now. Henvain blinked and looked at Eowyn, a grin slowly spreading over his face. Seeing it, she smiled as well, then burst into a laugh of pure rejoicing as the words finally came to her, chief among them: 'Faramir is alive, and we shall soon be together.'

Henvain laughed as well as he met her eyes, apparently allowing himself to finally accept the tidings. Then Eowyn, unable to contain her happiness, threw her arms around the soldier's neck in an act of exuberant celebration.

They shared a brief, joyous embrace, Eowyn wishing only to share her elation with the one whose strength had helped to make Faramir's salvation possible. In a few moments it ended, and Eowyn released the young soldier and stepped away. When she again looked at Henvain, the young man was quite flustered and blushing furiously, but he seemed a bit pleased as well, and returned her smile again before turning his eyes once more to the east.

Others were around her now, offering their words of kindness and encouragement. She received them all without truly hearing them, her mind and heart on nothing other than her husband. When the last of her fellow healers and soldiers had had their say and drifted back to their duties, Eowyn took her place as before, her fingers trembling as she resumed tearing the linen into bandages. New cares and questions swarmed through her mind as she stared down the pass to Mordor, impatiently waiting for the battle to end, and the moment when she would be able to ride to her beloved.

The long morning would now seem far, far longer.

--------------------------

For Karil, the sound of a horn of Rohan echoing across the Mordor valley was trying enough. When the notes were met with gladsome cheers from the Western allies around him, it was as white-hot metal searing his very soul.

"What means that signal?" he shouted furiously to his Haradrim commander who remained at his side.

The man licked his lips, not daring to look at his Prince. "I know not, my liege," was the faltering answer. "It has given joy to the enemy, but beyond that I cannot guess its purpose."

Karil ground his teeth in rage. "Joy!" he spat, as if the word were poison on his lips. "That joy shall turn to agony before we are finished here. Return to the battle, and send this order to all who command my legions: Those Haradrim who have betrayed us are to be taken alive, to suffer for their treachery when we have won the day."

The commander frowned. "Does that order include your kin, sire?"

The Prince's eyes narrowed, for he had found Adir on the field, riding his war-steed into a group of Orcs and Uruks, his sword striking out left and right against them.

"No," was his low reply, as he sheathed his sword. "My father and my brother shall be my concern alone."

With those words, Karil spurred his horse away.

---------------------

Jadim carefully made his way down the rocky side of the mountain, doing his best to lead his men to the ground and search the battlefield for Karil and their father at the same moment. He did not pause to wipe the sweat and dust from his eyes, or catch his breath. There was no time.

Rock by rock the men swung down, ever closer to the chaos of the fight, and Jadim wondered if they had all gone mad. Certainly, it had seemed madness when his father had sent him forth that night seven days ago, a strict and urgent mission upon his shoulders. And the foolishness had only continued when he found himself here, leading men of Harad to fight alongside their longtime enemies, instead of against them.

It had been as insane as that long-ago day when they had been attacked by Karil's Orcs on their way to Gondor, and soldiers of Gondor had defended them. Only today, the battle was far greater, and much more deadly. Jadim still had little trust for the allies of the West, but he had none at all for the minions of Sauron. The future of Harad, he knew, did not lie in remaining in the darkness of her past.

They reached the ground, and Jadim ran forward into the battle with his men following, sword in hand, his long black hair whipping behind him, his dark golden eyes ever seeking for Karil and Adir. He had pleaded with his father not to ride to battle, knowing Karil would not let their father leave the conflict alive, but Adir had insisted, and the Chieftain's will could not be denied.

Now, as the battle raged around them, the dread feeling grew in Jadim's heart that it had been the wrong decision.

They came to the edge of the conflict, and plunged in.

----------------------

Three of the five siege towers were in flames by the time Aragorn and his companions had retaken the field. As Gimli and Legolas rode off to their armies, Aragorn and Imrahil galloped back into the midst of the chaos. The cheers that had greeted Eomer's horn had only just died away.

"Karil must be found and taken at all costs," shouted the King of Gondor as he plied his blade against the Orcs that now surrounded them. The clashing of arms that filled the air was deafening.

Imrahil looked out over the seething mass of thousands of warriors, all covered with large clouds of smoke and dust. "I shall extend the command to all of my Knights, sire," he replied as he skewered a Uruk who was trying to grab hold of his bridle. "For what he has done to Faramir, I vow Karil shall never escape this field!"

So saying, the Prince sawed his horse about and rode to where the Swan Knights were engaged. Aragorn looked to the fortress and saw Eomer tearing into the valley on his steed, hastening back to the fight.

With a grim expression, Aragorn led his soldiers onwards, their weapons striking down all who stood in their way, looking for Karil. He did not let the enormity of the battle daunt him, nor the idea that the Prince could truly be anywhere in this battle of eight thousand Men, Elves, Dwarves, Haradrim, Orcs and Uruks. His faith in the skill of his men and their cause, and the memory of Faramir's sacrifice, left no doubt in Aragorn's heart. Karil would be found.

A mighty roar split the air, and Aragorn turned in time to see one of the gigantic siege towers collapse in billowing smoke and plumes of flame. Orcish cries of rage and fear soon followed, as they hurried to escape the huge falling pieces of burning wood.

Aragorn's spirits lifted; it was one more step on the road to Karil's defeat.

He urged his men forward, and they fought on.

------------------

Adir charged his mount through the crowds of Orcs and Uruks, his sword now wet with black blood. All around the old Southron warrior was noise and confusion. They were in the thick of the fight, the air filled with the shrieks of the Orcs, the cries of men and horses, the unending ringing of metal upon metal. There was little time for Adir to think beyond instinct, other than to hope that their efforts this day might end such scenes forever.

He had pulled his sword from the head of an Uruk, and was turning in his saddle to find his next opponent. A cry split the air, but before Adir could discern its purpose, something slammed with agonizing force into his left shoulder, followed by a red eruption of blinding pain.

Adir reeled, staring in shock and anger at the thick-shafted arrow, with Karil's mark upon it, now protruding from the joint of his armor. Beneath his chestplate, he could feel the hot blood beginning to spill down his chest.

He fought to stay mounted, even as the sky began to swirl above his head. He heard the Orcs scream in bloodthirsty glee, and his men shout in horror. His hand slipped from the horn of his saddle, and he could feel his strength failing. An Orc was grabbing for him. Adir glared at the creature and thrust his sword into the beast's chest, falling on top of him as they both collapsed to the ground.

As Adir fell, he gave one last push on the hilt of his sword, defiantly driving the blade in even deeper. The Orc gurgled and went still, and Adir ground his teeth with disgust as he summoned enough strength to pull out the blade. Lifting his head, he looked around him, determined to fight to the end. The wound was rapidly draining his strength, but anger and resolve served to bolster what power he had left.

His men were running to his aid now amidst the ongoing strife, with shouts of alarm at their leader's fall. He felt someone lift him up by the shoulders, and he sat up, gasping. He could tell the shirt beneath his armor was now soaked with blood.

One of his men reached for the arrow, but the chieftain firmly pushed his hand aside.

"Do not bother with such things," he said in a rough manner, firmly palming his sword. "Only lift me up, for I would die on my feet!"

Before his men could comply, the Orcs nearby began to shout and cheer. Adir, still seated upon the ground, looked up to see the crowd of creatures part. Karil then appeared strolling through their midst, resplendent in his royal armor, his clothes and face splotched with blood, his black hair tousled and dust-covered. He ceased walking some twenty feet from Adir and smiled, his pale yellow eyes glittering and hard. In his hands was his bow, fitted with one long arrow.

"Greetings, Father," Karil said pleasantly, and lifted his bow once more.

A whizzing sound split the air, and the next time Adir blinked, he saw a Haradrim arrow embeded firmly in Karil's side.

The prince yelped and staggered, his shot going wild and wounding one of the Orcs in the leg.

Chaos quickly followed as Jadim and his archers appeared, the air filling with their shouts as they laid into the Orcs with bow and blade.

Jadim pushed through the thrashing mass of warriors, kneeling at once by his father's side. The old Haradrim was growing more pale by the moment, and shook his head as his eldest son looked anxiously into his face.

"There is no time," gasped Adir. "The West must win this day; see that it is done! That alone matters now."

His son gazed at him a moment longer, then nodded, and turned to face Karil. The younger son stood nearby, supported by one of the Orcs as he pulled the arrow from his side, glaring in naked hatred at Adir and Jadim all the while.

Jadim stood quickly, drawing his Haradrim sword and advancing on Karil.

"Is there no crime too vile for you, my brother?" Jadim growled. "Even the most foul-hearted among our people would not coldly murder those of his own blood!"

Karil laughed and unsheathed his own weapon, tossing the bow to one side.

"You and our sire have allied yourselves with the betrayers of our Lord Sauron," was the younger man's contemptuous reply. "You are not of my blood."

He sprang forward, and they met, the clashing of their blades ringing above the din of the battle around them. Despite his wound, Karil retained most of his strength, and it was not long before both young men had inflicted several minor wounds upon each other.

As the two bothers fought, Adir's men surrounded him, some doing their best to uphold and tend to him while the rest strove to hold off the encroaching Orcs. Adir seemed oblivious to all save the intimate battle before him, his eyes fixed on his warring sons.

They were grappling now, both covered with dust and blood. Karil had managed a savage strike to the side of Jadim's head with the hilt of his sword. As the older son fell to one knee, stunned, Karil lifted his sword, preparing to deal the killing blow.

It was a blow that never fell, for in the next instant the sound of galloping hooves and the horrified screams of Orcs reached his ears. Puzzled, he lifted his eyes in time to see a horseman almost on top of him, filling the air with his enraged cries in a foreign tongue. All of this happened in an instant, and before Karil could move, he was struck from his feet by the rider's mount.

Dazed, Karil rolled a short distance, then stopped. As soon as he was able, he sat up and shook his head, casting off the pain as a blinding rage filled his soul. Gripping his sword, he climbed at once to his feet, resolved to stand erect and face his enemies.

A wide area had been cleared before him, and the Orcs and Uruks on all sides were newly engaged with warriors of every race. Facing Karil now were three richly clad Men, one of them the now-dismounted horseman; an Elf, who now held his bow trained on him; and a Dwarf, who was eying him viciously and holding a battle-axe thickly covered in Orc blood.

One of the Men approached him now, sword in hand. He wore armor of silver and black emblazoned with a white tree, and Karil guessed his identity at once.

"Elessar of Gondor," the Southron said with a smile, lifting his blade. "How kind of you to bring your army here, and saving me the trouble of going to your land to destroy you."

The King of Gondor halted some ten feet away, and leveled the point of his sword at Karil's chest with a grim smile of his own.

"It is your destruction that shall occur this day, Karil," was Aragorn's reply. "Your machines of war are burning, and your forces falling to the blades of the West. The fortress has been taken, and your defeat now only a matter of time."

Karil laughed, not taking one step in retreat. "You may take the fortress; nothing there is of value to me, including the pathetic mess you called your Steward," he answered with a cruel grin. "Shall I tell you how quickly Captain Faramir broke beneath our efforts? It was disappointing to see how weak he turned out to be. The slightest amount of pain, and he could not divulge the secrets of your army fast en-"

Karil had no idea how the horseman had moved so swiftly. Before he was aware of it, the man of Rohan had rushed forward, knocked his sword aside, and slammed him to the ground. A series of blinding blows to the jaw left Karil's mind reeling, and when he regained his senses, all he could see was the Man's infuriated face filling his vision.

At first the man was screaming at him in Rohirric, but when he saw Karil staring at him, his words flowed out in Westron.

"Do not befoul the name of Lord Faramir by pronouncing it upon your lying tongue!" the Man was shouting, his dark eyes wide and blazing as he throttled Karil. Foam flecked his lips. "We know that he said not a word despite your vile tortures, so do not waste your breath on such lies! You have little enough of it left to you."

Karil ignored him, and struggled mightily against the Man's brutish strength. The sound of footsteps reached his ears, and he looked up to see the third Man peering down at him, the point of his sword almost touching Karil's cheek. Upon his blood-spattered armor was the image of a swan.

"Eomer King speaks the truth," the Man said softly, his voice trembling slightly with barely contained rage as he spoke, "although we would have known my nephew would nobly withstand all of your cruelties, even without hearing it from the lips of your own minions. Know that Lord Faramir has survived your vain attempt to destroy him, and sleeps even now in peace within the fortress walls. He shall be healed, surrounded by faces loving and beloved, while you shall know naught but conquest and judgment. It is over for you, Karil, Prince of the Seventh Tribe. You are defeated."

The young Haradrim glared at the man, his teeth bared in rage, too consumed with passion to articulate his hate. He then sensed someone standing at his left hand. Bending his eyes upwards, he saw Jadim there, staring gravely down at him. Leaning down, the elder brother picked up Karil's sword and stood, giving his sibling one final look of disdain before walking away to his father's side.

In the next moment, Karil felt himself hauled to his feet by Eomer, whose hands remained firmly closed around Karil's collar.

Aragorn was regarding him sternly. "It would be a kindness to simply kill you now, but you do not deserve such leniency," he declared in a cold tone. "Your crimes are many, against many peoples. You shall be bound over for justice, and endure the pains your defeat has earned you. Understand that, for what you have done, I will not be inclined to mercy."

He turned to two Gondorian soldiers standing nearby. "Bind his hands and feet, and lock him in the cell that once held Lord Faramir," he commanded.

The soldiers nodded, and as they stepped forward.
Karil glared at them as one of them reached forward and wrapped his hand around the Prince's collar, nodding to Eomer as he did so. Eomer gave Karil one final look of utter contempt, then released him to the soldier's grasp.

It was all Karil needed.

In the space of an instant, the Prince violently wrenched himself free from the Gondorian's grasp, withdrew a hidden dagger from his armor and aimed its blade at the back of the King of Gondor.

It never left his hand, for an instant later, Anduril was buried to its hilt in his chest, his throat was impaled with an Elvish arrow, and a Dwarvish throwing axe was embedded in his forehead.

The entire act took but a breath. As all watched, Karil staggered slightly, the blood pouring from his deadly wounds. A horrid gargling sound issued from his open mouth. His wide-staring eyes went lifeless as the dagger slipped from his fingers and fell useless to the ground.

Aragorn's expression was one of righteous satisfaction as he pulled his sword from Karil's chest. The body swayed, then toppled over into the dust, its pale yellow eyes still gazing blindly into the bright summer sky.

Panting, Aragorn looked scornfully at the corpse, then glanced over to where Adir sat on the ground, Jadim at his side with one hand on his father's shoulder. They had not turned aside, but were watching keenly, and when Adir met Aragorn's eyes, the elderly Southron's pale face became grim, though a sadness shone in his eyes.

"Do not regret it," Adir murmured as he slightly shook his head, his voice faint.

"Let us think no more of Karil," said Jadim, standing quickly, and he began to give several orders in Haradric to the men around him. The men moved swiftly, lifting Adir with great care and carrying him away while the rest of their number provided safe passage by beating away all who dared assail him.

"Bah! That was too quick," grumbled Gimli as he yanked his axe from Karil's head. "If only he'd lived to face his punishment. I know some Dwarvish methods of execution that would have suited the scoundrel perfectly."

"I fear we have no time for such thoughts, my friend," Aragorn said, looking at the battle still raging around them. "The head of the monster is dead, but its body still lives. The day's work is not done yet."

Eomer stepped forward. "Then let us hasten it along," he said, and reached out his hand to Gimli. "May I have the service of your axe, Master Dwarf?"

Gimli nodded and handed his large battle-axe to the King of Rohan. Turning, Eomer walked over to where Karil's body lay, already stiffening in the sun. Imrahil was already there, studying the corpse, a fearsome aspect upon his gentle features.

For a moment, Eomer simply stood and stared at Karil, his expression one of blatant, furious loathing. Then he and Imrahil looked up at each other across the body, the same gleam of somber pain in the eyes of both men.

Without a word, Eomer handed Imrahil the axe.

The Prince of Dol Amroth accepted it solemnly, and peered one last time at the man who had been the source of Faramir's long torment. He then lifted the axe and brought it down with a mighty swing, severing Karil's head completely from his body.

Eomer reached down, then stood, Karil's head clutched by the hair in one hand. While Imrahil returned the axe to Gimli, Eomer moved with rapid strides to his horse.

"Let it be known to the legions of Karil that their Lord has fallen," he declared, and with one hand the King of Rohan mounted his horse and galloped away, holding Karil's head aloft as he dashed into the fray.

Within moments, Aragorn, Imrahil, Legolas, and Gimli were behind him, heading back to their armies, determined to see the fight brought to a swift end.

----------------------

A mighty cheer arose from the armies of the West as they beheld Eomer riding through their midst, Karil's bloodied head on full display. Inspiration seized them anew, and they strove all the harder, knowing that Faramir had been truly avenged and victory was merely a matter of time.

Karil's forces soon fell to disarray at the news that the Prince was dead. The destruction of their might was complete now; the fortress had been taken, and all of the remaining towers were ablaze now, falling one by one into burning rubble and covering the battlefield with their black smoke.

Leaderless now, the enemy forces dissolved into disorganized shambles in the span of less than an hour. The few Haradrim commanders who had survived thus far were quickly slain by their rebellious Orc troops, who decided it would be far better to save their own skins and flee than continue to follow orders for a master who no longer lived.

To the last of them, the Orcs and Uruks who had not yet fallen broke from the fight and began to flee. They were rapidly pursued by the mounted legions of the West. Some were driven into the deep chasms that rimmed the valley, while others were followed into the depths of Mordor.

Less than two hours had passed since Karil's death when the last Orc abandoned the field. As the sounds of pursuit faded into the mountains, the valley fell silent, save for the groans of the injured and the roar of the fires as the debris of the siege towers continued to burn.

At last a banner was hoisted above the fortress, signaling the end of the fight. Despite the grim devastation surroounding them, a cheer arose from the throats of many as they beheld the standard, for upon its black field shone the White Tree crowned with seven stars.

The West had won the day.

----------------

Aragorn strode swiftly through the battlefield towards the citadel, bone-weary yet satisfied that they had accomplished their task.

A cool breeze blew across the valley, where all manner of carnage from the fight now lay strewn beneath the summer sun. Soldiers of all the armies of the West now moved across the field, tending to the dead and the wounded. Many of them were hurriedly binding wounds, doling out water, and offering solace to those who would not survive to see the healers arrive. At the edge of the field, the rubble of the siege towers still smoldered, sending clouds of gray smoke to drift over the scene.

Legolas and Gimli had departed to their regiments, Eomer had rode off to summon the healers and bring Eowyn to her husband, and Imrahil had dispatched his sons to gather reports on the status of the Swan Knights and the Haradrim who had joined them. Now the Prince walked beside Aragorn, matching the King's pace stride for stride.

"From what I have been told, they feel Adir will live, although the wound was grave," Imrahil was telling his King, "His healers are tending him now."

Aragorn sighed. "The pain will be even greater, as the blow was dealt to him by his own son," he murmured sadly. "There are days, my friend, when I wonder if Sauron's evil will ever truly be vanquished."

The older man placed a comforting hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "I believe we have made a good effort this day in that direction, Sire," he assured him.

They passed a group of Gondorian soldiers gathered beneath a makeshift tent. They were all aiding each other in the tending of their wounds, and at their approach, those who were able stood in respect, and one of them offered a salute with his bandaged hand.

Aragorn paused and nodded. "You have done well this day, soldiers of Gondor," he said. "Your King shall be forever grateful to you."

The one who had saluted, a tall man with long black hair, smiled at the words. "We are honored to fight for our land, your Majesty," he said," an' I imagine if more Orcs appeared just now, we could go and thrash them again."

The King smiled. "That bravery does you credit, Captain...?"

"Faelor, sir," the man replied, saluting again. "And it's no more than those monsters deserve." He hesitated, his tone growing more anxious. "Sir, we've heard tell from some of the men who went inside the fortress...Captain Faramir...is he going to survive, sir?"

Aragorn's expression turned somber. "His injuries are most serious," he admitted, "but I am going even now to tend him, and do all within my power to restore him to health. He will not die, if your King has any say in the matter."

At these words, all of the occupants in the tent seemed to relax.

"You may all take your rest now, for you have earned it," Aragorn said, preparing to journey on. "The healers' wagons will be here for you shortly."

Captain Faelor shook his head. "We're fine, sir, now that we know Captain Faramir will be well looked after. From the sound of things, our nicks an' cuts are nothing to what he went through. If your Majesty could just let him know that he's got every soldier of Gondor behind him, the rest of us will manage well enough."

He saluted again, and Aragorn nodded in return.

"It will be done," promised the King, and they walked on towards the fortress with rapid steps.

Beside him, Aragorn heard Imrahil take a deep breath.

"At times I forget how well-loved my nephew is among his men, Sire," he confessed. "It has always been so, such that I take it for granted. How pleasing it is to see that it has not changed, though he is Steward now, and a Prince of Ithilien."

"Men such as Faramir are never forgotten by those who have been touched by their nobility," was Aragorn's quiet reply as they entered the fortress. "And I swear, to you and all who love him, that I shall take no rest until we have delivered Faramir safely from the shadow of death."

-----------------------

Eowyn had given up the pretense of remaining occupied.

The sun had finally passed its noonday position a short time before, and was now making its way to the horizon. Eowyn had barely noticed, so absorbed was she now in standing beside the wagon and watching for any sign of news from the battlefield. The noises of war had faded, then ceased, but there was no telling yet if this was for good or ill.

She stood now motionless, barely moving, her every nerve stretched thin as she peered up the pass. Her entire being was consumed with thoughts of her husband; she could almost feel how much he needed her with him, as much as she needed to be by his side. She could think of nothing else, and had at last ceased to try.

Then, at last, when she had begun to suspect that the West had been destroyed, there came up the pass the growing sound of thudding hoofbeats.

She gasped and took a step forward, still wondering if it was friend or foe. It sounded as if there were many riders, bearing down on the wagons with great speed.

Suddenly Henvain was at her elbow, his sword at the ready. When Eowyn glanced at him, she saw the same uncertain aspect in his expression that she knew lay in her own, a mixture of hope and dread.

Then the riders came into view, and she saw that they bore the banners of the West, with Eomer at their head.

As one, the members of the camp came forward to meet the riders, and Eomer was off his horse and in his sister's arms before the animal had even fully halted. He was covered with dirt and blood, but a smile graced his features.

"The West has triumphed this day," he announced to all, to the cheers of those around him. "Aragorn has sent this escort to bring the healers' wagons to the field as swiftly as possible, for there are many brave wounded among our number."

He looked at Eowyn. "Now, sister, you may come with me, for there is one whose healing will not truly begin until he sees your face."

She could say nothing to him, able only to gaze silently at him for a moment, trembling with joy and unable to believe that the awaited time had finally come to pass. Impulsively, she gave her brother a grateful kiss and embraced him, her eyes damp with tears. He held her tightly for a moment, clearly as relieved as she was that Faramir still lived.

Within moments, the both of them were on Eomer's horse, and before the healers' wagons had fully prepared to depart, the King of Rohan and the White Lady were flying up the pass towards the citadel, and Faramir.

----------------------

In a short matter of time, Aragorn had shed his armor, quickly washed his face and hands, and hastened to the room where Faramir awaited them, Imrahil close behind.

The room was bright with sunlight when they entered, a soft breeze blowing in through the window near Faramir's bed. Aragorn noticed that a large copper bathing tub had been brought into the room, and sat now in one corner. Water was heating on the heart of the room's fireplace, and upon the windowsill he could see a bowl of athelas steeping, its refreshing scent filling the air.

Commander Adorhil and his assistants were tending to Faramir, and at the entrance of the King, the older man stepped out at once to meet him.

"Sire," the soldier said in greeting with a small bow.

"Commander," was Aragorn's reply as he began rolling up the long sleeves of his dark linen shirt. "How is our friend?"

Adorhil sighed and glanced over to where Faramir lay, still apparently asleep.

"If you had been but slightly more late in finding him, Sire, I fear he might not have survived," he said. "I have seen some men who have suffered under the hands of Orcs and Haradrim, but the savagery of Lord Faramir's wounds indicates unusually severe treatment. It is a tribute to his remarkable strength and courage that he did not break beneath it."

They moved to the bed. Aragorn saw that Faramir had been bathed, and lay now on his side with only a cloth laid across his hips. With the obscuring layers of dirt removed, the wounds stood out even more grotesquely against his pale skin, and the anger boiled once more through the King's heart to see how vilely his friend had been used.

"It seems they were using some form of Orc medicine on his wounds, likely to prevent him from taking ill and dying before they could extract what they wanted from him," Adorhil continued as Aragorn knelt beside the bed. "Crude, but it seems that none of his wounds are festering, and there is no fever. The medicines, tools and bandages are all prepared, and my men and I are at your command."

Silence fell as Aragorn began to gently examine Faramir's wounds. He had only had time to briefly glance at them before; now, every one filled him with such anger that he found himself wishing that Karil had survived, so that every wound could be more thoroughly repaid.

The moments passed, each one revealing the true extent of Faramir's sacrifice, until Aragorn felt truly sickened by what Faramir's captors had done to him. Deep bruises of black and purple covered a vast portion of the Steward's body, the lash and rod had left their cruel marks, and he found some of Faramir's bones broken from his misuse. As he finished his scrutiny, Aragorn could not hold back the tears stinging the corners of his eyes as he imagined his dear friend and faithful Steward trapped in the grip of such suffering.

Yet despite all of this, there appeared to be no pain upon Faramir's face as he slept. Beneath the bruises and cuts that marred his handsome features lay an expression of perfect serenity, one that the King could only marvel at.

As he watched, Aragorn saw Faramir's closed eyes move slightly. Quickly the King knelt beside the bed and laid his hand atop one of Faramir's own.

After a moment, Faramir swallowed, and the eyes blinked open a little, their expression foggy. He seemed to look at nothing at first, then shifted his gaze to the face of his King. After staring for a moment, a glimmer of reverent affection flickered in the blue depths, and he sighed as a very faint smile touched his lips.

"My Lord," he whispered, so faintly that Aragorn would never have heard it had he not possessed the unusually keen hearing of a Ranger.

Aragorn grasped his Steward's hand and bent closer. "My brave friend," he said softly in greeting, a warm smile upon his own face, "can you understand my words?"

Faramir peered at him briefly in silence, then gave a very slight nod, the pillow beneath his head rustling with the movement.

"Then know that all is well," said the King quietly as he placed his other hand upon Faramir's brow, gently smoothing his hair. "The battle is done, Legolas and Henvain live, all you love are safe, and even now the Lady Eowyn rides to be with you. She will be here before another hour has passed."

At these last words, Faramir's drowsy eyes brightened, and Aragorn felt the Steward's hand tighten slightly.

Adorhil came to Aragorn and handed him a goblet filled with a clear red liquid. The King accepted it and turned to Faramir.

"This is miruvor, mixed with a potion of the Elves," he said, lifting the cup a little. "It will ease your suffering and give you rest."

He offered it to Faramir, but to his surprise, the Steward lifted one of his hands an inch from the bed and pressed his fingers to the base, as if to push it away.

"No," he mouthed, his eyes wider now, almost anxious.

Aragorn frowned, concerned and puzzled. "This will help you," he pointed out, wondering if Faramir was becoming seized with confusion. "You are in pain."

Faramir peered intently at him, and very quietly murmured the name, "Eowyn."

The King lowered the goblet, comprehension dawning on his mind. "You fear being lost to the potion's slumber when she arrives," he ventured.

The relief at being understood that came across the Steward's face confirmed the King's suspicion.

He knew well the feeling in Faramir's heart; were he parted from Arwen in a like manner, he would also prefer to bear any agony rather than postpone their reunion by so much as a moment. He handed the drink back to Adorhil, and took Faramir's hand once more.

"It shall be as you wish," he said softly. "Find what rest you may, my friend; we will work gently. When you next open your eyes, it will be to behold your lady."

Faramir gave his King a grateful smile, even as his eyes were slowly sliding shut. Aragorn released his hand and took to his feet, watching his Steward until he appeared to be in complete repose.

He then turned to Adorhil and said quietly, "Let us begin."

--------------------

Although Eomer's horse was the swiftest in all of the Eored, Eowyn very soon came to the opinion that even if it could fly, it would not be fast enough for her this day.

Every minute seemed as an eternity as she and Eomer galloped up the pass towards the citadel, Eowyn clinging to her brother as she sat before him on the saddle. Her heart was pounding even faster than the horse's thudding hooves, anticipation rising within her as she imagined that every beat brought her closer to her husband.

It seemed as if the pass would never come to an end.

"Eomer, please, can you tell me nothing of how my love is faring?" she asked as they rode. "You need not spare me; you know I am no swooning maid, unused to the horrors wrought by cruelty."

She felt him hold her a bit tighter as they rode. "I know you are not, sister," she heard him say from over her shoulder. "But I can tell you only that he was most cruelly used, but did not break, and those who caused his pain have paid the price for it. He still lives, and awaits you, but that is all I know, for I left the field as soon as we gained victory to carry you hence. The rest, we shall both learn together."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Eowyn fairly clawing at the saddle-horn and wishing she could dismount and run the rest of the way herself, so eagerly did she wish to reach her lord.

At last, the pass widened, and she saw a large open iron gate before them. They passed through it, and into a wide valley bordered with mountains upon one side. The wreckage of war was everywhere; far away she could see mounds of burning wood, and corpses of every description covered the gray, rocky ground. Countless numbers of Men, Elves and Dwarves were walking about the field, tending the wounded and inspecting the dead.

To the south lay great fortress of stone, simple and ancient in its form, with the banner of Gondor fluttering atop its tallest tower. It was to the largest of the citadel's buildings that Eomer directed his steed. As they drew closer to its large wooden door, the portal opened, and Eowyn saw Imrahil emerge, watching them both with intense expectancy.

"Uncle!" she cried as Eomer reined to a halt; how weary the Prince appeared! He had removed his armor, but she could see by the heavy stains of red and black blood along his sleeves and leggings that he had been in the very thick of the fray.

"Eowyn!" said Imrahil in answer as she slid quickly from the horse and into the older man's strong embrace. "Praise the Valar you were able to come so quickly!"

"I thought it a journey of a thousand years," she replied as they parted, her hands gently clutching his arms as she gazed desperately into his kind face. "Faramir-?"

In answer, Imrahil took her hand and put one arm about her shoulder, gently guiding her into the fortress. "Aragorn tends him even now. He has been gravely injured, but breathes still, and under your love and the care of our King, I am sure he will regain his health ere long."

He drew her inside, and they walked with hastened steps down a long, barren corridor. Soldiers rushed about them, carrying supplies and securing the structure. They were all marked with the stains of war, but still gave her a bow of respect as they passed, for all knew the White Lady of Rohan.

She resisted the urge to shake off the Prince's hands and run to where Faramir lay, yet she felt her pace quickening as they moved along as if she somehow knew exactly where to direct her steps. Her heart was hammering now, her throat dry as dust, yet tears stung her eyes, and all she could hear in her mind was the repeated name of her husband.

Soon they drew near to a room at the end of one of the halls; she was almost running now, and Imrahil was doing his best to keep pace with her. The scent of athelas reached her; her heart soared, and she gently slipped from Imrahil's grasp and hurried through the door, her cloak billowing behind her.

All Eowyn discerned as she entered the room was a large bed-chamber, sparsely furnished, with a fire blazing in its hearth. There were some men there she barely noticed, and Aragorn was coming quickly towards her, his sleeves rolled up, his brow glistening with sweat, his blue-gray eyes filled with relief as he took her trembling hands and drew her to the side of the bed where Faramir lay.

She saw him then, and all else in the room vanished.

Eowyn's head swam for a moment as she sank to her knees, overwhelmed with the power of her emotions as she beheld her husband. Trembling, she swiftly took his hand in hers and pressed it to her lips, her vision blurred with tears as she gazed into his beloved face. He was on his side, facing her, his eyes closed, and at first she was too dazed to understand more than the fact that he was truly here, alive, and she was with him again at last, her Faramir. Sobs wracked her as she clutched his hand and stroked his cheek, a sensation of love stronger than any she had felt before flooding through her soul.

As she wept and caressed his face, she felt him stir beneath her touch. After a moment, he sighed deeply, in the manner of one rousing from a heavy slumber. The eyelids fluttered, then opened partway, and she found herself looking into his drowsy blue eyes.

Eowyn gasped and leaned forward, hoping he would wake enough to see her and know that she was there. He was staring at her now, his eyes widening slightly, and she saw that he knew her. He gazed at her with a tender expression of deep love, his eyes brimming with tears that soon slipped free and began to trail down his cheeks.

She grasped his hand and drew closer, smiling as she continued to weep, a sentiment far too profound for mere words passing between them as they beheld each other.

For an eternal span of time, she was lost within his gaze. Then she bent down and placed her lips upon his, her tears falling softly upon his face. At the same moment, Faramir lifted his face to hers as far as he was able, as if they had been guided together by the same silent command. She felt him caressing her hand with the feeble strength of a newborn as they kissed, his movements weak but full of urgent affection. As their lips fully met, she sensed a familiar warmth flowing between their souls, a sweet communion made all the richer by the unfulfilled longing that had burned in both their hearts.

It lasted briefly, for she knew that any longer would tire him. Soon they parted, and she drew away, still smiling as she looked into his face. Faramir smiled a little in return as he settled his head back on the pillow, his eyes never leaving hers despite the exhaustion in them. She stroked his cheek once more, and shook her head as she saw him trying to say her name.

"Nay, love, there is no need to speak," she whispered, one hand still grasping his. "My heart has heard all that you would say to me, and returns it to you tenfold. I am here. Rest now; there will be days, and years, to fill with words between us, when you are healed, and Ithilien welcomes us home."

Faramir smiled at her, appearing to understand as he made no further attempt to speak. Tears still glistening in his eyes, which were now beginning to close again. He sighed as they drifted shut, his gaze remaining on her face all the while. Within moments, he slept once more.

For several moments Eowyn was motionless, kneeling by the bed, holding her husband's hand and stroking his face as she watched him rest. At length, she took his hand in both of hers and kissed it, before laying it carefully beside him on the bed.

Aragorn and Imrahil were at her side at once, and helped her stand. As she climbed to her feet, Eowyn's eyes took in the whole sight of her husband's body, seeing now how truly severe his injuries were. She had been blinded before by the utter joy of being with him again; now, with the first flush of emotion passed, she saw how pale he was, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the terrible wounds and bruises covering his body. The horror grew the longer she stared, as the full understanding of Faramir's suffering grew apparent to her. Soon she realized that several moments had passed during which she had been wholly consumed by the heartbreaking sight before her.

She suddenly became aware that Eomer was beside her. he had put his arm around her shoulder, and was tightly holding her hand.

Shaking herself, she looked at him, the tears coming anew.

"I know," he murmured quietly, his eyes soft with compassion.

She swallowed, an ill sensation sweeping over her. "And you swear they have all been punished?" she whispered, feeling a small fire kindle in her gaze.

He sighed. "Not as much as I would have liked," her brother admitted, "but that power is reserved for the Valar. But yes, as much as we could do, we have done, and all that did injury against Faramir have been sent to the pits of Morgoth."

She eyed him solemnly for a moment, then reached up, wiped her tears, and unclasped her cloak.

"It is well," she said quietly, her blue eyes turning hard for a moment, "but I confess the wish that one of them could have been spared for me."

-----------------------------

For Faramir, it all seemed as a dream.

From the moment he had slipped into darkness following his beating by the Orc, a heavy mist had blanketed his mind. Exhaustion and agony had weakened him to the final measure, and even in his brief times of waking there were few clear thoughts, only feelings and perceptions of what ws happening around him.

Yet limited as his understanding was, Faramir still was not afraid. He knew Aragorn was there with the armies of the West, and the evil that threatened them all would be defeated. It was enough to ease his heart, for all that he had hoped to achieve through his suffering was coming to pass.

After floating for a timeless span in the void, he had heard a voice calling his name in the stillness, and a loving hand stroking his cheek. After a mighty effort, he had opened his eyes to behold the beloved face of his Uncle. Faramir began to tremble with joy, almost not daring to think that it was real, that they had come at last, and he was free.

Then the beloved touch and voice recalled him again, and Faramir knew that it was no dream. Somehow he found the strength to whisper his Uncle's name, heedless of how dearly the effort cost him.

The mouth of a water-skin brushed his lips. Wracked with thirst, he accepted the drink eagerly, then allowed himself to fall back into the velvet-like darkness, satisfied that all would be well.

He was drifting fitfully between the waking world and the mist-filled realm of his dreams. He felt gentle touches on his hands and face, and heard the loved voice of his King whispering an Elven blessing to him. Faramir was too worn to comprehend the words, and so yielded himself to their lyrical sound, its beauty enfolding him in a sweet, inexpressible serenity.

The King had been there when he next awoke as well, and now he found himself able to understand what was spoken to him, at least a little. He learned, at least, that the day had been won, that Henvain and Legolas had survived their journey back to Gondor, and that Eowyn would soon be with him. It was all he needed, and he sank back to slumber once more, praying that she would find a safe and swift road to him.

The sleep was light, more of a hazy half-awareness than actual repose. There was pain, and he was acutely aware that Aragorn and the healers were beginning to treat him, being as gentle as their ability allowed. It was not pleasant, but Faramir had no desire to ease his distress with the elixir Aragorn had offered him. He far preferred to bear the discomfort, rather than risk being lost to the potion's slumber when Eowyn arrived.

For a long span, it seemed, he hovered in the twilight world, enduring the pain and waiting. After a time, the gray mists seemed to lift, and Faramir opened his eyes to find himself gazing into the beautiful face of his wife. Never had he known a sight more wondrous, or a joy more pure. All pain, all weariness, paled to insignificance at the sight of her, and there was nothing for him in the world except the fair White Lady.

A nameless longing seized him at that moment to leap to his feet and draw her tightly into his arms, to bury his face in her silken hair and bathe her soft skin with his loving tears. Alas, he found himself unable to even speak her name. Yet they were still blessed, for as one they were drawn together by the same silent desire. As her lips touched his, a sweet tenderness swept over him, uplifting his being to the very heights of rapture. He felt her soul meet his, the communion touching his weary spirit to its utter depths.

At that moment, his true healing began.

Then they had parted, and he slipped back to rest with the music of her voice in his ears.

More time passed, he knew not how much. There was dull pain now, and he vaguely realized that they were beginning to treat his wounds. With a sigh, he opened his eyes, and saw Aragorn kneeling before him, the cup of miruvor again in his hand.

There was no objection to accepting the potion now, as his beloved was with him. The cold metal of the goblet touched his lips, and he slowly swallowed its contents. In the next moment, Eowyn was beside him, holding his hand and tenderly stroking his hair, the soothing motion soon lulling him to sleep.

He drifted for a while, surrendering himself completely to the effects of the elixir. The long struggle to resist breaking, to endure the horrific pain, to maintain his hold on life, had driven him to the far limits of his strength. Yet now, he knew the battle was over, and they had won; now, he was able to lay down the heavy burden and find release, knowing that he had faithfully done his duty.

There was only soft blackness for a time; then the dreams began, all calm and beautiful.

The lush scent of roses wrapped about him; he felt himself a child once more, lying in his mother's arms as she rocked him to sleep beneath a summer night sky. He nestled into the embrace, the soothing sensation of her love enfolding him. In his dream he saw that she was wearing a mantle of dark blue, much like the one she had owned in life, now given to Eowyn. Yet upon the throat and hem of this garment, he saw the delicate sparkling of real stars.

This vision faded; he slept without dreaming for a time, then felt himself drawn back to a hazy awareness. He had a vague notion that he was lying on his stomach, a cool, soothing wetness on his back. Singing reached his ears, soft and mesmerizing, and he realized that someone was holding his hand and very gently stroking his brow.

Extremely drowsy, but curious, he opened his eyes.

His sluggish mind could not make out all that he saw. He perceived that he was prone on the bed, and sitting next to him was Legolas, chanting an Elvish hymn to him as the healers tended to his raw back.

Legolas met his gaze and smiled, still singing. Faramir peered at him for a moment through half-lidded eyes, memories of their parting during the Orc attack in Mordor sifting through his mind. For a time, he had imagined the Elf was dead. As he saw Legolas now, the melodious words of his song easing away the pain, a devout prayer of gratitude arose from Faramir's heart to the Valar for sparing his dear friend's life.

The Elf seemed to know his thoughts, for there was a look of kindly understanding on his ageless face. The singing continued, and Faramir closed his eyes as the ancient words and calming touch eased him back to rest.

He was not alone now as he slumbered. The spirits he had sensed nearby in the cold solitude of his cell were with him still, staying close even as the strength of their presence began to fade from him. He wordlessly bid them farewell, united in a final loving touch as he drew farther from their realm.

At times, he became somehow aware of all that they were doing for him in the waking world. Aragorn never seemed to leave his side; always, it seemed, he could hear his King's gentle voice above him, and feel his healing touch upon his wounds. Memories wafted through his dreams, of another long-ago day when Aragorn had drawn him from utter darkness and back to life. The same awesome yet humble power that had eased his pain that day flowed through him again, lending him strength, and Faramir's heart swelled with grateful love for his King.

Then he would feel Eowyn's hand taking his, her soft fingers caressing his cheek, and he would fall asleep once more.

Another dream appeared before him. He was standing atop the Tower of Ecthelion, whole and strong again. Before him, a magnificent dawn was breaking over Gondor, full of glorious light and wondrous colors such as he had never seen before. Every spire and dome seemed ablaze in the brilliant sunshine, and over everything lay a profound air of peace.

He stared at it in elation, feeling the warm, fragrant breeze drying the tears on his cheeks. Never had he seen his beloved home so beautiful. He could feel the life stirring within her, strong enough to last for ages without reckoning. A strong impulse came over him to fall on his knees and weep for joy, for he knew he was seeing a vision of years to come, a foretelling that Gondor would endure because of what they had accomplished this day.

A hand fell upon his shoulder, and he turned eagerly, knowing who he would see. Boromir was there beside him, his familiar wide smile upon his face, his golden hair flying behind him in the summer wind. There was a light upon his face not born of the sun, and within his green eyes shone a tranquility that had no match on Arda.

Boromir grasped his brother's shoulder firmly. "Do you see, little brother?" Faramir heard him say in a fond voice. "I told you that the storm would pass!"

Too overcome to speak, Faramir smiled at him, his eyes filling with tears. His brother laughed, the sound full of love, and pulled his brother into a firm embrace.

Faramir wrapped his arms tightly around his brother, aware that there was no need for words between them. A short time passed as he felt Boromir's arms draw closer about him; then all began to fade to darkness, the warmth of his brother's embrace remaining to the last. Yet even as the dream came to an end, Faramir knew they were not truly parted, and one day they would meet again.

When awareness drew him forth again, he first noticed that all now seemed still. He felt the wonderful softness of the bed embracing him as he lay on his side, the down pillow cradling his head. Opening his eyes a little, he saw that night had fallen, the room dark save for the soft glow of a few candles. Faramir found himself looking through the window at the azure sky, now beginning to fill with stars.

He thought of his mother, and smiled.

Slowly, Faramir's languid mind became aware of what had happened. His injuries were fully bandaged now, the deeper wounds stitched closed, the broken bones wrapped. As he awakened further, he felt a familiar presence with him, a silky softness brushing his chin. Bending his eyes down, he saw Eowyn lying sound asleep in the bed beside him, pressed to him as close as possible, her head tucked down upon his chest.

He smiled, and pressed his lips to the crown of her head, love overwhelming him once more. The sound of footsteps approached, and lifted his half-opened eyes to see Aragorn standing beside the bed, drawing its coverlet over them both. The King appeared very tired, his clothes stained and slightly disheveled, but when he saw Faramir gazing at him, his face broke into a relieved smile.

"The healing is done," Aragorn said in a hushed tone, draping the blanket carefully across them. "Rest now with your lady, my dear friend; soon, I will tell you all that has happened."

He extinguished the candle by the bed and departed. Faramir watched him go, then nestled close to his wife and closed his eyes, savoring the miracle of feeling her beside him once more. A wondrous serenity fell over him as he settled his cheek against her golden hair. He was still too spent to imagine much beyond the moment, but this did not trouble him. Karil's evil had been vanquished, he was restored to those he loved, and for now there was nothing more his heart desired.

Soon he joined his wife in contented slumber, bathed in silver starlight, and enfolded in the blessed embrace of perfect peace.

------------------------

"Henvain, are you *certain* this is a good idea?"

"Of course not, Fae, but after a day like this, I'd say we've all earned ourselves a drink!"

Henvain tried not to be too distracted by Faelor's question as they made their way along the outer edges of the Gondorian camp, saying the first thing that came to his mind in answer to it. It was hard enough making his way across the rocky Mordor terrain while using a cane, without tripping or spilling the large flask of ale he carried slung over one shoulder in the bargain.

The battle was long over, and Henvain had spent many hours since his arrival in the valley assisting in the establishment of the healers' tents, distributing food and supplies to the men, and generally being as useful as he could without actually being able to move around too quickly.

Many times during the day as he worked, he had found himself thinking how different it all was now. When he had last laid eyes on the valley, it was crawling with thousands of seemingly unstoppable Orcs. Now they were all dead and gone, or scattered, and the banner of Gondor flew above the Citadel's tower.

Then, too, he thought, he had been quite afraid, and certain he would get himself killed before reaching home again. So much had happened in the short time since then, and when he had the odd moment to reflect on it, it seemed to him as if he were different now as well.

Then Henvain, not being the contemplative sort, would shrug uncomfortably at the notion, and put the thought aside to ponder when there wasn't so much to be done.

The two soldiers were walking along the outer edge of the Gondorian camp, now spread across the plains before the fortress. The entire valley floor was covered with the glow of campfires, their dancing flames masked from time to time by the shadows of the soldiers moving around them. The cool evening air was rife with the sound of the mens' voices, rising in laughter or heavy with sorrow as they recounted the feats of the day.

The tents of the healers could also be seen dotting the landscape, their white forms standing ghost-like against the dark ground. There, the fires were larger, heating cauldrons of water and food for the men within their sheltering walls. Many men and women could be seen bustling in and out of the tents, assisted by some of the soldiers, and the discerning ear could hear the groans of the wounded men mingling with the laughter and talk of the other warriors.

At the edge of the valley far from the camp, even greater fires roared, their thick, black columns of smoke billowing slowly into the air. There the last of Karil's siege towers were being devoured in flame, along with the corpses of his slain followers. The dead Orcs and Uruks had been swiftly gathered for burning, so as not to pollute the field too long with their foulness. Their enormous pyres now blazed against the sky, their ashes blown away on the healing summer breeze.

Faelor scowled as he rubbed his nose with his uninjured hand. "I'm sure the King himself wouldn't argue that we've won our rest tonight," he replied as they walked along, "but I'm thinkin' he wouldn't be so keen on us just walkin' over to the Haradrim camp and offerin' them a share of our Gondorian ale."

There was a pause as Henvain tried to steer himself around a rather large rock in his path.

"I don't see why not," he said when the chance arose. "From what I heard, they deserve a drink, too."

Faelor nodded firmly. "No doubt of that," he asserted. "You should have seen it, Henvain-the way they all just rode right over those Orcs an' helpin' us take that fortress." He shook his head. "If it hadn't been for them, it would've taken us hours to fight our way into it, if we ever could have at all."

Henvain's expression was sober. "Don't imagine we'd have found Lord Faramir alive, if it had come to that," he said softly.

The other soldier grunted. "That's a fact," he muttered sadly. "From what the boys have said, the ones who've seen him, those Orcs almost broke him in half. But he never told them a thing."

A deep sigh came from Henvain's lips, and he shook his head once, saying simply, "That's the Captain."

"Mm," Faelor said in agreement. "But he'll be all right, with the King lookin' after him. I'm telling you, though, it'll be hard for them back at home who hate the Haradrim now, like that Tuornen. If they hadn't rode in, Lord Faramir might be dead now, and a lot more of our men as well. Even some of the men in the ranks are talkin' different, at least about the Haradrim who helped us today. I heard tell Adir had three other tribes with him today, not just his own, can you believe it? At first it was just one tribe wantin' peace, now it might be four."

Henvain glanced down at the flask hanging by his hip. "Well, I hope they're not all too thirsty, because I've only got a couple of pints."

"I suppose we'll find out soon," Faelor noted. They had passed the edge of the Gondorian camps, and were now in the barren lands beyond. In the near distance, other fires could be seen against the horizon, and the faint red blurs of the Haradrim tents.

They stopped, and Faelor glanced at Henvain's leg. "You sure you're up to this? It's a long walk."

Henvain squinted at the far-away fires, then hefted the flask on his shoulder, settling it more securely. "Yes," he said with resolution.

Faelor seemed doubtful. "If you hurt that leg again, you'll never hear the end of it from old Ioreth," he warned.

The other soldier gave him a frustrated look. "The leg is fine," he insisted. "At any rate, it's nothin' compared to what Lord Faramir went through, so I'm not even thinking about it. And if you think this walk looks long, try dragging yourself from here to Ithilien."

His friend seemed to consider this.

"Now," said Henvain, squaring himself and gripping his cane firmly in his hand, "I am goin' to go see if any of them Haradrim lads want a drink, after all they did for the Captain and Gondor. Maybe after we've had a few rounds, between the lot of us, we might be able to make sense of all this."

He turned and set out, with as firm a step as he could manage.

Henvain was not too surprised to see Faelor at his side a moment later. He smiled a little to himself, pleased to think that his friend had survived the battle to walk with him once more. For a time they trod the path in silence, each man wrapped in his own thoughts.

Suddenly Faelor stopped and lightly grabbed Henvain's arm as he peered ahead.

"Henvain!"

Henvain had halted as well, and said in a low tone, "I see them."

Coming towards them, shadows against the distant glow of the Haradrim fires, were three tall figures, moving forward at a steady pace. They were not far away.

Henvain's heart began to pound. "Do you think they're sentries?"

"I don't know," was Faelor's even response, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. "They don't look like they're carrying weapons."

"They're carrying *something*," Henvain hissed back, worried despite his confidence in the Haradrim's good intentions. What if they were mad renegades like Karil, eager to ambush any wandering Gondorian soldiers and then creep back to their camp with no one the wiser?

Suddenly the open land seemed quite wide and lonely, and the moonless night very dark indeed.

The figures came nearer, and clearly had noticed them.

Henvain finally pushed down his fear and drew himself as tall as he could. As the travelers came closer, their crunching footsteps now heard upon the ground, Henvain noticed that his normal first impulse-to run and find a place to hide as fast as possible- was not as acute as it usually was. He was not afraid to stand and face these men, or at least not as anxious as he would have been in months past. He was a soldier of Gondor, and felt more the part now than he had since first donning the army breastplate.

It was an unfamiliar feeling, but he had little time to examine it, for the newcomers were upon them much sooner than he expected.

The footsteps stopped, and for a moment the men gazed at each other in appraising silence.

The starlight was faint, but in its glow Henvain saw three young Haradrim soldiers, plainly dressed in loose red clothing much torn and stained. Bandages and bruises could be discerned on all of the men, even in the darkness, and the smallest of them had his left arm bound in a sling.

One of the Southrons was taller than the others and seemed older, a black beard visible on his chin. In his hands he carried what looked like a large, dark box. After studying Henvain and Faelor for a moment, he stepped forward and said, in a thickly accented and somewhat nervous voice, "Do not fear, we are friends."

Faelor and Henvain looked at each other. There was a pause, then Faelor cleared his throat, turned back to the Haradrim and said, "You speak Westron?"

The man nodded. "A little," he confessed, "and I must speak for my brothers, who do not know your tongue." He indicated the two young men behind him. "They are Huru and Dirahl, and I am Gaharn, of the Third Tribe."

Faelor inclined his head a bit. "I am Captain Faelor, and this is Lieutenant Henvain, of the Army of Gondor," he said, and Henvain was impressed at how steady he was keeping his voice. "We are friends as well, and mean you no harm."

Gaharn laughed a bit, and looked back at his brothers, who also seemed relieved and amused. "That is good," he said. "I am ashamed to say, we were afraid - we thought you would not understand our coming to you in this way, and might try to fight us."

"Oh, no," Faelor assured them, and Henvain echoed him, shaking his head. "No, no, we were just..." He coughed. "Well, you see, we were not too sure of you, either, truth be told."

At this, the Haradrim chuckled in sympathy. "It will take some time to become used to trusting each other, it seems," he observed.

Faelor shook his head, smiling. "I suppose it will," he agreed.

Henvain licked his lips, preparing himself to speak. "Look," he said, coming forward and unslinging the flask from his shoulder, "we thought, after all the help your people were to us today, that you lads might like a taste of real Gondorian ale. To seal the bargain, in a way, now that we've all spilled blood together."

He saw Gaharn blink in surprise, then break into a grin. "We were just coming to your camps for a similar purpose," he said, slightly lifting the box in his hands. "Men of your army saved the lives of our Chieftain and Prince Jadim, and put an end to the cursed one among us. For that, we sought to offer our thanks, and brought this wine of Harad to share with you."

Henvain stared, dumbfounded. "Ah," he managed to utter at length, before smiling himself. "Well! We've the makings of a real festival here, I think."

"I think that is so as well," Gaharn replied, lowering the box. "Let us go to our camp, where we shall grant you every hospitality."

Faelor shook his head with a smile. "There's no place for a warrior like a Gondorian campfire, my friend," he said. "You'll all be most welcome after today, I assure you!"

Gaharn seemed to consider this, and turned to confer with his brothers. They seemed torn between desiring to show Faelor and Henvain their camp, and paying a visit to the Gondorians.

Henvain glanced at the two camps, which seemed the same distance apart now. He then pursed his lips and looked about him.

"Well, you know," Henvain said slowly, when the Haradrim had paused in their deliberation, "it looks to be a long walk either way, and I'm wagering we've each of us had about all the hard work we can take for one day. The rocks here look good enough to sit on, and I imagine between the five of us that we can get a fire going. What do you say to sitting down, and trying those drinks right here?"

Gaharn and his brothers shared glances between them, and a new discussion started.

In the meantime, Faelor peered at his friend. "I don't think the commanders of either army are going to take very kindly to us sitting out here away from our camps all night drinking," he pointed out.

Henvain simply shrugged and grinned. "I'm willin' to take that chance, Fae," he said. "If our two lands are goin' to be gettin' along now, I can't think of a better way to start the matter off."

Before long, another small fire was burning upon the open plains of Mordor. A short time later, a new song could be heard wafting upon the night wind, the words of Westron and Southron blended together in a harmony unheard of in all the ages of Man.

The song was a bit unsteady, perhaps, but beautiful nonetheless.

---------------

A light mist was falling as Aragorn rode with his escort across the rocky lands towards the Haradrim camp. The day was young, the gray land around them half-shrouded in the rain. All around was quiet, save for the fall of their horses' hooves against the hard ground. The morning had a contemplative air about it, which suited the King to perfection, for there was much to think about.

Two days had passed since the battle. Already those wounded who were fit to be moved had been sent on their way home, comfortably settled in some of the healers' wagons and guarded by those soldiers most fit for the duty.

Aragorn had also sent reports of the battle to Hurin and the council, to augment the more hasty messages delivered the day the fight had taken place. The soldiers also carried orders granting leave to all who wished to come and be with their wounded sons, brothers and fathers until they could be safely moved.

He felt sure in allowing the families to come, for the citadel had been fully secured. The regiments that had pursued the enemy out of the valley had all returned, declaring that the few Orcs who had not been killed were scattered to the far reaches of the realm. One day they would have to be hunted down and dealt with, but for now, they posed no threat to the security of the fortress.

He peered into the rain, contemplating the fate of the citadel when it was no longer necessary for them to remain there. The fortress was well-built and intact; it would serve as a suitable guardian of their southern borders, once the evil remnants of its former occupant had been thoroughly purged from its walls. Yet Aragorn was certain he could never enter the ancient citadel, and not be overcome with grief at what had happened there.

No matter how occupied Aragorn had been in the aftermath of the battle, Faramir had rarely left his thoughts. The sight of the terrible marks of torture upon Faramir's body haunted him, and the arduous healing had drained him to the point where he still felt wearied by it two days later.

Eowyn had assured him that Faramir was sleeping soundly, and he had seen for himself that the Steward was mending well. Aragorn remained troubled, however, for he knew there were some wounds his skills could not close, injuries of the mind and heart left behind by long days of unimaginable pain and darkness. Faramir might yet face a need for restoration long after the last of his scars had faded away.

But for now, Faramir slept peacefully in the fortress' bed-chamber, Eowyn and Imrahil ever at his side. For Aragorn, there was a new concern, for he was riding now to the Haradrim camp in answer to a summons from Prince Jadim.

He was drawing near to the encampment. Through the hazy rain he could see the Haradrim tents scattered before him, their fires glowing fitfully in the damp air. Unlike the white tents of the West, the homes of the Southrons were of many colors, their red, blue and yellow walls providing a unique contrast to the gray landscape.

As Aragorn rode to the outskirts, he noted a further contrast to the camps of the West even more striking than the colorful tents. There were few Haradrim soldiers to be seen, unlike the bustling camps across the plains. Of the two hundred warriors who had come to their aid, he could see no more than fifty manning the camp today. Sorrow flowed through his soul at the difficult loss, as well as somber admiration at their bravery for daring to ride in such small numbers against a foe so mighty.

A lone sentry saw them coming. As Aragorn watched, the man lifted a small horn to his lips and blew a note as they approached. By the time their party arrived at the edge of the camp, Jadim was walking towards him through the haze.

Despite two day's rest, Jadim appeared quite worn, his face still bruised and scarred from his battle with Karil. His steps were slow and careful, and he was favoring his right leg. There was no sign of ceremony in the flowing dark shirt and loose-fitting leggings he wore, his thick black hair hanging loose about his shoulders, yet he still exuded a formal air as he offered a smooth bow to the party.

"Good day, King of Gondor," Jadim said, his tone respectful but weary enough for Aragorn to notice it. "Many thanks for answering my summons."

Aragorn dismounted and gave him a salute in return. "Greetings to you, Prince of the Seventh Tribe," he replied. "I was most grateful for your invitation, as my heart has been anxious on behalf of your noble father. How is he?"

Jadim sighed, his expression serious. "Far from well, but it is said he will recover," was the answer. "The wound has greatly tried him, and it will be many days before he will be able to return to our tribe. But come; it has been his desire to see you as well, and you shall soon have the ability to judge his state for yourself."

All of the escort had dismounted now, and Jadim led them through the camp towards a large red tent on the far edge.

They passed many Haradrim soldiers on the way, resting beside their tents, eating, or tending their armor and weapons. All possessed minor wounds of some type; it appeared that none of the Haradrim soldiers had escaped the battle unhurt. Aragorn discerned that there were several different tribes present, not only the men of Adir's clan. They all stood and paid homage to him as they walked by, and he nodded in acknowledgement, encouraged that the wish for peace was not confined to the Seventh tribe alone.

Adir's tent appeared no more opulent than those of his men, the only mark denoting his status being an intricately woven and decorated symbol mounted on a post near the entrance. Jadim paused before the symbol, bowed his head to it slightly, then proceeded inside, with Aragorn following close behind.

The red canvas of the tent made it dark inside, and there were six small fires burning upon tall metal stanchions for illumination. In this golden light, Aragorn saw a large space, sparsely furnished with a few plain rugs covering the dusty ground and a stand bearing Adir's bloodied armor in one corner. A long, low couch-like bed sat at the far end of the room, upon which reclined the Chieftain of the Seventh Tribe himself.

In the uncertain light, Aragorn saw Adir lift his head slightly as Jadim approached and knelt beside the bed. His chest and shoulder had been tightly bandaged, and there were several men hovering around him whose intently scrutinous air told Aragorn that they were his personal healers.

Near the end of the bed stood four Haradrim men of varying age, clad in rich garments. Like all the Southrons in the camp, they bore the marks of battle. They nodded to Aragorn as he entered but made no other motion, apparently content to stand and watch him closely.

Jadim stood and beckoned him forward to the bed. As Aragorn came near, he discerned the elderly Chieftain lying still against the mound of pillows that supported his back, his long gray hair unbound and flowing, his face pale against the plain black robes which were his only covering. Despite his apparent weakness, Adir's eyes were open and bright as they watched him. As Aragorn knelt by his side, the Chieftain's face broke into a wide smile.

"How kind of you to honor my request, Your Majesty!" Adir murmured in a faint but glad voice. "How fare you this gray morning?"

Aragorn smiled as he bent near, heartened by the strength yet glowing in Adir's eyes. "I am well," he replied, "and pleased to answer your call, after all that you and your brave warriors have done for us. It gives me joy to see that you are recovering so quickly."

"Ah," muttered Adir, nodding slightly at the healers who were hovering nearby. "That is due to the talents of my healers there, who as usual have found some miracle to keep me breathing a while longer. I am only thankful that Karil's aim was not as true as it might have been."

The King's heart tightened at the evil name, and he gazed intently at Adir, unsure how much the Chieftain remembered of his son's violent death.

The other man appeared to notice this, for he reached out and weakly grasped Aragorn's arm.

"Do not sorrow on my behalf, my friend," urged Adir quietly, a somber light gleaming in his eyes. "My son was lost to me long ago, and his foul deeds brought Karil to the proper end."

Aragorn regarded him sadly. "We could not find his body when the battle was concluded," he stated. "Whether it was destroyed by the Orcs, or lost among them in the burial fires, I do not know."

Adir sighed. "Had he lived his days in virtue, he would have been given given a Prince's burial in his ancestral land. Instead, his spirit shall be cursed to wander homeless, until he comes to repent of his wickedness. That is what I shall grieve for, King Elessar; that he sought glory in this life through evil, heedless of the price his soul would pay for it."

Aragorn could think of nothing to say, wondering only if Adir's heart was broken more than he would tell. Before he could craft a response, the Chieftain spoke again, tightening his light grasp on the King's arm.

"Let us speak no more of Karil," he said, his voice lifting a little. "I rejoiced to hear that Lord Faramir was found alive. How is he this day? Will he live?"

"He will," Aragorn replied, his tone turning hopeful. "His injuries were severe, and it will be a long time before his full strength returns to him. But he is resting now, and his wife and kin are at his side. I hope to have my Steward returned to his office by the coming of winter, if all goes well."

Adir smiled widely at his words. "That is most welcome news," he said, settling back on the pillows. "You must know, King Elessar, that I intend to make another proposal of peace to your Council, and it is my dearest hope that Lord Faramir be there to honor us with his presence. Your realm is fortunate to have so strong and loyal a Steward."

Aragorn nodded. "It is a blessing I have been grateful for every day of my reign," he declared. "Faramir will be touched by your remembrance of him, I am sure, and would insist on meeting you when next you come to Gondor. We could not have taken the fortress and found him alive without your brave intervention, and you may be certain that we will not forget it."

Adir's head remained motionless upon the pillow, but he directed his eyes to Jadim, who knelt at the far end of the bed. "It is Jadim who deserves your gratitude far more than I, my Lord," he said proudly. "It was his task to ride to Harad and find the men we needed to send against Karil."

The King gave him a thankful smile, and inclined his head to the young Southron.

A grin of embarrassment at the attention struggled onto Jadim's lips. "It was not as difficult as it seems," he said modestly. "There were tribes camped along the northern borders who desired peace as we did, but were unsure of how Gondor would greet us. It was father's plan for me to ride to them, and persuade them of the matter so that they would join us."

Adir grinned at Aragorn, a small gleam of mischief in his eyes. "I knew you could not allow us to join your army under the banner of Gondor," he explained, "but I saw little harm in sending ourselves in beneath our tribal flags, fighting on your side for our own behalf. Knowing the vastness of Karil's forces, I did not think you would refuse the aid."

"I do not think there is any among us who would forswear your intervention," Aragorn assured him. "Yet, how were you able to find the fortress? For I had given you no notion of its location when last we spoke."

Adir's expression turned grim, and he looked away, his eyes becoming full of sorrow. "You mentioned a fortress in the south of Mordor," he said softly. "After a time I recalled a citadel that we had passed when I took Karil to be sworn to the service of the Dark Lord. It was a bastion of Sauron then, and Karil thought it magnificent. I had long forgotten the incident, yet when you described the stronghold that your men had found, it stirred the memory within me. I knew that it must have been the same."

"There is a series of caves and passes that lead to the fortress through the Southern range of the mountains," Jadim added. "We sent our forces through there, killing all the Orcs who stood in our way. By good fortune, we arrived at the proper time."

Adir's face brightened as he lifted a hand a few inches off the bed to indicate the four men standing at his feet. "These are the Chiefs of the tribes who joined us that day," he said. "Jadim spoke to them of your noble nature and fair mind, and the kindness of your brave Steward. They believed as we did that it would be an honor to ally with such men, and cast their lot alongside mine with the West."

The four Haradrim chieftains stepped forward and bowed to Aragorn. He stood and touched his brow and heart in response, noticing how they differed in age; one was older than Adir, while another seemed to have attained no more than seventeen years. All bore the same air of resolve, however, and the King sensed that the future peace delegation to Gondor would likely be quite large indeed.

"You all have my deepest thanks, and of our armies as well," Aragorn said to them. "Without you, the day might not have been ours."

"It was no hard decision when we heard of your deeds on our behalf, King of Gondor," said the oldest of the group. "You, and Lord Faramir, have proven yourselves to be men of valor and friends of Harad. We have rejected all vows to Sauron, and are willing to place ourselves beneath your banner, when the proper time has been decided to do so."

"You shall be welcomed to our realm as guests of high esteem, once your deeds on the field are made known," vowed the King. "Many a warrior of the West owes his life to you."

The Haradrim chiefs seemed pleased by this, and bowed in gratitude.

Adir sighed as he looked at Aragorn. "Many of our men owe their lives to the bravery of your soldiers as well," he said. "But as I am sure you have noticed, there are very few of us left now. The War took many of our sons, and the past battle more still. It soothes my spirit to know that Gondor will receive us, for I fear we shall need her aid to restore our shattered people."

The King knelt beside him once more, his expression compassionate and earnest. "I swear to do all in my power to aid you," he said, "and the Council will be more receptive than before as well, I have no doubt. But I see that you are wearying, and should rest. I have brought some medicines and athelas with me to assist in your comfort, if you will permit it."

The older man gave him a thankful smile. "That is most kind of you, my friend," he said. "I have also instructed my healers to prepare salves and elixirs for you to take to Lord Faramir. They have been used in Harad for generations to ease pain and bring rest, and it is my hope that they will bring comfort to him."

Adir waved a hand, and the eldest of the healers brought forth a tray laden with several jars and containers. He placed it on a table near to Aragorn, and with a decorous bow handed the King a scroll.

"This is a list of all that each container holds, and how it is to be used, written in your tongue," he said. "May it aid your Steward, as he and you have striven to aid us."

Aragorn stood and accepted the scroll with a deep nod. "It is a generous gift, and much appreciated, my friends," he said, before turning his gaze to Adir. "I shall bear it to him at once. I leave you with a wish for a safe and peaceful journey home, Chief Adir. When you are prepared, send word to me, and we shall speak of peace once more."

The Haradrim chieftain smiled at him, his golden eyes gleaming with kind esteem. "You may rely upon that, King of Gondor," he said, and touched his brow and heart in a gesture of blessing. "Fare well!"

Aragorn returned the motion in kind, and was escorted from the tent by Jadim.

"My army shall be at the fortress for some time to come," said Aragorn to Jadim as he and his men walked to their horses. "If your men are in need of anything, you have only to send to us."

Jadim nodded to him. "That is generous, King Elessar," he replied, "but we do not plan to stay in this land much longer. As soon as my father can bear the journey, we shall return to the South. There is much that must be done."

They had reached the edge of the camp, and the King's men began climbing into their saddles.

"I hope to remain until Lord Faramir is able to travel home," Aragorn remarked to Jadim as he prepared to mount. "It will lift his heart to know that Adir will survive his wound."

A slight smile touched Jadim's lips. "My father's strength has often surprised many men, myself included," he confessed. "I fear he will require it in the days to come. Three more tribes have joined us, yet there are others who prefer to live in continuing hatred of your people."

Aragorn climbed gracefully into his saddle and picked up his reins, his expression somber.

"It will be so in Gondor as well," he noted, looking down at Jadim. "We have more battles before us, my friend."

"So it would appear," observed the Southron as he studied Aragorn closely. He tilted his head in an appraising manner. "When we first met, King Elessar, I was not as certain as my father that peace with Gondor was possible, or wise."

Aragorn peered at him expectantly. "And what is your feeling now, Prince of Harad?"

Jadim smiled. "Only the gods know what the future holds," he replied, "but it does not seem so unlikely or foolish as before." He bowed, bestowing on Aragorn the same blessing as Adir had done. "May your road be free of trouble, until we meet again."

The King nodded as he mirrored the gesture. "I ask the same for you, my friend, until that day," he replied.

The two men exchanged one final glance of respect and good feeling; then Aragorn turned his horse to the West and led his men from the encampment.
His heart was light as they rode, for despite the obstacles that still lay before them, he had greater hope that unity between Harad and Gondor would one day be won. Adir and the four new tribes would stand firm, and when Faramir was fully healed, he would lend his aid as well. The strength of their resolve would carry them through whatever trials lay in store, with the certainty that peace would be the final reward for their pains.

Overhead, the clouds parted slightly, causing a swath of sunshine to flow down through the mist covering the gray land. The fog around them began to glow with the light, and the King and his escort rode back to the citadel through shimmering clouds of gold.

---------------------------

More days passed, and slowly the rhythm of life around the fortress resolved itself from chaos into order.

Four days after the battle, with the area fully secured and the fighting declared done, those soldiers who had received the lightest wounds returned to their lands, escorted by warriors whose services were no longer needed in Mordor. Those going back to Dol Amroth, Minas Tirith and Edoras also bore great quantities of letters home to loved ones from those remaining behind, as well as official accounts of the battle to be delivered to those who were tending the seats of power.

For the soldiers still in Mordor, there was much to do. Cleansing the battlefield of debris was an ongoing task, and the stream of fallen comrades who were in need of removal, preparation, and transportation to be entombed in their homelands was constant. There were many wounded yet to care for as well, for whom food and water was an everpresent concern.

Soon more of the allies departed. Most of the Swan Knights began their march back to Dol Amroth, even as the Rohirrim began their ride North to the Mark. The Haradrim completely decamped on the fourth day, dispatching a message to Aragorn informing him that Adir was now strong enough to travel, and ending with a promise that they would soon meet again.

The Elves and Dwarves tarried a while longer. Legolas and his warriors patroled the outer reaches of the valley, ensuring that all evil had truly fled. The numerous caves and hiding-places among the rocks were the domain of Gimli and the army of Dwarves, who soon ascertained that all of the secret places used by the Orcs had been flushed out.

There was no soul in Mordor more occupied than Aragorn, who was burdened with many duties now that the fighting was done. There were missives to draft to Hurin and the Council, reports to be discussed with his military leaders, long tours of the fortress and its grounds to judge its usefulness. More importantly to his heart, there were letters to Arwen to be written, and Faramir's welfare continued to be among his chief cares.

The healers soon became well-used to seeing the King enter the Steward's room at all hours of the day to learn how his friend was faring. He had much familiar company there, for Imrahil and Eomer had resolved to stay until Faramir could return home, and were often at his bedside when Aragorn appeared. Gimli and Legolas frequently greeted him as well; more than once the King had come upon them in the corner of the room, quietly debating the effectiveness of various Elven and Dwarvish treaments that might speed the Steward's recovery.

One figure never left the room. Eowyn was a constant at her husband's side, bathing his brow, cleansing his wounds, tending his bandages, and seeing to his every possible comfort. Only when weariness caused her to sway on her feet would she consent to rest, and the following dawn would find her with him again, prepared to do all she was able for his sake.

Faramir spent most of the days following the battle in a heavy slumber wrought by exhaustion and the need for unbroken rest. At times he would awaken enough to take some broth and water and tend to the needs of his body, but his gaze was half-lidded and distant, as if he was still reluctant to draw himself fully from the realm of dreams. He spoke but little; a few words of love to his wife, or a reassuring whisper to his uncle, and then his eyes would close once more.

Every day Faramir would be unclad and tenderly bathed. During these times, Aragorn paid close attention to Faramir's wounds, making certain they did not turn foul. Upon each examination, all proved to be well, and there was nothing else for Aragorn, Eowyn and the healers to do but wait and keep watch.

-------------------

The sixth morning following the battle found Aragorn in the tower room with some of his commanders, Eomer, Legolas, and Gimli. Once Karil's war chamber, it was now in a state of disarray, with every map and scroll owned by the slain Prince pulled from its resting place and laid open for the King's inspection. He was now persuing a large map of Mordor unrolled upon the low table before him, his keen eyes searching for any information that might prove useful to the West.

"He seems to have made note of the hiding places for every minion of Sauron who escaped their master's fall," noted Aragorn as he bent over the map, the fingertips of one hand trailing along the surface of the parchment.

Eomer was rubbing his chin and scowling. "Either he found Orcs for his army there, or knew where they lurked still and meant to send for them," he suggested. "Either way, we should send men to seek these places out."

"Most of the rascals seem to be in the mountains," observed Gimli as he puffed on his pipe and studied the drawing. "Say the word, Aragorn, and the Dwarves will go in and make fast work of them. Such ground is hospitable to our kind."

"The Elves would also consent to go," offered Legolas as he stood next to the King, his arms folded as he looked over Aragorn's shoulder, "The enemy would not know our presence until it was too late for them. And besides," he added with a smile, "someone must accompany the Dwarves to make certain they do not get lost."

Gimli gave him a good-natured frown. "Mountains are the second home of any Dwarf, lad," he said dismissively. "We do not need trees to guide us, unlike /some/ folk."

"Take heart, gentlemen, I am certain there will be enough Orcs for all," said Aragorn with a dry smile as he eyed them both.

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps sounded in the hallway, and all eyes turned to the entry to see Imrahil hurry in. The Prince's clothes were disheveled, his long brown hair wind-blown from his haste.

Aragorn straightened at once, alarmed, for Imrahil was known to have spent every free moment at Faramir's bedside. His concern was dispelled immediately, however, for as soon as Imrahil halted his steps, the Prince looked upon those gathered with a breathless but jubilant expression.

"My Lord, Eowyn bids you come to Faramir's chamber at once," he announced, turning his gaze to Aragorn. "It seems my nephew has fully awakened at last, and desires to speak with you."

The map was forgotten at once. Aragorn gave his commanders a hasty bow, and then walked quickly from the room on Imrahil's heels, with Legolas, Gimli and Eomer close behind.

"Faramir was still sleeping when I arrived in the chamber this morning," Imrahil explained as to Aragorn as they strode to the stairs and began to descend them. "Eowyn was bathing his brow when he opened his eyes, and we could both see that they were clear."

"What has he said?" asked Aragorn, each step more hurried than the last.

Imrahil smiled a little as they reached the bottom of the stairs and began their journey to the bedchamber. "He bade my niece good morning," he said, "and asked how long he had been sleeping. His words are not many, or strongly spoken, but I have no doubt that his is more fully with us than in days past. He then asked for you, so that he might hear all that has happened."

"Thus he shall," was Aragorn's firm reply, "for his strength played no small part in our victory."

They entered the room, which was bright now with the morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. Faramir lay in the bed, with Eowyn kneeling beside him holding his hand, a wide smile of joy upon her fair face.

She bowed her head in greeting as Aragorn hastened around the bed. He smiled in return and motioned to her to remain where she was, not wishing to displace her for the world, before turning his attention completely to her husband.

Faramir was very pale yet, his skin having not much more color than the linen bandages that wound over nearly every inch of his chest, arms and legs. The deep bruises on what little flesh was visible, and the dark circles beneath his eyes, were all still shockingly apparent. Yet as Aragorn knelt beside the bed to better observe his friend, he saw that Faramir's eyes were open and gazing at him, slightly clouded with weariness but otherwise far more aware than at any time during the past six days.

As he laid his eyes upon the King, a drowsy smile touched Faramir's lips.

"Good day, Sire," he murmured. As Imrahil had said, the words were slow and faint, but they were spoken in a clear, firm manner.

The King smiled and laid his hand over Faramir's. "A good day it may surely be called, when I am greeted by your waking gaze, my friend," he said in a quiet, measured tone so that Faramir would be certain to hear all of it. "How do you fare?"

In reply, Faramir closed his eyes for a moment, slowly licked his lips, and swallowed. "I feel still in something of a fog," he confessed, before opening his eyes once more and breathing a long sigh, "but it will pass. Has it truly been six days?"

Aragorn nodded.

"Mm," was Faramir's wondering response as he blinked again, his eyes turing to the ceiling for a moment. "It felt far longer...and shorter as well."

The King smiled and gently grasped his hand. "It has felt far longer to us also," he remarked, nodding to the others who stood watching from the foot of the bed. "You have been dearly missed."

Faramir's smile faltered slightly. "It was often hard to hope, my Lord," he murmured, his blue eyes turning dark with troubled memories, "but I knew you would find me if it were possible."

Aragorn lightly stroked Faramir's hand, seeking to soothe away the disturbing thoughts. "Think not on those times," he urged softly, shaking his head. "You are safe, and free; I shall do all in my power to heal you, and together we shall guide Gondor to the bright future our efforts have secured for her."

The Steward's smile returned. "I should like nothing better, Sire," he muttered. He lay still for a moment, thinking, then looked again at the King, his eyes widening a little. "The battle...what happened? I wish to know it all."

"And so you shall," promised Aragorn as he stood. "Your bandages must be removed and refreshed. I shall do my best to answer your curiosity as this is done, if that is agreeable to you."

Faramir did not hesitate. "It is, my Lord," he answered.

Hot water and fresh bandages were swiftly fetched as Eowyn and the healers prepared to tend to Faramir. Aragorn quickly set some fresh sprigs of athelas to steeping, grateful that Faramir had consented to his request. The recounting of recent events would be an effective distraction for Faramir from the more disagreeable aspects of his examination.

"Now," said Aragorn in a calming tone as he gently began to remove the long bandage for Faramir's right arm, "where would you like me to begin?"

Faramir sat in thought for a moment, seeming not to notice as the King carefully unwound the long strip of linen. Eowyn had settled herself on the bed beside her husband, holding his hand as his examination began.

"I know all who are dear to me are safe," he finally said softly, his thankful gaze sweeping those who stood nearby watching, "and Henvain as well, from what I recall."

Aragorn gave a nod as he discarded the soiled wrapping and closely examined the wounds on Faramir's arm. They seemed to be healing well, although he knew the horrified reaction of his heart at the sight of them would never subside. "Lieutenant Henvain has returned to Minas Tirith with the last train of healers' wagons, as one of their escorts," he replied. "A very brave young fellow, to be sure."

"Yes," was Faramir's faint response, his eyes becoming distant again as he pondered his next question. After a moment, he looked up at the King. "Karil?"

"He was slain during the battle," answered the King, a hard gleam coming into his eyes that lay at distinct variance with the tenderness of his ministrations. "Adir and the Haradrim fought beside us; Karil sought to take his father's life, and through this act brought about his own end."

Faramir's eyes widened. "Adir was here, with his men?" he murmured. "Then - was the treaty signed?"

Silence fell as Aragorn began to bathe his Steward's arm.

"Alas, that has not yet been achieved," said the King, giving Faramir a regretful glance.

Disappointment flickered across Faramir's face, and he sighed, his head sinking into the pillow as he watched the King.

"I imagine Lord Tuornen and his followers had a hand in that," muttered the Steward.

"That was so, but do not let them concern you, my friend," said Aragorn as he went about his task. "Adir and the Haradrim came to our assistance in spite of this, inspired by your kindness to them. Once Gondor hears of the Haradrim's deeds upon the field, their foes in the Council will have a more difficult time painting them as the enemy."

"Was Adir injured?" asked Faramir anxiously. "Is he here? I should very much like to speak with him again."

Aragorn sat beside the bed and reached behind him for a jar from a nearby table. "He was wounded, but survived; he and his men have returned to Harad, but I am certain we shall hear from them soon." He turned back to Faramir, an admiring smile on his face. "Four more tribes rode with him to our aid. They wish to ask for peace as well, persuaded mostly by tales of your nobility and kindness to them."

The other man blinked, surprise plain in his pale face. "Four!" Faramir murmured, a smile of pleased bewilderment crossing his lips. "Remarkable-though I am sure the credit cannot be mine alone."

"I heard the words from the Chieftains themselves," the King assured him as he opened the jar, regarding Faramir warmly. "It is but an example of why I thank the Valar each day that I have so exceptional a man as you as my Steward."

Faramir smiled gratefully at the praise before quietly saying, "I do all for you and Gondor, my Lord. To have five tribes of Haradrim seeking peace with us is more than I ever dared hope for."

"That is a concern for another day," cautioned Aragorn as he set the lid of the container aside. "Adir requested that I convey his kindest regards to you, and sent along some medicines from his land that appear to be most effective, such as this salve."

"Hm," was Faramir's answer as he watched the King carefully smooth the pale-colored cream over his arm. "That was most kind of him. How odd it is that such nobility of spirit found no reflection in his youngest son."

Aragorn frowned a little as he finished applying the salve. "There is no cause to speak of Karil now," he offered. "He has paid for his crimes against you and Gondor, and that is all that need be said."

He closed the jar, set it aside, and began to wrap Faramir's arm in fresh bandages.

Faramir gazed out of the window, his expression pensive. "I have no sorrow for Karil, my Lord," he muttered, his eyes turning hard for a moment. "His fate was justly earned. I regret only that he allowed Sauron's evil to set him against those he once loved."

After a few more moments of contemplation, Faramir shook his head slightly as if to dispel any further thoughts of Karil and looked up at Eowyn and the King. "When may I return home, Sire?"

Aragorn carefully secured the new bandage. "Your wounds are healing well," he replied, "and there are ways to fade the scars and other marks that may be left behind. In a week, I am hopeful, you may be strong enough to endure the journey." He glanced down at Faramir with a smile. "I will do all in my power to make it soon, my friend, and when the time comes we shall return to Gondor together."

Faramir's countenance brightened considerably at this thought.

The rest of the morning passed in a like manner. Aragorn carefully bathed and tended to all of Faramir's wounds with the aid of Eowyn and the healers, describing the events that occurred during Faramir's absence and the battle as he did so.

From time to time Faramir would become quiet and sleepy, wearied by the treatment. Then the talk would cease as he drowsed, his head cradled on Eowyn's shoulder while Aragorn continued his work. After a short time he would awaken, refreshed enough to begin the questioning anew.

By the time the sun had climbed to noon, Faramir had been fully treated for the day. While Aragorn and the healers cleared the room, Faramir lay firmly nestled in the bed once more, Eowyn at his shoulder.

"Some broth and bread shall be sent up for your nourishment," said Aragorn to his patient as he wiped his hands on a cloth. "I shall return this evening to see you, but do not hesitate to summon me if you are in any need."

Faramir smiled at him. "Thank you, my Lord," he murmured. "I shall never forget your kindness."

The King came to his side and laid a hand gently on his shoulders, looking into his eyes.

"Regain your health, and come to sit at my side in the Great Hall once more," he urged in a genial tone. "That is all the payment I would ask of you, my friend."

Faramir's smile widened slightly. "Then I shall do my duty, Sire," he vowed, before turning his gaze to the friends and kin standing nearby. "I am deeply indebted to you all. The memory of your love sustained me through my darkest hours."

Imrahil came forward to stand beside Aragorn. "Morgoth himself could not have kept us from coming to you, nephew," he said tenderly. "Now we must give thanks to the Valar that we are united once more, and turn our eyes to the brighter days ahead."

"And to that end, we shall leave you to quiet and rest," Aragorn said in an amiable but firm tone that allowed no argument.

Faramir appeared somewhat disappointed, despite the fact that he was clearly still fatigued. "There is so much to be done," he sighed.

"We'll see to all that for now, lad," Gimli assured him. "I am sure there will be plenty left for you when you're back on your feet."

The young Steward considered this, one corner of his mouth turning up in a wry smile. "No doubt!"

Farewells were spoken, and the room slowly emptied of all save the healers, Eowyn, and Imrahil. Aragorn was the last to leave, the Prince of Dol Amroth by his side as he walked to the door.

"I shall be in the upper chambers," said the King to Imrahil in a quiet tone as he glanced back at Faramir.

Imrahil's mouth pulled into a smile. "I shall send word at once if you are needed, Sire," he replied, anticipating his monarch's request, "yet I feel certain such an arrangement will be unnecessary. There is a strong gleam in his eye that I have seen before. My nephew means to recover, and return to his home and duty. Now that the veil of utter weariness has lifted, he shall strive to that end, until the strength of his body matches that of his will."

The King appeared pleased, and laid a hand on Imrahil's shoulder. "Knowing the remarkable feats my Steward is capable of, I would not find such an event surprising," he stated. "I shall leave him to your care, then, until this evening. And pray accept my thanks for summoning me; attending to the business of our kingdom's future is a far more pleasant task now, knowing that Faramir will indeed be a full partner in it."

The Prince smiled at this. With a final nod to each other, they parted, each going to his duty with a truly light heart for the first time in many a tiresome day.

-------------------

The following days seemed to pass swiftly, to everyone except Faramir.

The Steward slowly regained his strength, and with it an impatience to lend what aid he could to the enormous task at hand. At first, he was content to follow Aragorn's advice to remain quietly in bed, but as his reason fully shook itself of the last of its shadows, he felt an increasing desire to be about his duty.

Soon, in addition to his healing visits, Aragorn found himself carrying maps and scrolls to Faramir's chamber so that he and his Steward might discuss them together. These sessions rarely lasted long, although Faramir appeared to be deeply engrossed in whatever information he could glean. At the first sign of a drooping eyelid or hint of a yawn, the maps and scrolls would be whisked away, and Faramir received kindly orders from his King to rest until the next day.

These directives were always met with good-natured reluctance, but Faramir complied without fail. He had suffered much to survive to this day, and he was unwilling to lose the chance to oversee Gondor's future simply for the sake of soothing his disappointment.

Yet in a way, Faramir found the times of rest trying as well. While his body healed, there were moments when his mind did not seem as willing to believe that he was truly free. For untold days he had lived in pain and darkness, until he was almost accustomed to it. It seemed strange, in a way, to now feel warmth and sunlight, and have all the food and water he desired, and pleasant company with which to pass his hours rather than Orcs. It took a few days for his reason to balance back into place, for him to lose the dire sensation of constant dread.

Night brought rest and healing, but there were also dreams, visions wrought of feelings and indistinct forms filled with pain and terror. Chains and ropes would bind him again; searing pain wore away his spirit inch by inch, despite his struggles against it; an indescribable sensation of hopelessness and isolation bore down on his heart, mere inches away from crushing it completely.

Then, at the last instant, he would awake.

When he first awoke from slumber, he would forget, for a moment, where he was. For an agonizing instant he imagined himself still trapped, alone and without hope, waiting to die.

Then he would draw farther awake, and his eyes would open. Gradually his fog-shrouded mind would realize that it was the moonlit bedchamber surrounding him, not his lightless, filthy cell. He would feel someone stir next to him, and sense the welcome warmth of Eowyn pressed close to his side.

As all of this became known to him, Faramir would draw some deep breaths to ease his pounding heart, turn his face to the night breeze to fan the sweat from his face, and draw Eowyn as close as he could to him without waking her. Then, slowly, he would fall asleep once more, hoping that the day would come when the horrors of his ordeal would truly be left behind him.

He spoke of these matters to no one, thinking only worthy of mention if it became serious enough to warrant the attention of others. Aragorn had enough burdens, and they were, after all, only dreams.

A week went by, and the dark dreams became less frequent. A more rested feeling settled over him as his treatment continued, and it was not long before he sensed the strength beginning to return to his limbs.

This was attributable in no small part to Eowyn, who was his constant companion and light. Deprived of her touch for so long, and utterly convinced for a time that he would never see her again, Faramir found himself lost in bliss at the mere sight of her. They spoke often and tenderly, but he found his greatest joy in simply watching her, drinking in her beauty as if it were his only source of life.

As his strength grew, Faramir was permitted outside for short periods to enjoy the healing benefits of open air and sunlight. He could not yet walk, but there were many strong arms willing to bear him hence. The upper level of the fortress, now cleansed of the stains of battle, proved the best place for Faramir to take his ease. He spent many refreshing hours there, gazing at the plains below, remembering them as they stood filled with Karil's foul legions and marveling that that darkness had truly been swept away.

Beneath her care, he soon improved, and ten days after the morning of Faramir's awakening, the King declared him fit enough for the journey home. The fortress had been fully secured as a base from which Gondor would patrol its southern borders, and the time had come for the King and his Steward to return to Minas Tirith.

Word was sent forth, and the preparations made. Faramir slept little that night, his thoughts moving between eager anticipation of beholding his beloved City once more, and disbelief that he would at last be able to do so. How often he had languished in his cell, yearning for the barest glimpse of home before the pain and exhaustion took his life! It seemed almost unthinkable that his desire would soon be granted.

A canvas-covered wagon was fitted for his transport, its floor lined with a down-stuffed mattress. The remaining warriors gathered to see Faramir off, and met him with a salute as he was borne from the fortress. This he accepted in a humble, if somewhat embarrassed, manner, and he seemed only comfortable with the traveling arrangements after being assured that all of the seriously wounded men being taken home that day would be made as comfortable as himself.

After Eowyn, Aragorn, and the healers saw that Faramir and the other wounded men were secured, the King moved to the head of the formation along with Eomer, and the long procession began its journey.

They moved slowly, to ease the strain on the injured men as much a possible. For Faramir, the ride could never have gone fast enough, yet he filled the hours as best he could. Still wearied, he spent a good portion of the time asleep, firmly burrowed into the soft mattress and thick pillows, with Eowyn watching him closely. His waking hours were spent studying the maps and scrolls from the fortress, but more often he simply lay with his wife in his arms, watching with her as the landscape rolled by and counting the miles as they drew closer to home. Beside the wagon rode Imrahil and his sons, ready to give their aid at the slightest need.

At night, the caravan would stop and the wounded who wished it would be allowed to sleep beneath the stars. It was then that Faramir would ask anxiously after the wounded men, and he, Imrahil, Aragorn and Eomer would discuss the day's progress and other matters, until the Steward could stay awake no longer. During this time, Legolas and the unsleeping Elves patrolled the perimeters of the camp, watching for any sign of mischief.

As they slowly made their way to Gondor, Faramir felt his heart grow lighter, as if the very nearness quickened the return of strength to his limbs. On the third day of traveling, they passed Ithilien's border, and Faramir had never felt so uplifted as the moment when he was once more enveloped by the fragrance of his beloved land. As they rode past the wild trees and flowers, he gazed at the sunlit beauty transfixed. The Blessed Lands, he felt sure, could never be half so beautiful.

Soon the procession made the turn on the road for Minas Tirith. Now Faramir grew more restless despite Eowyn's gentle admonishments, anxious to lay eyes upon the home he once felt certain he would never see again.

Eowyn understood. Carefully she moved to the front of the covered wagon-bed and peered between the canvas curtains that separated them from the driver's seat of the conveyance. A smile lit her face, and she drew the panels aside as far as they would go.

The White City rose before them, some distance away still but growing nearer with every moment. Its gleaming walls were afire with the rays of the late afternoon sun, causing it to glow golden-white against the mountains.

Faramir drew himself up, the awesome wonder at the sight washing away any sensation of pain or weakness that might have hindered him. His eyes swept over level, landing at last on the Tower of Ecthelion as it blazed from the summit, guiding him home. He stared, taking in the brilliant sight until it began to blur through his tears.

An overpowering love for his land and his people now surged through his soul, mingled with infinite gratitude that he had been spared to return to them. All he had suffered had been for their welfare, and here was his reward, to see his City whole and unharmed by Karil's evil, her people safe.

The Great Gate swung open its doors to receive him, and as they rode through the ancient portal into Minas Tirith, Faramir could do nothing but bury himself in his wife's soft arms, and weep for joy.

-------------------

"A fine situation this has turned into, eh, my friend?"

Lord Tuornen's voice was thick with disappointment as he lifted his wine glass to his lips and cast a sullen glance at Lord Beleg, who sat across from him at the small streetside dining table they were sharing. Behind them, the inhabitants of one of Minas Tirith's finest eating establishments were enjoying the final meal of a late summer day; before them, the men and women of Minas Tirith bustled by upon the wide stone-lined streets, hurrying about through the soft night air.

A few stars were shimmering into view in the twilight sky overhead; neither man noticed.

As Lord Beleg seemed unwilling to offer much of a reply, content instead to sit staring thoughtfully into the street with his chin in his hand, Lord Tuornen shook his white-haired head and clucked his tongue angrily, apparently willing to carry on the entire conversation by himself.

"Imagine the King having the gall to spend most of today's Council session regaling us all about those cursed Haradrim," he said in an outraged tone, the wine still untouched in his hands. "Our first true convening in two months, and the entire session wasted! As if we haven't heard enough about those devils to suffice for a lifetime, of late."

As he took a drink, he saw Beleg eye him rather hesitantly, but his comrade said nothing.

Tuornen scowled as he set the glass down. "It strikes me as in very poor taste to sing the praises of those fiends, and speak of efforts for a new alliance, after what they did to Lord Faramir," he observed. "He can't have forgotten already, they only returned to the City a week ago!"

Beleg cleared his throat. "As I recall," his dark-haired friend said quietly, "the King *did* mention that Prince Karil, and what happened to him. He seems convinced the other Haradrim had nothing to do with Lord Faramir's captivity."

"Hmm," growled Tuornen as he reached over and began to slice a piece from the loaf of bread that sat between them. "I'd love to hear what makes him think that! The man is blinded, that's all. It doesn't matter how many tribes enter into this so-called peace, they'll all prove traitors in the end."

Beleg watched him, not moving. "Perhaps the fact that they allowed the Steward to be rescued, and protected our men when they could have easily killed them instead?" he offered in a mild voice. The words were not confrontational, merely questioning.

His companion eyed him sharply as he jammed the knife back into the loaf. "That was merely a ruse to gain our trust," Tuornen replied. "What has happened to your reason today, my friend? Surely you are not siding with the King in this matter, after being my staunchest ally!"

Beleg shrugged and looked away. "Not entirely, no," he murmured, "but...well, you know, we've had some soldiers at our home recently, my wife's three cousins, you remember. Two Captains and a Commander. I don't really know them well, but she grew up with them."

Tuornen grunted as he bit into the bread, his expression indicating that he didn't remember but was willing to humor the other man.

"They were at the battle," Beleg continued, still not looking at the older man, gazing instead out into the street somewhere, "and I talked to them about it, trying to get them to say what we believed was true, to find the proof." He sighed and turned his eyes to Tuornen, their depths puzzled. "We talked for hours, but they all said the same thing. Had it not been for the Haradrim, the battle might have gone in a different fashion."

Tuornen huffed and swallowed his bite, picking up the glass of wine again. "Surely they did not see it all, in that confusion," he answered.

Beleg considered this. "Well, no," he allowed, turning towards his friend and clasping his hands on the table, "but...well, two of them each said a Haradrim soldier saved their necks, more than once. And Belemir, he's the commander, told me he fought side by side with one of the Chieftains until the man went down fighting off the Orcs to protect them both. Now, what are we to make of that?"

A smile crossed Tuornen's face. "That they are remarkably devoted liars?" he offered. "It wouldn't surprise me if they were willing to lose their own lives in order to dupe us into trusting them. It's all part of a larger plan."

Beleg's face distorted in disbelief. "But to that extent?" he asked, clearly not accepting the explanation. "Such an act is not devotion, Tuornen, it's insanity! Had they wished to exterminate us, they could have done so on the spot, by preventing Lord Faramir's rescue and assisting Karil in slaughtering our men. The Haradirm lost almost half their force, and from what I hear it was a good portion of all the warriors they have left in their entire realm-how is *that* to their ultimate advantage?"

"You're expecting foresight from a race of savages?" Tuornen inquired pointedly. "They have no feelings as we do, Beleg, they don't care for their own men as long as we are destroyed. You know that."

Beleg sat back, appearing far from convinced. "The son of the Chieftain who died was there when it happened," he remarked sadly. "Belemir saw him. He said he looked no more than seventeen, and wept over his father's body like a child. Is that not feeling?"

Tuornen didn't look at him as he waved the idea away. "I'm not about to pretend I know how those animals think," he sniffed. "Besides, do you not recall how our men and women have wept over loved ones lost to the weapons of the Haradrim over the years? I don't imagine those barbarians cared much about *them*!"

Beleg frowned and turned away. "Perhaps not," he murmured, his tone melancholy. After a few moments of thought, he looked back at Tuornen. "But...I know how my wife would have cried, if she had lost any of her cousins. I owe their lives, and her happiness, to the Haradrim. What am I supposed to think about that? I cannot hold such men as evil."

Tuornen leaned on the table, peering hard into Beleg's eyes. "Yet they are, Beleg, and one day it will be revealed!" he insisted. "Don't be a fool."

His comrade glared at him. "Belemir and his brothers are not fools," he replied, "nor any of our soldiers, nor the warriors of Rohan and Dol Amroth, yet most of them feel indebted to Adir and his followers. Not all, of course, but enough to cause question."

Tuornen shook his head. "A mistaken belief is still mistaken, no matter how many men hold to it!" he exclaimed. "The Haradrim-*all* of them-have always been the enemy of the West, and they always will be, regardless of whatever else they may say or do. Their kind are not capable of any other path. It is as simple as that."

Beleg studied him, then slowly stood, smoothing out his costly robes over his short, stout frame.

"That's just the thing, Tuornen," he said solemnly, giving his fellow councilman an even gaze. "It's not that simple any more, and now I'm not certain that it ever really was. Now you must forgive me, but I fear I am not no longer in the mood for conversation. There is much I must think upon. Good night."

He bowed, and stepped into the street, where his form was soon lost amid the moving throngs and gathering darkness.

Tuornen watched him go with a frown, clearly bewildered by this unexpected turn. The people continued to walk by, few giving the important man more than a curious glance while he gave them even less attention in return. He spent the rest of his time there alone, gradually finishing off the bread and wine, brooding all the while as the night fell around him.

-------------------

Henvain had found himself facing many dangers lately, but today, he found himself curiously more nervous than ever before.

It was very foolish, he chided himself as he walked down the bright hallway leading to the Steward's Quarters, careful not to stride too closely to the guardsman who went before him, leading the way. It wasn't as if he'd never been in the Citadel before, or that he was in any trouble. There was nothing foreboding in the air; it was a beautiful, sunny autumn morning, one of the nicest to dawn since he'd returned to Gondor a month ago.

He certainly had no reason to fear for his health, either, as he was fully healed, with only a twinge or two now and then. He hadn't needed the cane for weeks, he mused as he firmly matched the soldier step for step. Oh, there would always be the scars, and the healers had said his knee would always ache in the damp or cold. But he could bear such things easily, in return for being able to don his uniform again and go back to his old life.

Well, he thought as he gazed at the fine tapestries on the walls without really seeing them, that wasn't really true, he'd found. His old life wasn't where he'd left it all that time ago, when he'd gone to Mordor with Lord Faramir and Lord Legolas. Things were different now, and he still didn't know if that was all good or bad, or a mix of the two. But he wasn't too anxious about that, either; like everything else, he figured it would all get straightened out somehow.

No, he decided as he followed the guardsman up a finely polished set of stone stairs as old as the City itself, he was nervous because today he had been summoned to visit Lord Faramir. He'd been anticipating this for a long time, had often wanted to speak to the Captain again, but today was his first chance since they'd parted on the road in Mordor two months ago.

What was he going to say, to someone who'd suffered so much, and been far braver than Henvain could ever hope to be?

Henvain's mind flew back to the recent past. He never got to see Lord Faramir after they'd found him, but he'd heard the stories, and had little doubt that they were all true. On the day the Steward returned to the City, Henvain had been among the crowd to see the procession. It had been a grand sight, with the Kings Elessar and Eomer riding up front, but the one the people truly wanted to see was Lord Faramir.

Henvain, being on the short side and caught behind some taller folk, hadn't seen much. Through the canvas opening of the covered wagon he'd glimpsed a pale figure in bandages and a linen shirt, and that was all.

Since that day, everyone in the City talked of Lord Faramir's progress, and Henvain had little trouble keeping up. There was news of his condition-he was still weak and healing, but he would live-the daily treatments by the King himself, as well as Lord Legolas, and the day he was well enough to be moved to the Steward's Quarters a while was greeted with much relief throughout every level. There was even talk that he'd been taking medicines offered by the Haradrim, and Henvain couldn't help smiling at the memory of the consternation caused by /that/ news.

The King had also been seen visiting the Steward's chambers in the early night hours as well, Henvain recalled as they climbed the stairs. His heart twinged with sympathy, wondering if perhaps Lord Faramir had been having nightmares, and the King was helping him with those, too. He'd had some awful ones, himself, for a while after the battle, and what the Steward had endured would give any man foul dreams for a lifetime. But if the King was helping him along with that, surely, he would be all right; Elessar had proven he knew a thing or two about healing, by now.

They topped the stairs and entered a long hallway, and Henvain found himself growing even more unsettled as he saw the large wooden door at the end that had to be where Lord Faramir was.

He swallowed, concerned that he was about to make an idiot of himself. He wasn't one for knowing the proper behavior at such times, and what could he say to Lord Faramir after all he'd been through that wouldn't sound plain foolish? He was relieved beyond words that the Steward was recovering, but so was everyone. He could offer sympathy for his suffering, but what did he-or anyone-know of the sort of horrors Lord Faramir had endured?

There was another, deeper worry gnawing at him as well. He'd heard of some men who'd survived being captives of the Orcs, had even seen a few, and the experience had scarred them forever. Some went mad; others became violent, or grew to be complete strangers to those they loved. He didn't want to think of Lord Faramir that way. The Steward was such a good man; it would be a tragedy if this had somehow stolen the kind nature that Henvain had seen in him when they were traveling together.

A grim image flashed through Henvain's mind, of Lord Faramir wasting away in a chair like some of the men he'd heard about, his mind forever crippled, the hopeful light that had been in his eyes gone for good. He shuddered; if that was what was he would see this morning, he wasn't sure he could bear it.

They drew closer to the end of the hall, and Henvain sighed and braced himself.

The guardsman knocked on the door.

After a moment, the door was pulled open, and Lady Eowyn stood before them, resplendent in a light blue morning gown, her golden hair flowing about her shoulders. At the sight of Henvain, she smiled brightly.

He bowed, figuring it best to stay silent until a coherent thought could be formed in his head.

"Lieutenant Henvain to see Lord Faramir, milady," the guardsman announced, before stepping aside. In an instant, he was walking back down the hall to his post, and Eowyn was motioning Henvain to enter the chambers.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," she said pleasantly as he entered. "I am so glad you could come. Lord Faramir has been anxious to see you again."

Henvain nodded, praying he wouldn't trip on anything. "Thank you, and good morning to you, milady," he said in his best formal voice as he walked into the rooms. They were larger and more opulent than anything he'd ever seen besides the Throne Room, and flooded with sunlight. "Is Lord Faramir, um, resting well?"

"Very well," she answered, as they began to walk towards the back of the apartments. "I do not believe any medicine has been half so effective as the chance to sleep in his own bed once more. Lord Legolas is with him now."

He stopped walking, feeling suddenly awkward. "If I should come back at another time, milady-"

But she laughed a little and gently took his arm. "Have no fear, Lieutenant-they have both been eagerly awaiting you. Come!"

Henvain dared not argue with the White Lady of Rohan, so he consented to follow her until they arrived at last in the farthest room of the apartments.

It was a very large bed-chamber, as flooded with sunlight as the rest of the place. As Henvain entered, he at once noticed the delicate fragrance of flowers filling the room. Then he saw that the far end of the room opened into a garden, and its doorway was flanked by a trellis on both sides, their slats heavily entwined with roses.

Set against the western wall of the room beneath a wide open window was a large bed, and in this bed reclined Lord Faramir, lying back against several large pillows. Lord Legolas sat at the bedside, reading aloud from some large book. Directly next to the bed was a table, piled with several more books, maps, and scrolls.

At the entrance of Eowyn and Henvain both men turned to look at them, expectant smiles upon both of their faces.

Henvain looked closely at Faramir, and was gratified to find the Steward looking better than he'd expected, although clearly far from his normal strength. There was still a weary paleness to Faramir's face, and Henvain could make out faint, dark circles beneath his eyes. The Steward wore a loose linen nightshirt open at the throat; through it, the healing lines of a few scars were still visible on his skin, and Henvain could see the edges of a bandage that had yet to be removed.

Yet Henvain recognized at once the familiar strength of spirit still burning in Faramir's eyes, the same kind, generous light that he had seen there during their journeys in Mordor. He sighed to himself, relieved; the Lord Faramir he knew had truly survived after all.

"Ah, Lieutenant!" Faramir exclaimed, delighted. His voice was firm, if not as strong as Henvain remembered it. "I had hoped you would be able to come today."

Henvain straightened himself and bowed. "Yes, sir," he said, with as much decorum as before. "Thank you for the invitation."

Legolas closed his book and rose from his seat with a smile. "You need not stand upon formalities," he said in a warm manner, "after all we three have been through together. Lord Faramir and I both owe you our lives; you are certainly among friends here."

Henvain blinked and looked at them both. The, suddenly, his anxiousness melted away, and he relaxed immediately.

"No, sir," he said with a smile, feeling the tightness flow from his shoulders. "No, sir, you're right."

The Elf tucked the book under his arm, stepped forward, and clasped Henvain on the shoulder, still smiling.

"When the time is right, we shall all three of us take a glass and toast to our mutual survival," Legolas vowed. "For now, I have made a promise to Lady Eowyn to inspect her garden, so you must excuse us."

To Henvain's surprise, the Elf bowed to him. Eowyn gently released his arm after nodding a farewell, took Legolas' elbow, and disappeared with him into the garden.

"You are looking quite well, Master Henvain," Faramir said approvingly as he lifted his hand towards the seat Legolas had vacated.

"I am, sir, thank you," said Henvain as he walked over and eased himself into the chair. "Haven't needed the cane for a while now, and most of the aches are gone. I'll be going back to my regiment in a few days."

Faramir settled back against the pillows as he looked at Henvain, the sunlight streaming over him from above. He looked very comfortable, at least, thought Henvain, even if he didn't seem up to moving very much.

"You must have found the time with your family most relaxing," the Steward commented amiably as he nestled his head into the pillows. "They were very pleased to have you home for so long, I am sure. Are they well?"

Henvain nodded. "Yes, sir," he replied. "I even enjoyed seein' my brother Turwaith again. I...I think he might have been a little jealous of me, when he heard what I've been about while he was gone. He said I'd better look out or I'd get a big head from bein' such a hero."

He couldn't help but grin at that memory; never in his life had his brother ever been envious of him for anything.

Faramir was smiling, too. "And what did you say to that, my friend?"

Henvain's smile faltered a bit. "Um-well, I told him I hadn't done it to be a hero, honestly, and not for glory or anything like that," he answered, his words becoming quiet. "Most of the time it was tiring, and frightening, and dirty, not what I'd thought it would be like. But..." He paused. "But if it happened again, I'd do it again, because it was my duty, no matter how unpleasant it was, because your life and the lives of the folks here at home depended on us gettin' back. And that was all there was to it."

For a moment Henvain ceased speaking, his expression becoming more pensive.

"After I'd said all that," he continued, "Turwaith just sort of nodded and said that was what the battle at the Black Gate was like, the one he'd gone to and I was so sorry I'd missed. And...and I think I understand now why he never seemed to see it as I did, as some grand, painless adventure that I'd been left out of. That was a hard duty, just like this was, but we both did it, because it needed to be done."

Faramir gazed proudly at him. "Spoken like a true soldier of Gondor," he said softly.

"Well..." Henvain hesitated. He probably wasn't going to say this right, but there was no help for it. "To be truthful, sir, if it hadn't been for those kind words you gave me when we were on the road, and me seeing how brave you were, fighting off them Orcs even after it was too late, I don't think I could have made it all the way home. Every time I got to thinking I couldn't go another step, that's what I thought about. It helped me keep my heart up, and...and I don't think I'll ever have the words to properly thank you for that."

He fell silent and looked up at the Steward. He hadn't been as eloquent as he'd hoped, perhaps, but Henvain felt that he'd said pretty much what he'd wanted to, as well as he could say it.

Lord Faramir, at least, appeared to be very pleased and touched, as the smile seemed to deepen on his face.

"I am honored by your words, my friend," said Faramir in a hushed voice. "You have proven through your deeds that all I said to you during our journey was the truth; you are a remarkable young man. Gondor, and myself, shall ever be in your debt."

Henvain gave a small, self-depracating laugh and shook his head. "Please, sir, don't feel in debt to me," he pleaded. "Not after all you've suffered. I didn't do anything remarkable, not like...I mean..." Curse it, this wasn't going to come out right at all. "I'm sure I could never bear up as you did, in that fortress."

There as a slight rustling as Faramir turned his head to peer at Henvain more directly, a look of quiet thoughtfulness on his face.

"I would not be so certain of that, my friend," said the Steward. "You have already shown that you are willing to bear great hardship on behalf of Gondor and her people. I pray you are never faced with such an ordeal as mine, but were it ever to befall you, I believe you would once more find yourself stronger than you suppose."

There was nothing Henvain could think of to say for a few moments. He hadn't really thought of it that way, or even considered that he could be as brave as Lord Faramir. But then, he'd have considered his recent adventure impossible as well not so long ago, so perhaps there was something to Lord Faramir's words after all.

"I hope that would be the truth, sir, if it ever came down to that," he replied with a sigh. "Thank you."

Faramir regarded him kindly. "I had great faith that you would deliver Lord Legolas safely to Minas Tirith, and alert the King to the danger that threatened the kingdom," Faramir informed him. "It was this belief that sustained me in my darkest hours; so, it seems we have helped each other. For this, I must place myself in your debt. I fear I must insist upon it." He smiled.

Henvain smiled, utterly embarrassed. "It's enough just to have you back with us, sir, it's all the reward I'd ever want," he admitted honestly.

The Steward reached for something on the table beside the bed. "It is very kind of you to speak thus, Henvain," he said, before turning back to him. "However, one of my reasons for asking you here this morning was to present you with a more tangible representation of my thanks. I hope you will accept it, as a reminder of my deep gratitude for all you have done."

With these words, he handed the object in his hands to Henvain.

It was a book, quite thick and impressive-looking, the blue leather cover rather worn about the edges. Embossed across the front in worn gold leaf was the title 'Great Battles of the Past Ages as Fought by the Armies of Gondor, with Tactical Analyses and Maps'.

Henvain felt his heart jump a little; he'd always had a fondness for battle history, and maps as well.

"Thank you, sir," he remembered to gasp, even as he pulled it open. The pages were a little worn, but clearly well-cared for. The maps were beautifully drawn, detailing every major battle fought by Gondor in the past two thousand years. This was an expensive book, something only those in the higher military ranks would have, and he could scarcely believe that he was now the owner of such a fine object.

"I hoped you would find it interesting," was Faramir's pleased reply. "I've written a commendation on your behalf to your commander, and recommended you be considered for a promotion in rank, if you are agreeable."

Henvain lifted his eyes to stare at Faramir in surprise. "Sir, I-" He paused. "I feel I've been saying 'thank you' too much to you today, but nothing else seems right."

Faramir laughed a little. "That is no matter, Henvain," he assured him. "You are most welcome. The path to the Captaincy is not easy, but I feel you are suited for it. The information in that book will help you prepare for the trials; you have the ability to master it, I am sure."

Henvain smiled, still engrossed in the pages. On nearly every one there were several handwritten notes in ink in the margins, and along the edges of the maps as well, revealing the writer's thoughts on the subject being discussed.

"You seem to have had quite a few ideas of your own here, sir," Henvain observed with a chuckle.

He heard Faramir laugh again. "I did indeed, when that book came to me, but the writing you see there is not mine," he explained. "That volume originally belonged to my brother, Lord Boromir."

This new surprise almost caused Henvain to drop the book. He glanced up, his eyes slightly widened. Lord Boromir was nearly a legend among the soldiers; never did Henvain imagine he would even touch something that belonged to the beloved Captain, let alone own it.

"But, sir," gasped Henvain, hoping he'd sound halfway coherent, "don't...don't you want to keep this, as it belonged to him?" It seemed an impertinent question, but Henvain knew, as all the soldiers did, how close the two brothers had been.

Faramir was regarding him with a wistful, sad smile. "Indeed I do, Henvain, but I desire more for you to have it," he replied. "Were he here, I am certain Boromir would want to reward you for saving my life. My brother placed a high value on the merits of bravery and leadership. I do not think he would know of a more suitable gift to you, than a chance to use this book to nourish your skills and place them in the service of the land we all love."

Henvain blinked and looked down at the book again. His hands were shaking a little now. Then he slowly closed it and lifted his head again, a resolute expression on his face as he considered how truly valuable this gift was.

"Thank you, sir," said Henvain quietly. "I'll put this to the best use I can, I swear."

"I have no doubt of it," Faramir stated, still smiling. "Boromir would also treat you to an ale, but that will have to wait, I fear. For now, come! Tell me of your family, and how you have passed the weeks since your return."

Henvain complied, and they spent the rest of the morning in a most pleasant fashion. It came as a surprise to Henvain when Lady Eowyn and Lord Legolas returned from the garden and announced that the time for the noonday meal had come; he hadn't realized so much time had gone by.

"I shall have to ask your leave, then, sir," said Henvain as he stood, the book in one hand. "I've got to get to the armory, and you have important things to tend to as well, I'm sure."

Faramir smiled. "Important, perhaps, but none will be as pleasant as speaking with you this day," he remarked, giving a nod of farewell. "Thank you for coming, Lieutenant, I have greatly enjoyed our visit. We shall speak again soon; I believe, at the very least, I owe you an ale."

A grin came to Henvain's face at the thought. he was looking forward to it already. "Yes, sir. Well, good day!"

He bowed to the Lords Faramir and Legolas, then turned and followed Lady Eowyn to the door, thinking how odd it all was. When he arrived he didn't want to even cross the threshold, and now he was sorry to have to go.

"You have my gratitude as well, Lieutenant, for all you have done for us both," said the Lady fondly as she opened the door for him. "You will always be welcome here."

Henvain paused at the door and bowed to her. "Thank you, milady," he said sincerely. "I hope you both have a pleasant day. Farewell!"

He nodded to her, smiled at the bow she gave in return, and sped through the opened door quickly before he said anything foolish.

The walk back outside went past in something of a blur, as his mind tried to work through all he had seen and said that morning. It went very well, he thought, and he felt very encouraged to see Lord Faramir so healthy, even if he was still pale and tired. Perhaps next time Henvain would even see him up and walking.

Then Henvain marveled that there would indeed be a next time. He had a standing invitation to visit the Steward of Gondor! It was enough to make one's head spin.

Soon he found himself stepping out into the sunlit Fountain Courtyard. He walked quickly down the stone stairs, flipping through the book in his hand, when a voice caused him to halt and raise his head.

"There you are! Did the King invite you to tea or something?"

It was Faelor, walking across the courtyard to meet him, clad in his Captain's armor with his cloak flowing behind him. He was wearing a large grin on his face.

Henvain closed the book and went forward to meet him, grinning himself as he swaggered a bit.

"Oh, well, you know, I'm moving into all the upper circles these days," he replied lightly.

Faelor laughed. "Maybe if you move fast enough, they won't catch you," was his answer as they met. "Did you see Lord Faramir? How is he?"

"I did, and he's looking quite well for all he's been through, poor fellow," Henvain sighed. "Had a nice chat. He's going to recommend me for a move up in rank!"

"You may not feel so fortunate, once you see what that involves," observed Faelor with a bemused shake of his head. "But you've earned the honor, that's for certain."

"That's what Lord Faramir said," Henvain recalled as they began to walk together back across the courtyard. He held up the book. "He gave me this, said it'd help me with the trials. It belonged to Lord Boromir!"

Faelor took it carefully as he gasped. "That's a nice one!" he said with awe, opening it and looking over a few pages. "You're lucky, I had to do all my studying at the archives. Even some of the Captains don't own a history like this. And from Lord Boromir's library, as well!" He closed it cautiously and handed it back. "You won't have to do a thing, you scoundrel. Just wave that at the examiners and they'll be so impressed they'll pass you at once."

"Huh!" Henvain shook his head. "Somehow I doubt that. But, I'm sure it'll help. Imagine, me, a Captain!"

They reached the steps to the next level and began to descend them.

"It's a remarkable idea, to be sure," conceded Faelor as they moved down the stairs. "But then, it's rather astounding to think of all that's happened in just the past few months, isn't it?"

"Huh!" grunted Henvain with a twitch of his head. "That's for certain. Hard to believe it's only been that long since we were ridin' out on that boring patrol and came across the Haradrim." His tone was wistful. "Seems so long ago, now."

"And remember when Prince Jadim rode off, after giving us the message for the King?" Faelor asked. "You said you'd probably wish things had stayed boring."

His friend chuckled. "Sort of," he admitted. "Boring did seem a whole lot safer, at the time."

"Yes, and look at all that happened since then," Faelor remarked. "What with the peace with the Haradrim tribes more likely than ever now, and most of the Orcs driven out of Mordor, and all that you went through, and looking to be a Captain now..." he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Henvain, but it looks as if nothing's going to be boring again. Everything's different now."

A few moments of silence passed as Henvain considered this.

"Yes, I suppose it is," sighed Henvain, as they traveled from the shadows of the tunnel into the sunlight. "But now that I think on it, I'm not so sure that's a bad thing, Fae. It doesn't seem to me like a bad thing, at all."

His friend smiled in agreement, and they continued their journey together through the bright autumn morning.

--------------------

Four weeks later found Faramir seated in the garden area of his apartments, trying to finish a letter to Adir before the evening air lost too much of its mild nature.

As the Steward took one more look over the page of parchment in his hand, a breeze blew past, and he smiled and lifted his face to it, his duty forgotten for the moment. It was most pleasant, despite the touch of autumn in the air. The sun was setting now, and the mountains on the horizon were afire with the last light of the day.

The weather had been warm, and some of that warmth still lingered in the garden, laden with the perfumes of the flowers and plants surrounding him. Fireflies had begun to appear among the greenery, their pale yellow lights blinking and dancing through the leaves.

As he had done often ever since regaining the ability to walk and permission to leave the confines of his bed, Faramir sat and simply gazed at the scene around him. He had lost count of how often he had done this in the past weeks, losing himself in the beauty of his home and his city. He would never tire of it, he decided, never forget when it seemed all of this had passed from his reach forever. He had always loved the City, but after his ordeal, every inch of it had attained a new preciousness for him. He had paid for its safety with his blood and suffering, and since his return had come to believe more firmly than ever before that it had been worth the price.

Overhead, some birds called out as they flew towards the southern skies. Faramir lifted his eyes, smiling as he watched them pass over the lofty turrets of the White Tower. After a few moments of rest, he turned his attention back to his task, determined to see it completed. Hurin of the Keys had been doing an admirable job as Acting Steward during Faramir's convalescence, but there were some matters he desired to handle himself.

His shoulder twinged, and Faramir absently rubbed it, reminding himself that Aragorn would be coming by tonight for his treatment. Ever since his return it had been thus, and the results had been remarkable; most of his scars had faded to nothingness, the worst pain eased away, all due to the King's healing skills. The time had become dear to both of them, for it was during these hours that Faramir learned what was happening in the realm while he recovered.

Of late the sessions had included methods to ease the strain of Faramir's nightmares, methods that had so far proven successful. Aragorn and Legolas both seemed to have an endless knowledge of ways to soothe the mind for slumber, some of them quite ancient. Nightly the chambers had been filled with the calming fragrance of burning incense, the aroma of steeping teas, or the quiet sound of low discussion as Faramir opened his healing soul to his friends. In a short time, the darkest dreams had ceased, and Faramir had great hope that soon the last of the lingering shadows would be driven away.

He sighed and nestled himself more firmly against the thick pillows cushioning him, pulling the knitted shawl about his shoulders a bit more securely before bending over the parchment once more.

"Has the evening air inspired your writing, my love?"

Faramir looked up to see Eowyn coming towards him from the apartments. In her hands was a small tray bearing two cups of steaming liquid.

Upon laying eyes upon his wife, Faramir smiled, and held out his hand. Still, after all this time since his deliverance, he felt a thrill of affection go through his soul at the mere sight of her. Had it always been thus and he did not notice, or was this a newborn result of the time when he thought he would never touch her again? It seemed no matter now; as she set the tray down and he gently took her hand in his, he wished only that the pleasant feeling would never cease.

"It has, but I find your company even more inspiring, my Lady," he replied, kissing her hand. "Writing to Chieftain Adir in his native language is a bit more challenging than I had anticipated, but with you beside me, I feel heartened to make the attempt anew."

Eowyn laughed a little. "If it will enable you to finish your labors and rest, I shall strive to be as muse-like as you please," she said. "The air is turning cool, so I asked the kitchen to send up some hot tea. Aragorn may not chide you for sitting in the evening air if he knows you have warmed yourself properly."

"It is greatly appreciated, my dear," Faramir said with a grin as he picked up the mug of tea, remembering well his King's constant admonitions that Faramir not overtax his still-healing body. It had become something of a good-natured war between them, with Faramir anxious to resume his life and Aragorn warning him not to exert himself too greatly before he was ready.

He sipped the sweet tea slowly, trying not to bear Aragorn any grudge for his concern. True, he was not fully healed, but most of the injuries had mended, and he was well aware of when his reserves of strength were on the wane. He tired easily, and some of the wounds yet pained him, but he believed that every day these matters became slightly less bothersome. He had a duty to perform, and the sooner he was about it - within reason - the easier he would rest when the time came to do so.

As the enervating warmth slowed through him, he gave his wife a nod. "You must tell the kitchen their tea today was excellent," he stated. "Pray sit, my love, and take some rest yourself; you have more than earned it, and soon it will be too dark and cold to enjoy the night."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek, then settled herself in a nearby chair. "I cannot wait to hear of the reaction when Aragorn presents Adir's new negotiation proposal to the Council," she noted as she lifted the cup of tea to her lips. "I am certain it will be a session to be remembered."

Faramir laughed as he glanced at the letter lying near his elbow on the table. "They've know it has been coming for some time, but I imagine old Tuornen will still be entertainingly livid," he said before taking another drink. "He despised having one Haradrim delegation here; I can only imagine how a contingent from five tribes will sound to him."

A chuckle escaped Eowyn's lips. "Well, he has the time to work himself into a good rage, as they won't be arriving until the spring," she noted. "He may even change his mind by then."

"Tuornen?" Faramir shook his head as he drew another swallow from his cup. "Unlikely, I fear. Even the heroic actions of the Haradrim have failed to persuade some here. His followers have dwindled in number, but he is not alone."

Eowyn's expression was thoughtful as she sat, one finger tracing along the rim of cup as she pondered the matter. "At least Eomer is no longer among his allies," she observed. "My brother may never trust all men of Harad, but he will not oppose a treaty with the tribes who assisted us against Karil. They saved your life, and many a Rider, that day, and Eomer will never forget it."

"Yes," remarked Faramir with a slight smile as he gazed out over the City, "it lifted my spirit when he agreed to join us on this matter, for I was pained to be at odds with him. If Eomer's heart could be moved, perhaps there is indeed hope for the others."

He peered out to the horizon, then sighed. "At least I shall have some time to further recover my strength while we are in Dol Amroth; I suspect it is going to be needed."

Despite the solemnity of the subject, Faramir could not help smiling in anticipation at his coming visit to his Uncle's realm. Before leaving for home, Imrahil had requested that Faramir come to Dol Amroth as soon as his health permitted, to finish his recovery there. The warm climate and peaceful surroundings, he pointed out, would doubtless be more healthful for him than the cold autumn air of Minas Tirith. Hurin of the Keys could continue to act as Steward, messengers could keep Faramir appraised of all the doings of the City, Adorhil and the other healers could see to his needs, and he and Eowyn would be welcome to stay as long as they pleased.

Aragorn had needed little persuading, and his consent for the journey had finally been given the day before. Faramir could scarcely bear the waiting. Dol Amroth had been his mother's home, and a beloved haven to him from childhood. He longed to touch its shores and feel its soft sea winds once more, to immerse himself in the tranquil beauty that she had loved so much.

Eowyn, too, appeared to be eagerly awaiting the visit. "I am sure we shall both find renewal at your Uncle's home," she said with a smile as she set down her cup. "Perhaps we may work together to persuade Tuornen. I shall certainly hear no ill word against Adir, as he returned you to me, and I believe our good Councilman knows I am not one to turn from a fight."

Faramir laughed after swallowing the last of his tea. "You clove the neck of a fell-beast, my dear; I am afraid Tuornen's head is much thicker."

Eowyn smiled, as amused as he by the thought.

He set the mug aside and sat back, drawing a long breath as he looked across the fields to the mountains beyond. Night was falling softly now, a few stars beginning to glitter into view in the blue-purple sky above them. In the City below, the warm glow of candles and lanterns could be seen winking in the windows

"But there is time, and I have no desire yet to dwell on such matters," he murmured as he reached over and gently took her hand. "For now, I have new hopes for peace, my City saved from danger, and the hand of my beautiful Lady. I wish for nothing more."

She smiled at him, rose, and joined him, settling quickly into his embrace. In silence they watched the evening draw its velvety cloak over Minas Tirith, the music of the garden surrounding them.

As Faramir gazed over the City, he found his mind wandering back over the last months. At times such as this, he could almost believe that he had only dreamed the horrors of the fortress. This was a mere wishful fancy, he knew; there were other times, too many, when the memories were undeniably compelling in their reality. He would always see the scars, however faint they were, and he doubted the pain would ever completely vanish, despite the skills of his King.

Yet there were happier products of what had occurred as well, he mused as he nestled his head against Eowyn's golden hair. He had achieved all he had suffered for; Gondor was safe, Karil and his Orcs defeated, peace with the tribes of Harad more possible now than before. Surely these benefits would long outlast his own complaints, and prove to be of far greater consequence when the final balance was measured.

Other memories also lingered, far more mystical but no less comforting. The gentle touch of the spirits who had been with him during his darkest hours had never been forgotten; other aspects of his captivity seemed like a dream, but that, he knew, had been real. Even now it seemed he sensed them near, though the feeling was a distant whisper, perhaps merely to let him know that they were yet with him.

In the falling twilight Faramir smiled, remembering how clearly he had perceived the loving presence of his brother and father, and sensed them still at times. It lightened his heart to think that they had been there, lending their comfort as he strove to carry out the office they had left to him. He had fulfilled his role as Steward, safeguarded his land to the last of his strength as his brother and father would have wished, and Faramir could not deny the feeling that they knew of his sacrifice, and were very proud of him.

Darker musings stirred his heart, and he gazed into the sky. In this instance, the burden of duty had been heavy and bitter, enough to nearly take his life. Yet he knew he would accept such a burden again if the need arose, to honor his family's memory and defend all that he loved. He had little doubt the call would come once more, in some form; Gondor's challenges were far from over.

But that was to be considered another day, he reminded himself with a smile as he drew Eowyn closer and beheld her fair face, now clad in moonlight.

At this moment, all was well, and he was at peace.

They sat in each other's arms and watched as the stars filled the sky, Faramir's thoughts dwelling not on the darkness surrounding them now, but on the light of the new day that would surely follow.

THE END