The Fortress of the Stars, once the center of ancient Gondor, rises above the city of Osgiliath; a stone and marble testament to the industry of the Age of Men. Over thirty years have passed since work began on the structure, yet throughout the day the sound of hammers echo throughout the vast halls for the building remains unfinished. Even with much of the Fortress restored, many of the master craftsmen do not hope to see the day of its completion. Still, they labor for they would see Isildur's tower made whole once more.

The inscription over the doorway has been completed for many years; one of the first tasks done as if to remind those who enter why the work must progress and one day, finish. As she stares up at the stone arch, a thrill courses through the White Lady of Rohan.

For King and Country
For Gondor and the White Tree

The Prince decreed long ago the Great Hall should open to all citizens at all hours of the day and night. Guards keep constant vigil as well; the two stationed at the entrance glance at Eowyn's costume but they do not impede her entry.

As she steps over the threshold, a feeling of exhilaration comes over the Queen as she views the interior of the Fortress. Well she remembers the building as it was the last time she stood here: the crumbling walls, the hall exposed to weather by great missing pieces of roof, the piles of rubble everywhere. She smiles at the sight of the well-carved stone and the black floor that gleams in the light of the torches before she cranes her neck upwards towards the vaulted ceiling.

She has heard much tell of the artistry of the painted panels that crown the Great Hall with the pictorial history of Isildur. Even in the dim light of the torches, they do not disappoint. The panels are magnificent; full of color and splendor, inset against a background of gold. No wonder Estel is pleased with the progress, Eowyn thinks and is surprised when tears sting her eyes.

At the far end of the Great Hall, as it has always been, is the large circular staircase that leads upwards to the tower. It also has been refurbished; the stair treads made as smooth and sturdy as they were in the days of Isildur himself. At the base of the great stair, two more guards, these clad in the formal livery of Ithilien stand watch. Eowyn recognizes at once that this is where she must go.

The Queen's footfalls echo throughout the cavernous space as the she crosses the Hall, her spear still carried high beside her. She is better than half-way to her destination when a small man hurries out of a side alcove towards her, suspicion clouding his features.

"Hold, good visitor from Rohan," he barks. "As the Night Porter of the Great Hall, I welcome you and all who may come, yet you may not approach those stairs without a summons from the Prince himself at any hour."

Eowyn steps towards him, her face still hidden in shadow. "I no stranger to Osgiliath, good watchman," she rasps. "I am expected by Prince Faramir himself."

"The Prince has long since retired and cannot be disturbed. If you do not have a summons--"

"I have come a long way and time is short," Eowyn interrupts, pulling herself as tall as her weary bones will let her. "Prince Faramir must know a citizen of Rohan and life-long ally of Gondor would speak with him. Deliver my message or I shall report the manners of Osgiliath have soured towards their countrymen and friends."

"This is most irregular," the Porter mutters, eyeing Eowyn with caution. "I think it best you come back in the morning. The matter can be sorted out then."

As if to remind the Queen that time is of the essence, the spear begins to thrum in Eowyn's hand like a horse's hooves upon the ground. I know, she thinks, remembering her cousin's plea to make haste. I am doing the best I can.

"It is vital the Prince be told I am here," Eowyn says. "Please, sir," she adds, her voice low with urgency. "I assure you, he will agree."

"Step into the light," the Porter commands.

The Queen complies, but leaves her helmet on to better obscure her features. The Porter frowns as he studies her. "You seem familiar," he says. "Are you much to Osgiliath?"

"I am a life-long friend of Ithilien and Gondor," Eowyn repeats, fighting the urge to shout. "Good Porter, I do not jest: my time is short. Please, inform the Prince."

The Porter purses his lips in thought, then sighs. "Wait here,” he orders. "I shall return in a moment."

The little man scurries across the hall to the base of the stairs. From where she stands, Eowyn can see the Porter speak to one of the guards on duty, who listens before shaking his head. The Porter points to where Eowyn stands and says something more. The guard does not wait for the man to finish but shakes his head again.

A moment later, the Porter returns and offers a small shrug. "I am sorry, madam. There have been strict orders not to disturb the Prince. You will have to wait until morning."

A great wave of weariness comes over Eowyn. Her hope dissipates like morning mist upon the Anduin. "I do not have until morning," she mutters under her breath.

The man shrugs in the helpless manner again. "I am sorry I cannot honor your request but you are welcome to rest before you depart. There are benches towards the entrance and then again outside--"

"Have you been to Minas Tirith?"

The Porter starts at the blunt force of the question. "Many times. Now, go upon your way and come back in the morning."

The Queen's shoulders square with the weight of decision.  "Then you would know the Queen on sight?"

"Of course," the man scoffs. "My wife and I attend the festival days at the White Tower every year. I have seen her majesty, Queen Eowyn, from close by during processions many times--"

Eowyn removes her helmet, the movement savage with exhaustion. Her long braid swings over her shoulders as she steps into the light once more. "Look close, good Porter, for you stand before Queen Eowyn, wife of King Elessar, herself," she growls. "I have come to Osgiliath to see the Prince. What more knowledge must you possess so you might heed my request?"

The Porter words wither in his throat and his face turns crimson. He begins to fall to his knees. "Your majesty," he croaks. "Forgive me, but I see now what I did not before--"

"Nay, do not kneel," Eowyn says, stepping closer to the distraught man. "For reasons of my own, I would not be revealed."

"I--I must announce you."

"You must do nothing of the sort. What you must do is tell the Prince that Dernhelm of Rohan has come to see him, then speak no more on this ever again. Do you understand?"

The man nods. His eyes have the glazed look of a stunned fish.

A slight dizziness comes over the Queen and she leans heavily upon her spear. "I do not mean to speak so sternly," she murmurs, trying to steady herself before she falls over. "I do thank you for your help, Porter. Now, please, I entreat you; go and tell the Prince."

The Porter does not waste a moment, but scurries back to the guards. His conversation seems much more animated this time. When he returns moments later, he is panting.

"Your highness," he gasps, "I told them that you showed me a dispatch that could not be ignored. Still, the guards will agree only to my waking Lord Faramir if I have permission from his son, Prince Aglund." The man takes a step closer. "If I ignore their request, you could be discovered," he whispers frantically.

The Hall seems to swim about the Queen. "Get your permission then," she replies, passing a hand over her eyes. "I must rest a moment before going any further."

"Your highness turns pale.” The Porter's hands flutter like frightened sparrows. "I shall take you somewhere you can rest--no, my lady Queen, not here, not in such a humble place; the Prince's reception room is at the first level of the stairs."

"The guards--"

A look of resolve comes over the Porter's face. "I will make the guards allow me to escort you there," he says with firmness until now missing from his person. "Here, put your helmet back on. Do not fear, your highness. I shall aid you."

Eowyn offers a wan smile. Even so near the end of her journey, it would do her good to sit for a moment. "You will be rewarded for this, good sir," she murmurs, amused to see such simple thanks garner an ear-splitting smile from the doorman.

The Queen places her helmet back on and slowly follows her escort towards the great stair. As they grow near the guards, the Porter puffs up with importance.

"The traveler is ill with exhaustion, yet as I told you their message cannot be ignored," he announces, giving both guards a disdainful look. "I believe it best he take rest in the first floor antechamber while I consult Prince Aglund."

Both guards take Eowyn's measure before exchanging a look. After a moment, the one the Porter spoke to earlier nods. "It will be upon your authority, then," he grunts. "Is that clear?"

"Of course. I shall take full responsibility. Now let us through," the Porter insists. "I have business with Prince Aglund."

The guards stand aside, not altogether willing. "There is a sentry posted on the first landing. He will stand watch outside the door," one warns Eowyn. "See to it you remain in the antechamber until you are called."

Eowyn inclines her head in agreement. She follows the Porter upwards toward the darkened recess at the top of the stairs.

The stairs are long and the Queen feels weak, yet when the Porter offers an arm for support, she declines. Here, so near the end, it seems clear the only way to stand is on her own.

***************

From his room within the tower, Prince Aglund sits at the desk, staring at the sheaves of parchment in front of him, all covered in his fine script. He reads several of the comments, then leaps up and begins to pace his well-lit room. Excitement has not let him shut his eyes this night. Indeed, he feels like he may never sleep again.

"I have been studying my ancient history," he announced earlier in the evening, entering the Fortress' uppermost chamber with a thick tome under his arm. "Imagine my surprise to find my father hero of every tale I read."

"More the fool you," Prince Faramir replied, looking up from his desk. Aglund could not help but notice the dark circles under his eyes.    "If I were your age, I would be at the ale house and not sequestered with my books."

Aglund's customary smile widened. "When you were my age, you were--let us see--" He pulled the book out from under his arm and opened it. "Where did I see the notation? Ah, here it is: you were leading the final charge of Osgiliath after rescuing the king and returning him once more to Minas Tirith, saving his life and the day, I believe."

The Prince sighed and put down his quill. "You make it sound very grand."

"History does not lie, Father."

Yet it does not always tell the truth.”  The Prince gestured for Aglund to hand over the tome. "What it this you waste your time upon?"

Aglund placed the book upon the desk and the Prince pulled it to him, opening the soft cover. "'A Recent History of Osgiliath and the Restoration of Isildur's Seat," he read and quickly flipped the cover shut. A snort of laughter escaped him. "You should be composing odes to a woman's charms instead of reading this nonsense. I despair you shall never find a wife."

Quick as lightning’s flash, Aglund took the book back. "I do not find it nonsense. As to the other, you yourself set a noble precedent by waiting for years until you married." He began to rifle once more through the handwritten pages. "In fact, it says here--"

"I was there," his father interrupted. "I remember the occasion well."

"I doubt Mother would let you forget."

"That she would not," the Prince replied. As always, at the mention of his wife, his demeanor took on a solemnity his sons now knew all too well since its first appearance  during their mother's final illness three autumns before.

Aglund forced a smile to his lips. "Leave Androg to the pursuits of love; leave me to my books. I will find a wife in time."

"I would see you settled. You are the heir to Ithilien; you should have your family before you take on the offices of state. Allow yourself time to enjoy your wife and children."

It was Aglund's turn to snort. "And once again follow your fine precedent? I am not yet ready to marry. Besides, King Elessar was of great age when he married the White Lady. In family history, my uncle, Boromir, was another—"

"Your uncle did not live to take a wife," his father said softly.

"You speak truth, yet the point is he was of greater age than I am now. The men of our family marry late and love their wives. I shall not be one to break with tradition."

A faint smile deepened the lines around his father's mouth. "I take it you have come here for some reasons other than to contradict me about history or fight with me about marriage?"

"Indeed," Aglund laughed. "I have come to ask you to join me in dinner. You have confined yourself to the business of state since our arrival. You must refresh yourself."

The Prince rubbed a hand over his face. "What hour is it?"

"The hour where you break from work to come and dine."

His father pushed back from his desk and slowly rose to his feet. "Very well, then," he muttered. "I have read so many ordinance proposals I lose track of how long I sit here."

Stretching the weariness out of his bones, the Prince glanced once again at the book in his son's hands. "'The Recent History of Osgiliath," he read out loud. A small bark of laughter escaped him. "There is an author I would like to have an audience with. I believe I could set his history to right."

"Have dinner with him instead," Aglund said quietly. "He would be thrilled to hear any corrections you have to offer."

His father's looked up, puzzled. As Aglund's meaning set in, his eyes widened. "You wrote this?"

Aglund bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I did and would welcome your recollection, Father. In fact, I more than welcome it; I would humbly beg it of you."

For a long moment father and son regarded each other. As if a great weight pressed upon him, the Prince sat back down. "As prince regent, you have your duties," he said. His fingers drummed once upon the table. "Authoring books is not among them."

A flush crept up Aglund's cheeks. "My duties have not been neglected. I am sorry, Father. I had no wish to upset you."

"Please. Sit down."

Prince Faramir gestured for his son to take the seat across from him. Aglund did so, trying to ignore the sudden trepidation he felt for it was too akin to the feeling he had when at twelve years of age, he had "borrowed" his father's sword to act out the coronation of King Elessar with his younger brothers.

The Prince ran a hand over his mouth, then fixed his son with a sharp look. "I suppose I should make it clear: I am not angry with you, Aglund. I know you have not neglected your duties. This..."

"News?"

The Prince's eyes flashed. "Yes. News. The news took me off guard; that is all."

Aglund nodded. "I expected as much. Yet, if I may speak plain, Father, I hoped you would also be pleased."

The Prince sighed. "To speak my own truth, it is not a great surprise. You took after me in your pursuit of books and learning and you always did love to hear tales of the war. Your mother thought they would give you night terrors."

"I remember. They never did."

His father leaned back in his chair. "So, you have written a book."  He shook his head and something in the gesture made Aglund shift in his seat. 

"it hardly bears explanation. As you just said, recent history has always interested me.“  Aglund shrugged. "I would have the events and the people who performed them immortalized in words."

The Prince's brow creased in a frown. "It was a difficult time. I can tell you from experience, the days we live in now are better. Peace is a desirable thing, Aglund. War--"

"--makes for better reading."

Prince Faramir smirked at the retort. "I suppose it does. I will tell you this: war wreaks havoc with living."

"I would hope you would tell me more than that." Aglund's grip tightened on the book to keep his hands from shaking.

The Prince's expression grew guarded. "You know the history. What more can I add?"

"I do know the history," Aglund repeated, choosing each word with great care. "I have spoken with many over the course of the last two years--"

"You have been working on this for two years?" His father's brow knit in concern.

"I told you, my duties did not suffer for it," Aglund added in haste. "My fealty to you and to Ithilien comes first in all I do, in all I have done."

Prince Faramir did not respond, but drew a hand across his lips instead, a sure sign of displeasure. Aglund girded his courage and continued on.

"I have spoken with many who experienced the events first hand and have here recorded their accounts." Aglund patted the cover of the book. "With the King's permission, I have spent much of time when I am not attending to business of state in the archives of the White City, learning what I could from documents of the time, trying to find transcripts of the events. Unfortunately, after Isildur's fall, little of the recent history of Ithilien, especially that of Osgiliath, has been written."

"It is because no one alive at the time wishes to remember it. It was a dark time, followed by one that proved near as black," the Prince muttered. "Many good men were sacrificed to make Ithilien habitable."

"More reason to give them tribute." Despite his father’s glower, Aglund felt himself warm to this; his favorite subject. "For so long, Father, Ithilien had no history that anyone could write. The deeds that restored her to her former glory should be recorded."

A grim smile graced Prince Faramir's visage. "It is the tales, Aglund. They have always held a glamour for you, have they not?"

Aglund found himself taken off guard by the question. After a moment, he nodded. "Perhaps. The time certainly holds an appeal for me. I suppose there is a certain romance to the events."

The Prince leaned forward suddenly across the desk. His voice was quiet, yet cutting. "It was war, Aglund. Romance and glamour have no place in war. I have worked all my life to leave you a realm that need never see its face again. That is what I would have you remember."

"But the realm you left me springs from this dark past. To appreciate it, I must know its whole history and not just the happy one."  Aglund's eyes blazed in his pale face. "Father, from all who recount, the dawn of this Age was a time of valor and honor, of magnificent men and glorious deeds. If that deems it 'glamorous,' then so be it. But more important to me is the knowledge that it was your time, Father. You took a ferule land and made a kingdom of her. It should be chronicled."

"And who better to do it than my son?" Prince Faramir shook his head, his grim smile still intact. "You have a bias, Aglund."

Aglund leapt upon the point. "I have better than bias; I have you. You can tell me how it was and I will write your story. If when I am finished you are not pleased, then I will throw the manuscript into the fire and you will hear no more of it. I swear that to you, but you must in turn promise to help. How can I present the truth when those who know it best will not speak?"

The Prince of Ithilien gazed for a long moment upon his son's impassioned face. "You could be me sitting there twenty years ago," he murmured, turning his head towards the window. "We bear more than a fair resemblance, you know."

"So I have been told by many, but you digress. Will you help me with this? It would mean so much."

The Prince looked out the window, his face pensive. After what seemed an eternity, he turned back to his son.

"Give me your book," he commanded, "and set some candles to burn. Tell the servants that we will dine in these chambers."

Aglund laid the tome back upon the desk. "You plan to read it, then? Now?"

What lay behind his father's eyes was a mystery. "I would educate myself before I give an answer to your request. Go on; see to dinner."

Stopping to scan yet another parchment covered in notes, Aglund can scarce recall any event between his fathers opening his work to when the dishes were at last cleared away. They spoke naught of the book during dinner, turning the conversation to simpler waters such as the fortification of Isildur's City and the tour the Prince was to take of the garrison the following day. It was clear to Aglund his father’s message, although unspoken was “dinner, then history.”

After the maid had been dismissed, the Prince settled back in his chair and gazed at his son. "I read your account of the reclamation of Isildur's seat and part of your history of the Stewards."

Aglund inclined his head and remained silent.

"You write as if we were heroes," his father said softly. "We were men. No more."

A grin creased Aglund's face. "I humbly disagree, Father. You were heroes."

"No man is a hero in his own time. History decides his role after he has left it."

"Some men belong to history while still upon this side of Arda. You are among them, father."

The Prince took a drink from his flagon and flipped the corner of the book. "In here you call refer to your uncle as 'the fallible Boromir.' Is this history's perception or was the choice of words your decision?"

Aglund's grin quickly faded. "I know my uncle was a great man," he said, trying to explain. "Yet history bears witness he tried to take Isildur's Bane from the Ring Bearer. He redeemed himself by trying to save the Halflings, but he did fall."

His father's displeasure was clear. "Isildur's bane poisoned him; used his love of Gondor against his better nature. Does that label him forever flawed? Would you condemn him to history's judgment and not remember his deeds of valor and sacrifice?"

"Yet when presented with a chance to take the Ring, you did not," Aglund said gently.

"It was not the same."

"Nay, Father; I believe it was."

His father slammed his flagon back upon the table. "Were you there?"

Aglund did not answer. His cheeks flamed red as if he had been slapped.

"Then if your treatise holds true," the Prince continued on, eyes sparkling with anger, "I suppose you believe your grandfather to be naught more than a crazed lunatic? Would you forget he was the last of the ruling Stewards? Would you forget Denethor's legacy and relegate him to insanity's lot, forsaking the man he was?"

Aglund tried his best to hide his astonishment. He could not remember a time when his father spoke openly of his grandfather's madness. "History shows he tried to burn you alive," he choked. "I am sorry, father. It must have been horrible, but it is what happened."

The Prince shrugged. "In truth, I do not remember much but thought it delirium brought on by the fever. Yet Aglund, the point I would make is this one act was not the sum of the man your grandfather was." A tired smile graced his face. "What trials befall us at the end of our lives may not always be indicative of the men we were for the rest of the time.  If you would remember only the faults of your ancestors, I shudder to think how you would label your own father."

"I would label you as I always have: a brave and valiant man; a man of honor, who knows and respects his duty."

"Yet, I am a man and by nature, fallible as ever my brother might have been in his one moment of weakness during a life filled valor. Your father was and remains a man, Aglund. I have made many mistakes in my long life." The Prince raised a cautionary finger. "If you are to write this history of yours and I am to help you, you must promise to portray all you write about, including myself, as we were and not as a romanticized ideal of what you conceive valor to be. We were men; we did what duty demanded but always we were men first."

Aglund swallowed the flare of shame that had shone during his father’s warning. "Perhaps I was caught up in this...'glamour'," he conceded. "If you will allow me to write your story, I will keep foremost in mind that these are people and not history I write of."

His father bowed his head. When he looked back up, he was smiling. "Very well, then. If you keep this promise to me, I would be honored to help you in your endeavor."

And, to Aglund's joy, he had. Looking down over his notes, Aglund again felt a thrill of happiness course through him. In the course of one night, his father had answered more questions about the reclamation of Osgiliath, about his time as a Captain in the Rangers, about the early days governing Ithilien, and a million other subjects than Aglund had ever hoped to hear. Indeed, as the evening passed, the Prince had warmed to the subject, naming names and places and telling details of events that only he could know while his son wrote until his hand cramped.

Only one thing was missing; one question that still did not have a solid answer. It was the question itself, the Prince Regent thinks, turning to gaze out over the moonlit kingdom he one day will inherit. I should have phrased it in a more succinct manner.

It was towards the end of the evening and the candles guttered for they had burned over long.  Coming to the end of a phrase, Aglund put his pen down and looked up from his notes. "Should I call for more wine?"

The Prince shook his head. "I think we have imbibed enough this evening. Besides, spirits make the memory grow foggy and you would have me be clear. Now, where were we?"

Aglund consulted the paper in front of him. "Let us look at a new subject: the purging of Osgiliath."

His father looked out towards the dark of the evening. "Very well. Proceed."

"After you recovered the King and brought him back to the Houses of Healing, you went and led the charge of Osgiliath?"

"Yes."

Aglund's brow furrowed at the answer. "I guess I do not completely understand. You were ruling Steward in the King's illness. Was it not have been your duty to stay in the White City and govern?"

A shadow passed over the Prince's face. "It was my duty to lead. I went where I was needed."

"You left the Queen at the head of state."

His father took another drink of wine. "The men required a leader," he repeated, turning his gaze towards the window and the night outside. "I was the only one that could rally them so."

"Still, you must admit, it was a breech of sorts--"

His father attention returned post-haste from where it strayed. "The Queen was fit to rule and I was fit to lead. We both did our duty until the King's recovery."

"Yet, if I may speak frank, the Queen was not the best choice, being from Rohan. The people clearly wanted the leadership of the Steward--"

The Prince pushed back from the table. "--and they received it where it was needed. Now, I think that is enough for tonight."

Aglund sat astonished. He could not remember his father ever dismissing a subject in such a manner. "I did not mean to offend—" he stammered.

The Prince ran a hand through his hair, letting it come to rest upon his neck. "No, it is I that owe you an apology. The question is a fair one; it deserves an answer. Yet, not tonight," he added, his voice tinged with sadness.

"Of course," Aglund assured him. "This has been most generous, Father. You have my gratitude and my thanks. Please, take some rest."

His father smiled turned and started to make his way to the door, pausing for a moment beside where his son sat, surrounded with his notes. "We were men," he repeated again, putting a gentle hand upon his son's shoulder. "Do not forget that, Aglund."

Aglund covered the Prince's hand with his own. "I will not, Father. I promise."

The Prince nodded. For a moment Aglund thought he would say more, but instead his father exited the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Thinking back on the exchange, Aglund heaves a great sigh. It was a delicate matter and I trampled into it like an oliphaunt, he thinks. I shall have to be more careful next time.

He looks upon his notes once more as he leans back in his chair. "Preparation is the key," he says to no one in particular, wipes a hand over his eyes and then leans forward, picking up his quill. He will compose ten more questions before trying to retire just in case his father wishes to continue on the morrow.

He is in the middle of question three when a timid knocking comes at the door. Aglund starts at the sound. "Come," he calls, barely looking up from his work.

The door creaks open to admit a man who is equal to his knock. "I beg pardon, my lord," he says, clearing his throat. "I did not think you awake."

Aglund stands up, pulls his wrapper tighter. "Who are you and what business do you have?"

"I am the night Porter sir," the man says in his nervous manner.

"Very well; what is it?"

The man chews at his lower lip. "The Prince--"

Aglund crosses the room in three steps. "Is my father all right?"

"Oh yes, lord. The Prince is fine. It is just--well, there is a visitor for him, sir, and the guards insist I receive permission from you before waking the Lord Faramir."

Aglund looks down at the man, amusement battling with irritation within him. "The guards are wise. Tell this visitor the hour for such a visit falls much earlier in the day. They may come back tomorrow. My father is in need of rest."

To Aglund's surprise, the man does not withdraw. "My lord, it is not as simple as that," he says, struggling. "The person insists the Prince expects him. He says his time is short."

"Does this person have a name?"

"Oh yes, my Lord," the Porter says weakly. "He calls himself 'Dernhelm.' He hails from Rohan."

"'Dernhelm of Rohan?'"

Aglund is certain he has heard wrong, yet the Porter nods, looking a bit more hopeful. "Yes, my Lord; the very one. He says he is a lifelong friend of Gondor and Ithilien. If this is the case, perhaps you know him as well?" The man leans in a bit, and lowers his voice. "This Dernhelm is not well, my lord; not well at all. He is waiting in the receiving chamber."

Aglund gives the man a long look before stepping back from the door. "You may return to your post, good sir," he says. "I shall handle this from here."

The Porter bows in gratitude then pauses. "He is not well," he repeats. Something like desperation dances in his eyes before he turns and hurries away.

It cannot be, Aglund thinks, a thrill of curiosity coursing through him as he hurries up the stairs to his father's chambers. He knocks firmly upon the vaulted door before entering. It cannot be the same.

The room is dark; his father still lies within slumber's grasp. Aglund looks down at him for a long moment and wonders how, in his repose, the Prince seems more vulnerable than his son has ever seen. He gently lays a hand on his father's shoulder.

"Father?"

"I am not snoring, dear," the Prince murmurs.

"Father, it is Aglund. Wake up."

The Prince starts and opens his eyes. "Aglund? Is everything all right?"

"I do not know.  Someone has come to see you."

"Tell them to come back tomorrow," the Prince growls. "It is too late."

"Dernhelm of Rohan is here."

Time winds out long thread in the moment that follows. His father sits up, slowly, then swings his feet to the floor. He looks up at his son and to Aglund's shock, Prince Faramir has seemed to age thirty years in the passage of seconds.

"Where?"

"In the receiving chamber below," Aglund says, careful to keep his eyes lowered. "The Porter says he is not well."

His father stares into space for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is filled with grief. "You remember your history well, do you not, Aglund? You know who claims to be here?"

Aglund does not know how to reply so he settles for the truth. "I--Dernhelm of Rohan was the name the White Lady rode to war under. It is well known and documented--"

"--To those who know their history," he father says softly. He rests his forehead on his hand and sits silent a moment longer before rising to his feet.  "It seems history will have its way with me tonight, no matter what," the Prince murmurs. "Have you seen him?"

"No. I came here first."

His father nods even as he reaches for his dressing gown. "I shall be down shortly."

"Do you wish me to accompany you?"

"Dernhelm did not ask for the Prince Aglund, did he?"

For the second time this night, Aglund's face stings from a rebuke. "No, Father. He did not."

The Prince's face softens. "I am sorry, son," he says. "This is--I shall be fine on my own. Thank you. Call my man servant to help me dress."

Aglund nods and turns towards the door. He is almost upon the stair when his father's voice wafts out from the darkened room.

"This is real history, Aglund. This is what history means."

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Thus leads the path from the Tower.

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