These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth,
And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,
With windlasses and with assays of bias,
By indirections find directions out. - William Shakespeare (1564–1616 Hamlet, act 2, sc. 1

For a moment, Faramir’s carefully maintained composure was shaken. He was forced to turn away for a moment to collect himself. How he wished he could take Imrahil into his confidence! The Steward struggled to appear equally furious, though inwardly, his heart was breaking. He had loved his uncle dearly for as long as he could remember. He swallowed hard before replying coldly, “Be glad that we are blood kindred, my lord prince, or you would be shorter by a head ere morning!”

“You are no kindred of mine!” Imrahil retorted. He swept from the Council chamber without a second glance.

Faramir nodded to the guards to permit Imrahil to leave before announcing the session was over and dismissing the Council. He carefully noted which of them looked shocked and which looked gleeful at the exchange.

How he detested politics now! He had welcomed the chance to serve Gondor before. Now, he was being dragged into a maelstrom of corruption and hated every moment of it. It seemed too, that it was all for nothing, as he was still none the wiser about what had befallen the King. He had thrown away his honour and his reputation in a gamble that appeared to have failed miserably.

Faramir returned to his apartments and ordered that the bath be filled. He had taken to bathing twice daily, as well as after sessions of the Council. Although, he scrubbed himself so hard that it made his skin bleed in places, he felt no better. He could still hear his Uncle’s voice disowning him echoing in his head. Frenziedly, Faramir rubbed himself with the towel, and tried to calm his racing thoughts.

Pacing his study, he pondered what else he could do. For the first time, he wondered if he should have asked Aragorn to instruct him to use the palantír. He knew it was safe now Sauron was defeated, but after seeing what it had done to his father, he had shuddered at the very thought of even touching the Seeing Stone. Even Aragorn had only ever used it sparingly, being loth to spy on his people. He had mainly limited its use to observing how his friends in the Shire fared. The Steward was desperate enough now to overcome his aversion to the Stone. Taking a deep breath, he went to the room where it was kept. With trembling hands, he removed the cloth that covered it.

Hesitantly, he placed his hands on either side of the palantír. To his surprise, it appeared to feel no different than any other crystal he had touched, cold to the hands and producing a slight tingling sensation in his fingers.

Suddenly the tingling grew stronger. Faramir resisted the overwhelming urge to loose his hold and flee the room. A vortex of light and colour appeared in the opaque globe. Frantically, the Steward tried to focus his thoughts and concentrate on Aragorn’s whereabouts. Alas, however hard he tried, he could see nothing but jumbled images and colours, which made his head swim and throb. Faramir could have wept with misery and frustration. Again, he had sacrificed an ideal for nothing! Maybe the Stone would only respond to the King, as he was no longer Ruling Steward? On the other hand, it could be, because he knew nothing of the art of using it. His father would never have shown him, as he was not the heir, and he had felt no inclination to ask Aragorn. Faramir covered the palantír again, locked the door, and returned to his study to nurse his aching head and even more painful soul. He was trying to force himself to eat some lunch, for which he had no appetite, when his Secretary knocked and asked if he might speak with him.

Sighing, Faramir bade him enter; for some instinctive reason he disliked the man, despite Delos being an efficient and hard worker, giving him no logical reason to dismiss him. The Steward had never quite trusted the man since he had sent Éowyn’s ill-fated letter to her brother. He felt Delos to be obsequious in his manner, always seeming to imply that Faramir was somehow ill used.

“I have a message from the Lord of Lamedon,” Delos informed Faramir, ”Lord Fosco invites you to visit his country mansion and experience his hospitality. His servant is waiting outside for your reply.”

Faramir remained calm, though his heart leapt within him. Perhaps his uncle’s very public denunciation of his conduct had served to make the rebels trust him? Maybe, he would at last, gain some clue as to what had really happened to Aragorn?

“Lord Fosco is holding a house party at his country estate and will send a servant to escort you there in three days time, if you will do him the honour of accepting the invitation,” Delos continued. “He says there is no need for you to trouble to take servants with you, as his lordship will provide you with whatever staff you need.”

“Tell Lord Fosco that I accept,” Faramir replied, with what was perhaps indecent haste.

“Very good, my lord, I will deliver the message,” Delos replied, looking far more pleased than the occasion warranted.

“I am eager to become better acquainted with the Lord of Lamedon, his lordship’s friendship is greatly to be desired.” Faramir added for good measure.

As soon as his Secretary had left, he locked his study door and took out a detailed map showing the ownership of land in Gondor. It showed that the Lord of Lamedon’s Country Estate was several hours ride from Minas Tirith. It comprised a sizable manor house as well as a variety of small hunting lodges and cottages for the servants to live in.

Faramir sighed; he had thought of requesting a troop of guards to follow him at a distance, and then ordering them to storm the building if he found the King, but it seemed that there were just too many locations where Aragorn might be held. To further complicate matters, the Lord of Lamedon’s retreat was surrounded by properties owned by the Lords of Lossarnach, Ringlo Vale and Lebennin. The wealth and influence of these nobles was considerable. There was no means by which, Faramir could have every property searched before any resistance could be orchestrated, or Aragorn killed or moved elsewhere. If only there were someone, he could turn to for aid? But there was none he could think of.

He dared not involve Imrahil. The Prince was needed to keep safe the City, nor would he willingly endanger him. Better he remain in the dark to add credence to Faramir’s deception. The distance was too great to summon aid from the North, where loyalty to Aragorn was strongest. Legolas and Gimli were travelling; presumably in Eryn Lasgalen, but they could be anywhere. Then, even if Éomer could be summoned in time, using foreign troops against Lords of Gondor could provoke a bloody civil war. He had long debated this point and even wondered if Éomer would suddenly arrive, should news of Aragorn’s death somehow reach him. The regular messages to Rohan had been suspended at the King’s command when the contagion began.

He would have to go alone, and if he could find Aragorn, rescue him unaided. That plan might work if the King were able to ride. That seemed unlikely, if the pains Faramir had been suffering, truly reflected Aragorn’s. Even if his lord were not being tortured, he would most likely have been injured when captured. Otherwise, the rebels would never have succeeded in overpowering so mighty a warrior. Faramir frowned again; then his features relaxed when he remembered his days of active service.  His Rangers had worked by stealth, rather than brute force and endeavoured to remain invisible to the enemy, which often meant hiding out in caves. Most of those Faramir had stayed in were in Ithilien; but similar networks of caves were scattered throughout the country, unknown to most. As both a Ranger, and son of the last Ruling Steward, he was aware of all the locations. If he recalled rightly, there was a large and well-concealed cave network just outside the boundaries of the lands owned by the suspect lords. It would be well within riding distance even with a wounded man.

Ignoring his still aching head, Faramir began to make plans. He would collect supplies of food, bedding, clothing and medicines then ride out with them in the dead of night, conceal them within the caves, and make his way back to the Citadel before daybreak. As it was winter, there were many hours of darkness to provide cover, though it would not be easy to get past the guards undetected.

Though the City gates were locked at night, they were no obstacle for one brought up amongst the ruling elite of Minas Tirith. He had known of secret routes since childhood. To make matters even easier, since the war, horses when not required, were moved to more spacious stables situated in a large field just outside the gates. There would be a watchman, but he could be dealt with. Iavas was stabled within the city, but he could find another horse to ride.

He would at the same time, turn Roheryn loose, hoping he would know to follow him and wait in the vicinity of the caves. Even if he did not, it seemed kindest to free him as he pined greatly for his master, if the servants' gossip was to be believed. He had not dared visit the stallion, in case that simple act implied where his true loyalties lay.

He was just compiling a mental list of what he needed, when a servant knocked on his door and announced that the Warden of the Houses of Healing was waiting to see him.

Annoyed at the interruption, Faramir nevertheless decided to see what the Healer wanted. Tarostar was as stubborn as Ioreth when it came to getting his own way. The Steward often wondered if that was a trait taught to apprentices in the Houses of Healing or just something Healers acquired over the years.

“How may I help you, Master Tarostar?” Faramir asked, once the Healer was shown into his study.

“I think the question is, how may I help you, Lord Faramir,” Tarostar replied. “Your Uncle called at the Houses of Healing on his way home from a meeting of the Council and told me he was worried about you. He asked me to attend you.”

Faramir wondered what it was about Healers, which made them so forward in their manner. With this particular one, he was at an especial disadvantage, for he was Faramir's cousin on his father's side and considered himself as one of the Steward's elders and betters.

“I am well. My uncle has no cause for concern,” Faramir replied, trying to meet the keen grey eyes undimmed by age. Tarostar's history was a tragic one. Denethor’s much older sister had been seduced by one of the Citadel Guards and eloped with him while still under the age when women were permitted to marry. Ecthelion had had the marriage pronounced null and void, but too late to avoid tragedy. The young would be bride was already with child and had died eight months later giving birth to a healthy son. Bereft of both parents, as his father was now in prison, the baby had been named Tarostar and raised by the Warden of the Houses of Healing and had grown up to follow his trade. Despite their kinship never being officially acknowledged, he had been appointed as one of the personal Healers to Denethor and his sons and was held in high esteem by all.

“I think some fresh air would benefit your lordship’s health,” Tarostar suggested, taking Faramir’s pulse, despite his efforts to pull his hand away.

“I told you, I am quite well.” Faramir insisted irately.

“I think not, your pulse is racing. I believe you have an infection of the ears. A walk in the gardens will be beneficial. As your personal physician, I order it!” Tarostar replied in a tone that brokered no argument, raising a finger to his lips before the Steward could question him.

Faramir called for a servant to fetch his cloak before allowing the elderly Healer to shepherd him outside.

“I really do not have the time for this,” he protested, as they made their way under an arch of leafless trees. “And I have not appointed you or anyone else as my personal healer!”

“I know that being our beloved late King always tended your ills these past four years, which seems curious now, given what your uncle has told me,” Tarostar said calmly. They walked along a cheerless path. In a few weeks time, the garden would burst into life again with the spring blossom, but now it was dreary and barren apart from a few holly bushes and conifers.

Faramir stiffened slightly at the comment before demanding, “Why have you brought me out here? There is nothing wrong with my ears!”

“Nor with the ears of those who might overhear us indoors!” Tarostar replied. “Your uncle came to see me and told me that he fears you have lost your wits. He says you denounce the late King at every opportunity.”

“I detested him, I am glad he is dead!” Faramir said wildly, hating himself for having to repeat the cruel lies yet again.

“I find that very hard to believe, for although the mouth can lie, the heart cannot. When you collapsed on seeing the corpse in the Houses of Healing, your grief was genuine. I feared your heart would fail you, so great was your anguish. I know you loved him as much as he did you. You were as a loving father and son to each other. Now your Uncle tells me, you claim to have feigned that affection. Either grief has driven you mad, which I doubt, though you are obviously unwell, or there is more here than meets the eye!”

 A/N

Denethor did have two older sisters but Tarostar is entirely the creation of my imagination.