These characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story was written for pleasure and not for profit.

I will weep when you are weeping;
when you laugh I'll laugh with you.
I will share your joy and sorrow
'til we've seen this journey through. -  Richard Gillard

With special thanks to Raksha for her help with this chapter.

Faramir stirred the glowing embers, coaxing the fire back to life with more wood. He fetched some water from the stream and put it on to boil to make tea and porridge.

Aragorn moaned softly and cried out in his sleep. Faramir decided it would be best to wake him from whatever dark dreams he was experiencing. He called Aragorn softly. When the King failed to respond, Faramir gently shook him.

The troubled grey eyes flickered open. “No, no!” Aragorn cried.

Faramir could see that his lord was visibly shaking and distressed. “You were dreaming,” he said gently. “Wake up, it is daylight. I am us preparing some breakfast. I want us to leave early in the hope we can reach our wives today.”

“I dreamt evil dreams,” Aragorn mumbled, blinking as if to try to shut out the horror. “I was led into a trap so that they could capture Arwen and Eldarion. They put us all to torment, I am so cold now!”

“Easy now, come nearer the fire,” Faramir soothed, putting his arm round the King and gently rubbing his lord’s back. He wished fervently that he had learned some of Aragorn’s Elvish healing skills. “We are still free and have left the rebels’ lands behind us now.”

“The known rebels,” Aragorn corrected. He sipped the tea that Faramir held to his lips.

“Who would recognise us now?” Faramir said, trying to reassure him. Elbeth finally stirred and burrowed out of her nest of blankets. “We must look like vagabonds!”

“I’m hungry!” the little girl announced, yawning. “What’s a vagabond?”

“A person who wanders around because they have no home,” Faramir explained.

“Like us now, because we’ve run away?” asked Elbeth.

Faramir shook his head. “No. We are not vagabonds, since we do have a home.”

“Where?” Elbeth demanded.

Faramir was momentarily lost for words. He wanted to say his home was in Minas Tirith or Ithilien. But the location of his home was likely to change in the future. Even if Aragorn succeeded in regaining his throne, he was unlikely to want a suspected traitor to live anywhere near him. “You will have to wait and see,” he replied somewhat lamely. “Now eat your porridge before it goes cold.”

“I don’t like porridge! I want bread and jam!” Elbeth complained.

“Well porridge is all there is, so you had better eat it or go hungry!” Faramir said firmly.

Elbeth scowled and started to very slowly stir her porridge, delaying the evil moment of having to actually eat it. Suddenly she started to giggle.

“What is so funny?” Faramir asked.

“Your hair and Strider’s is covered in dead leaves!” she giggled.

“If you eat quickly, you can pluck the leaves from Strider’s hair,” Faramir promised as he managed to swallow a few bites from the unappetising bowl of porridge between the spoonfuls he fed to Aragorn. The King sat morosely throughout the proceedings, saying not a word.

Elbeth glared sulkily, reminding Faramir of his brother when he was young. However, she finished her breakfast without further complaint.

Faramir then attended to Aragorn’s wounds, which still looked raw and angry. To make things worse, two more of the wounds had become inflamed, one on his chest and the other on his arm, where the movement of the horse had chafed the bandages against the injured flesh.

To have any chance of recovery, the King needed to rest quietly, wearing very loose, comfortable clothing. Unfortunately, they could not afford any respite until they found Arwen and Éowyn’s safe haven. Faramir prayed fervently that they could reach the place before nightfall. He feared that Aragorn was developing a slight fever and was too frail to survive another night outside in the cold and damp. The King also needed the comfort of those he loved and trusted at his side. Faramir felt he would hardly be included in either category, though he would gladly have laid down his life to save the man he loved so dearly.

The Steward gently bathed the King's hurts with boiled water and applied liberal amounts of salve.

“That looks sore!” Elbeth commented. Faramir had needed to ask her to hold up Aragorn’s shirt and tunic again.

“It is,” the King said shortly. His temper was becoming frayed by the indignity of the little girl's regard of his wounded body as some sort of interesting curiosity and knowing, yet again, that worse humiliation was in store. Faramir would soon help him with those routines that were once normal morning habits and which had now become a shared misery, since he could not perform them in solitude.

Had his Steward not betrayed him, he could have easily endured such embarrassments. But a few months ago, even bathing together had been no great trial apart from the reserve of natural modesty. Now it was very hard to accept help with the most basic needs from the hands of one who had so recently tortured him. He was the King who had once held armies at his command, yet now could not even command his own body to walk a few steps or hold a spoon! Then when they reached their destination, Éowyn would have to see his wounds. He shuddered at the thought. He could only hope her skills had improved during the past year, given what he needed her to do to try to repair his injured hand. Then whose side would she be on? She was the sister of Éomer, his most loyal friend and ally, but married to his treacherous Steward. Would she help him or use tending his wounds as a pretext for more torture? That was, if they were even journeying to where Éowyn now was, rather than into some trap? “How far do we need to travel today?” he asked Faramir, endeavouring to take his mind off his current plight and gain some clue to his fate. “You know this area far better than I do.” He gasped as the ointment stung his raw flesh and bit back a cry of pain, not wanting either Elbeth or Faramir to see his weakness.

“I think we are about ten miles from Minas Tirith now,” Faramir replied, placing a thick wad of cloth to pad Aragorn’s waist. “We need to avoid the city in case the rebels control it. We should make our way towards Osgiliath as our destination is in that direction. I hope we will reach it before dark. I am eager to see my wife again.”

“As am I, if you are truly taking me to her,” Aragorn replied gloomily.

“Sire, I give you my word of honour that I left the Queen and your son in Damrod’s care a few miles from here,” Faramir replied in a tone of weary resignation, trying hard to conceal his hurt.

“Do you even know the meaning of that word?” Aragorn asked bitterly.

“May my life be forfeit if I am speaking falsely!” Faramir replied.

“What does ‘honour’ mean?” asked Elbeth curiously, wondering why both her uncle and Strider seemed so upset.

“It is very hard to explain,” said Faramir. “Honour is what I held most dear and still do, yet I have none! What I was trying to explain to Strider, is that we should find Queen Arwen today.”

Elbeth frowned, more bewildered than ever. “But they said I was the Queen,” she said at last.

“Because they had no honour and told you lies,” Faramir said fiercely. “Lady Arwen is the Queen of Gondor.”

Elbeth tried hard to digest this information.

“You would have to be grown up and marry a king to be queen,” he said hastily, hoping to forestall a further torrent of questions. “Now can you do something very important for me by washing the dishes in the stream?” He tied the final knot in the bandages as he spoke and nodded to Elbeth to let go of Aragorn’s clothing. The King was shivering more than ever now. Faramir wrapped a blanket round him as well as his cloak. Delighted to be given another important task, Elbeth scampered away happily.

“Is that more comfortable?” Faramir asked Aragorn, the concern evident in his voice.

“Yes, thank you.” For an instant, there was a flicker of the old affection in Aragorn’s eyes as he looked at his Steward.

Faramir hardly knew which was harder to bear, the King’s scorn, or bittersweet memories of the friendship they used to enjoy.

The Steward carefully cleared away all traces of their camp before saddling the horses and preparing to leave. His back was now so painful that it took three attempts to get Aragorn up on to Roheryn. Both men were sweating from the exertion by the time they were safely mounted. Meanwhile, Elbeth had managed to climb on Zachus herself, using a fallen tree trunk to mount with. She sat there impatiently fingering the reins and waiting for the two men to be ready.

Aragorn’s pain intensified throughout the morning, but he was determined to conceal it from Faramir as best he could. He was resigned now that he was powerless to resist whatever his Steward had planned for him. He could only wait for the truth or otherwise of Faramir’s words to be revealed.

Faramir sensed his lord's discomfort, but forced himself to harden his heart and ignore it. They could ill afford to slow or stop while traversing the open countryside. They were all too easily visible if anyone else were searching for them.

They trotted through the seemingly endless miles, making good progress. Faramir’s back now throbbed with every step that Roheryn took.

“I’m bored!” said Elbeth after they had been riding for an hour or so.

“I used to play a game with my brother when we travelled,” Faramir told her. “We would see who could count the most cows in the fields.”

“That sounds fun!” she replied. “Will Strider play with me?”

Aragorn nodded wearily, thinking it might help him to keep his eyes open.

They stopped for a brief rest in a small copse of trees at what Faramir guessed was around midday, though the clouds hid the sun from their view. To his relief, Aragorn’s wounds had not started bleeding again. When he lifted Aragorn up on the horse once more, he hoped it would be for the last time without assistance. The pain in his back had worsened.

“Are we almost there?” Elbeth asked after another hour or so in the saddle. “I’ve counted three hundred and five cows and I’m getting bored with the game!”

“It should not be long now,” Faramir assured her, hoping he was right, as Aragorn kept threatening to slide from the saddle. It troubled him too that Roheryn was forced to carry so much extra weight. “Why not see if you can count to four hundred cows? You are very clever to know such big numbers!”

Elbeth glowed at the praise. “How many have you seen, Strider?” she enquired.

“Two hundred and one, so I am certain that you will win!” he answered, picking a number at random, having long since grown too weary to even attempt a semblance of playing.

The countryside was now very familiar to the Steward. He used to patrol this area with his men. It had changed a lot since the war; settlements had sprung up all over the place, repopulating what had before been desolate countryside over which Sauron’s minions had raged a ceaseless war against the defenders of Minas Tirith. They passed through several villages, attracting attention from the children but ignored by the adults, who no doubt were accustomed to wanderers made homeless by the ravages of war. Despite Aragorn’s best efforts, there was still a good deal of hardship in Gondor.

In every village they passed, Faramir asked the same question. “I am looking for an old comrade of mine by the name of Damrod. Do you know where he dwells?”

Aragorn was heartened by the question, it seemed that Faramir might indeed be telling the truth after all.

By late afternoon, Faramir was beginning to fear they were going in the wrong direction when a woman said, “Damrod? Him that was in the Ithilien Rangers?”

“Yes,” Faramir replied. “Do you know where I might find him?”

“He and his wife live in a cottage in the next village but you should come to his sister’s home before that. He often visits her at the farm, which is about a mile down the road. Her husband died soon after the war and it’s hard for a woman alone with small children so he …”

Wondering if the garrulous woman could be another of Ioreth’s cousins, since it seemed she could easily talk all day, Faramir politely thanked her and rode on, his heart lifting at the thought of seeing Éowyn again. He gently shook Aragorn who was half asleep. “Wake up, my lord!” he said, “We are almost there. You will soon see your wife and son.”

“Arwen, Eldarion!” Aragorn murmured, hoping fervently that his Steward spoke the truth.

Faramir urged the exhausted Roheryn to a canter down the lane. They rounded a bend and there it was, a small, single storied, but neatly maintained farmhouse standing apart from the village.

The sun finally broke through the clouds to end the day with a spectacular crimson sunset lifting their weary spirits.

At the front of the house was a herb garden, the fresh spring growth already visible. A line of washing, mainly comprising babies’ napkins blew in the breeze.

“I think we are here!” Faramir told his companions, sliding painfully from the horse.

Just then, a woman emerged from the house.