"Faramir? Are you there?"

He recognized the voice, but could not place it, fear and pain clouding his mind. He kept silent.

"Faramir?" A hand moved back the canvas covering him.

The only thing now between him and his captors were the furs from Théodwyn. He held his breath, hoping he would not be found.

Someone pulled the fur; he held on tightly. Another whisper, "Faramir?" He would not let go. He could not be found.

"Boromir," he cried quietly, "Boromir, save me."

He felt himself lifted, furs and all, into someone's strong arms, someone too strong to break away from. He screamed as the pain shot through his shoulder and he felt the arms stiffen.

"Faramir. It is I, Théoden. Will you not let me see you?"

Faramir flung the fur away from his face with his good arm. Tears ran down his cheeks.

"Théodred's Ada?" he cried.

"Aye, Faramir, Théodred's Ada. I have come to save you."

The boy started to sob. Théoden gently lowered him to the ground. The boy stumbled; Théoden laid him on the soft grass of the Pelennor. Men stood about with torches lit. "Let me look at your shoulder, Faramir. It is hurt?" The boy nodded his head. "Well, I have a leech with me…"

Faramir turned away from him and sobbed. "No!"

What ails you boy?" he stopped the man with his hand, while trying to understand the boy's sudden terror. "He is a good leech. He will make you better." The fear in the boy's eyes tore at his heart. "A leech has already hurt you?"

Faramir nodded again.

"Then I will let none touch you until you say yea. Is that all right?" Faramir turned towards him, the fear in his eyes diminishing. "Now, will you tell me about your shoulder?" He moved the lad's hair back and drew a sharp breath as the shoddily sewn wound across the boy's brow came into view. "Oh!" He stopped himself. The boy must not know how badly he looked.

"So you hurt your head, too?" Again, maddeningly, the boy nodded, but refused to speak. "Is there anywhere else?"

He pointed to his foot. Théoden looked down. "Can you step on it?" The boy shook his head. "Well, we have a lot of work to do to help you recover so you can see Boromir again, is that not so?"

The child's eyes widened. "Do you know where Boromir is, Faramir?" Another nod. Théoden knew they had not much time. Somehow, he must help the boy speak, else Boromir's danger increase. "Will you tell me where Boromir is, Faramir?" The boy started to sob again; Théoden could not understand this. Why did not the child tell him?

Captain Húrin stepped forward. "Mayhap there is a threat to Boromir's life if Faramir speaks?"

Faramir shrank back. "Someone has told you they will kill Boromir if you speak?" Húrin asked.

The boy sobbed and flung his good arm around Théoden's neck. "Please help him," the child shuddered.

"Oh, Faramir. We will. I promise you, we will save Boromir." Théoden kissed the sweat-soaked forehead. "You are safe now, my son." 'Oh,' he remembered the term Denethor used. "Ion nîn." Faramir looked up in surprise.

Just then, a warrior rode up, jumped off the horse and ran forward. "Faramir!" a woman's voice cried. The boy looked up. A dam broke in his heart and all the fear, pain and horror that had been upon him these last days was loosed. He fainted.

~*~

"I am concerned, my Lord Imrahil," Ragnhild said quietly. Indis' counselor chafed at the newest holdup. "If we keep delaying our journey with these side trips, we will surely find chaos in Minas Tirith when finally we arrive."

"These side trips that you so hastily dismiss, Ragnhild, are to recruit more troops. We must enter Minas Tirith in strength. A fortnight, more or less, will not matter if we are strong; it will matter if we are weak and easily overcome."

She bit her lip. Every fibre in her body screamed of danger and she could do nothing to make this man understand. She had considered breaking away and riding to Mundburg herself. She shook her head; even if she knew where it was, she would most likely be attacked on some road leading there and need rescuing.

Prince Imrahil saw her unease, her lack of trust in his judgment. What could he do? She was a woman and a healer. Her dearth of tactical experience was not her fault. He would be patient. Obviously, Théoden King trusted her enough to send her to him with that incredible message.

As his mount trotted along, he thought of the missive. His sister's husband was dead. The thought of the Steward's death still sent shivers down his spine. How could this have happened? Well and good it was that Finduilas was dead herself. She was not a strong woman; this would have been too much for her. He thought of his sister; how beautiful and kind she had been. She had loved Denethor fully and he had believed the match a good thing for both Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith. Never would he have suspected that she would be dead in such a short time. He could not blame Denethor. The man's love for her had been extraordinary.

'`Tis a pity my father did not feel the same.' No love was lost between the two men, and, once Finduilas was dead, a hatred grew in Prince Adrahil's heart for the man he believed was the cause of his daughter's death. Imrahil was surprised when Adrahil authorized this sortie to the city.

"You are still not sure that my missive is true?" Ragnhild asked.

Imrahil started. "Nay. I believe it, as my father does. I was thinking upon my sister. You would have liked her," he smiled sadly.

"I very much like her sons. If they are anything like her, then she must have been a wonderful woman."

"Aye. The boys were much loved by her. She spent considerable time with them. More time than many of the ladies of Dol Amroth would have. She was like that, though. Always at odds with tradition, proper manners, or our father's will." He sat back in his saddle, trying to relax. "Father did not want her to marry Denethor, did you know that?" He found this woman easy to talk to. She nodded and he continued. "Of course. Indis would have told you. Are you friends with Indis?"

"She has named me Counselor of Gondor, though I do not deserve such a title."

"Ah! Do not underestimate that woman, Lady Ragnhild. She is wise. Her father, Ecthelion, thought highly of her and included her in most of his decisions in his later years. Except those impacting Denethor, of course."

"They did not get along?"

Imrahil laughed sorrowfully. "'Twas the saddest relationship I have ever seen; both in need of each other's love, but both too stubborn to relent. Though Denethor, when he was younger, bowed to all his father's demands. Whether right or no. Denethor was my friend. My teacher." His eyes shone. "Strategy in battle was his gift. None were better. Though many claimed Thorongil was great, and he was in his own way, in my mind's eye, none could devise a better battle plan, or an ambush, or negotiate better than Denethor. I spent many years with him in the field." He paused. "I loved the man as a brother." He rode a little further in silence. "Thank you for listening. I needed to speak of him." His voice caught. Kicking his horse, he turned and rode towards the back of the column.

Ragnhild continued on, lost in thought.