Prologue

A/N: Thanks to Raksha the Demon, and Nesta, of Emyn Arnen, for their help with this.

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They rose as one, turned to face the west. Always before his mind had rested on their lost home, Atalantë that he had watched sink beneath the waves. Today his thought only briefly touched fallen Númenor, instead looking beyond. They have remembered us; or never forgotten, even as we ourselves begin to. He sat down, his mind turning to his absent cousin, who he loved dearly, yet— It was always "yet" with him. He should not go; he must not go. He was called, yes, but not chosen. Why did he even wish to? He had no great love for the Eldar; or even interest in them. There was something—what was Boromir doing? He was never late.

Erchirion, son of Imrahil, could think of a number of places he would rather be—most notably, back home with his family in Dol Amroth. Fishing at the bottom of the Bay of Belfalas was also beginning to sound oddly attractive. It had been three days since the council began deliberating, and if today was anything like the day before, he thought he would run mad before it finished. Or perhaps before it started, if Boromir didn't get here soon.

The other councillors were beginning to murmur. Erchirion bristled. While he personally found his cousin patronising, overbearing, and none too clever, that did not give anyone else the right to speak disparagingly of the Steward's heir, particularly in the presence of said Steward—not when Erchirion was sitting right next to him, in lieu of his elder brother, whose wife had unexpectedly fallen ill. At least Faramir, his favourite relation, was next to him as well, expression coolly inscrutable in the best Númenórean tradition. It was not terribly comforting, but he knew that Faramir was only preoccupied, as was usual since his return from Osgiliath. He had always been a little absent-minded, but he seemed to be walking in another world these days. Not that Erchirion blamed him; receiving direct messages from the Valar was no doubt an alarming experience, not to mention facing the Black Riders.

Maps scattered over the table, tracing the route Faramir, or Boromir, would take, from Minas Tirith to Edoras, to the boundaries of lost Arnor. And from there—west into Eriador, and wandering about until he happened upon Rivendell, or more likely, Rivendell happened upon him. No wonder Húrin, and the rest of the Council, were so unenthusiastic about sending Boromir on the errand. The lord of the Council, however, was still undecided, and the final decision would rest with him.

Boromir must not go. The sure knowledge was sudden but not unfamiliar; a gift, his father said, and sometimes it was. Yet how could he be certain Faramir would be sent? Most of the Council would prefer to send him, if anyone at all, but that would not sway Denethor. Erchirion could not perceive his uncle's thought and would never make the attempt; but in this it was clear enough. It was a dangerous journey, and Boromir was needed in Gondor. Denethor did not wish to risk him on such an ephemeral matter. Yet he wished, as always, to grant Boromir his desire, whatever that desire might be. How may I influence him? I cannot simply say: send Faramir, he is not so valuable and the dreams were clearly meant for him in any case. How does one out-manoeuvre an expert manipulator? The Steward was a spider, spinning his threads so expertly that none could even detect their presence.

Almost none. Erchirion lifted his head, met his cousin's eyes. It must be Faramir, he thought once more, and his mind wandered to Rivendell, and what would be found there. Boromir, in Rivendell, surrounded by Elves and books and ancient artefacts? It boggled the imagination. But Faramir, Faramir with his music and stories and books, he was the perfect one to send—as anyone with eyes could see.

Boromir eventually arrived, limping slightly; apparently he'd had an accident of some sort. Nothing that would bother him for more than a few hours. Erchirion paid little attention to the council, which appeared to be going nowhere (as usual), instead concentrating on his elder cousin. Boromir sat across from him, as usual paying him little note, his expression stern. He was a good, kindly man, for all his faults, and a mighty warrior; Gondor needed him, here. Erchirion glanced at his leg, then at Faramir, and an idea entered his mind.

Very early the next day, Erchirion loitered outside the Houses of Healing, waiting for Faramir to come out. "How is he?" he asked, trying to appear concerned. He had been very careful; he knew that Boromir's injury was not serious.

"He'll be fine," Faramir said, clearly exhausted. Erchirion felt a twinge of guilt, but ruthlessly suppressed it. He had done what needed to be done. It was not what Elphir would have done, had he been here as usual, nor father, and certainly not Faramir, whom Erchirion had always attempted to emulate, but it had been necessary. "He should be walking again in a few weeks."

"Oh, that's good," Erchirion, not accustomed to deceit, managed to mumble. Faramir raised an eyebrow.

"I am to take the errand," he said abruptly. "Since Boromir cannot, my lord father insists that I go in his stead."

In his stead, indeed! "That is good news—is it not?"

"Oh, excellent news. While, naturally, I would not wish any pain on my brother, it was only a mild injury and he should recover quickly. No, it is quite remarkably providential." Faramir's clear grey eyes, identical to his own, rested intently upon his face. Erchirion felt nearly as uncomfortable as the time Denethor and Adrahil had caught him throwing pebbles at the White Tree. Sometimes his cousin seemed to bear an uncanny resemblance to their grandfather.

"Well—coincidences are peculiar things," he offered feebly. "Fate works in strange ways."

"And rarely without assistance," said Faramir.

Erchirion darted a glance at him, certain that his cousin knew exactly what he'd done. He wondered if deliberately injuring the Steward's heir counted as treason.

But he never found the answer. Faramir's expression changed, grew more sober but less authoritative. "When do you leave for Dol Amroth, Erchirion?"

"I—three days hence."

"I am already packed," Faramir observed, "and will leave as soon as I can. You will give Ailinel my best wishes?"

"Of course."

"And please send my regards to your family, and our aunt."

"Certainly." Erchirion eyed Faramir, who suddenly seemed very grave, and very young; he did not look as if he could possibly be Erchirion's age, let alone seven years older. What would he see when Faramir returned, if he returned at all?

"Thank you. Farewell, cousin; I hope we meet again."

"Farewell," echoed Erchirion blankly, wondering just what he had done. "May the sun shine upon your path."

---

Like a blast of cold air, he entered their lives, and left nearly as quickly. They were suspicious, at first, not trusting this pampered southerner with his rich clothing and lilting accent. He was nothing like the men she had known before, dwarfing most of the Riders, and standing considerably above even her brother and cousin. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. He did not have the sheer strength of her kin, was instead slender and agile, moving so quickly and silently that he seemed to appear and disappear at will.

She could remember her grandmother, a southerner like this one. Even into her nineties, the Queen had stood tall and straight, her hair still dark, although streaked with silver and her face lined but not wrinkled. And when her will was crossed, she looked beautiful and terrible, her clear grey eyes blazing so brightly that the children dared not look into them. Witch some had called her, and they were never certain whether she was or not. In six months’ time, she had aged twenty years before their eyes and died before she could suffer decrepitude or senility.

She had not thought of her grandmother in years, for present griefs occupied most of her mind, but somehow this lord from Mundburg reminded her of the Queen. It was mostly about the eyes, she thought; for this stranger’s eyes were not only the same clear grey as her grandmother’s, but shone like stars in his pale face. She had heard tales of the great Men of the West who had risen up, as it seemed, out of the very sea, the light of the uttermost west in their faces. They were akin to the wizards, some said, for they had wrought works that could only be enchantment, Orthanc where their wizard-ally dwelt, and Mundburg, and staves that returned to their owners. The other southerners did not seem as if they could be heirs of the Westmen, as the tales said they were, and they certainly displayed no skills at enchantment to battle the evil to the East — but she looked at him, and thought of the stories, and of her grandmother, and wondered.

---

“It is good to find a kinsman thus kindly at need*.”

The Lord Faramir did not seem greatly angered by her uncle’s distinct lack of cordiality, or even deeply upset; his voice was cold, but free of any personal rancour. There was a trace of annoyance in his brilliant grey eyes, but also amusement; although what he could find to be amused about what was beyond her comprehension. That didn’t matter, though; what mattered was that he was not offended, would not return to Mundburg to speak of his deplorable treatment by the wild horsemen of the north. They did not dare lose friendship with Gondor; and Faramir was not a mere ambassador, but a son of the Steward.

She had changed her mind about him quickly. At first, she could not help but think he was one of those petty, self-serving aristocrats, the sort who never set a foot out of doors if they could help it. He was much slenderer than her folk, and his skin was far too pale for a true warrior’s; even fairer than her own. Yet when she looked at him properly, she saw that here was one who no Rider of the Mark would outmatch. No, he doubtless had spent many years wielding a weapon; how long, she could not say. He looked a little younger than her brother, about five-and-twenty; but his eyes were older.

Astonishingly, Lord Faramir’s stern words seemed to bring Théoden back to himself. Soon they were exchanging pleasantries, and Faramir was welcomed to take one of their best horses with him on his errand. It fell to Éowyn to take him to his rooms.

“I hope you find them to your liking,” she ventured.

Faramir smiled down at her (for he was a great deal taller than she). “I am certain I shall,” he assured her. Then his brows knit together, and he glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he expected to be followed. “Please forgive my presumption, lady; but is all well in Rohan?”

Éowyn opened her mouth to — she did not know what; she longed to confide in him, as she could not to her brother and cousin, and perhaps she might have — but her sensitive ears caught the small shuffling sound, and her skin crawled. She looked over at Faramir, heart pounding; his hearing was no less sharp than hers. His hand flew to his sword-hilt, but he did not move; indeed, she did not think she had any human being stand so still.

It was somehow no surprise when Gríma, her uncle’s most trusted counsellor, crawled out of the shadows. He always seemed present, offering her assistance and support. She had no real reason to distrust him, except that she could never perceive his true thoughts or feelings. He was eloquent; each word seemed to have been thought-out beforetime. And she did not like his appearance, his heavy-lidded dark eyes that seemed to rest on her too often, his thinning colourless hair, the slight dampness that seemed to coat his skin. It was not his fault he was so unattractive, surely, but—

“Master Gríma,” she said, with a forced smile. “I did not expect to see you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Faramir appeared to relax slightly, but he did not move his hand. “My lady,” Gríma said, bowing respectfully, and turning to Faramir. “My lord, please forgive my intrusion. There is a matter I wish to speak on, which may concern your . . . errand.”

Éowyn glanced over at Faramir. His expression had changed subtly; there was no longer any warmth or friendliness in it; or even the grave composure that had first drawn her to him, in admiration (and perhaps a little envy). Now his face looked as if it had been carved in ivory, and he looked at Gríma with icy grey eyes. Gríma perhaps meant to be intimidating, but he looked like a rather pathetic mouse hunting a particularly fierce cat. Éowyn felt laughter bubbling in her throat at the thought, and ruthlessly suppressed it. After a moment of silence, Faramir inclined his head.

“Perhaps tomorrow morning, I can find some time in which to speak with you, Master — Gríma.”

Gríma bowed again, with a lingering glance at Éowyn, and departed. After he was certain to be gone, she let out a breath. “What do you think of him, my lord?”

“Gríma?” Faramir took his hand off his sword hilt. “One of the most disagreeable men I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. He is clever, although doubtless not so clever as he imagines himself.”

Éowyn smiled. “There are some who call him ‘Wormtongue,’ for words are his only weapon, and he can twist them with great ease.”

“Yes, he has some skill with words,” Faramir said. “I would dearly love to see him at my father’s mercy for perhaps ten minutes. He would then learn of his utter lack of consequence, which I daresay would be good for him.”

Éowyn laughed; and was surprised at herself. It was long since she had been able to laugh so freely, and certainly not at Gríma’s expense. These days, his power was such that they did not dare, not even in secret. It seemed that a darkness had fallen on them here; but Faramir did not see it — no, he did, he had noticed earlier — he was unaffected by it, then. She wished she knew why, and that she could feel the same way herself.

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*Faramir is quoting Eöl the Dark Elf. Doubtless the irony of his choice does not escape him.