Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of Tolkien Enterprises. The following is a work of fiction intended only for entertainment.

Book 1: In Which the Wanderer Returns Home

Green.

It was not the frantic activity of the docks that transfixed the dusty traveler as he debarked from the ship, so that he stood barring the path while other impatient travelers jostled past him.

No, it was the greenness of the land around him, so different from the yellows and browns of the sere earth he had wandered for the past ten years, which held him. All the days the boat had plowed up the Anduin he had stayed on deck, staring out at the banks passing slowly by. Now that he stood upon those shores, though aware of the ever present smell and rush of the river, it was the vibrant earth beneath his feet that told the traveler that he was back in Ithilien at last. He looked down at the muddy stones upon which he stood and smiled behind the thick black beard and whiskers that fell to below his chest; only the crinkling of his eyes that deepened the lines at their corners betrayed him.

Rousing himself, he studied his surroundings. The size and activity of the docks astonished him. Though Osgiliath would always be a ruin, it occupied a desirable point on the river near Minas Tirith, so soon after the end of the Ring War King Elessar, on the advice of his Steward, had ordered the construction of a commercial port for rapid movement of goods to and from the White City. To the traveler it looked to have been a wise decision. He wondered how much else had changed and how difficult it would be to adjust. It had been a long time.

But there was time to explore these questions later. He had other more important and eagerly anticipated matters with which to reacquaint himself. The tall dark man gathered together his shabby robes that had long since faded from their original rich tones and picked up his small bundle before making his way through the crowds.

He ignored the looks the Gondorians gave his clothing, dark hair and bronzed skin. All declared him to be of Harad and few Haradrim other than the occasional trader were seen this far in Ithilien. The looks were not friendly, for the renewing of peace with Harad had been costly, but it was peace nonetheless and he was grateful that the people were not overtly hostile.

He did not correct their misconceptions for he had little time or wish to exchange words with anyone. He had other obligations that he had delayed too long. When the peace Elessar had made soon after the end of the Ring War had failed, he had exerted all his efforts at his king’s express bidding. Now the agreement forged four years past seemed to be holding. But all told it had taken nearly ten years of his life; he considered he had done his duty and far more, and it was at an end at last. He would ride to report to the king, but not today. Today above all else he wanted to go home, to that radiant house that he had built upon the hill, where the scented wind blew through the courtyard and dappled sunshine spilled upon the flagstones. Home, where waited his greatest treasures.

Their sweet young faces laughed in his memory though he knew that they would scarcely be the same; his son would now be a young man of fourteen, his two daughters young ladies but one and two years younger. He felt again the grief that he had not been the father to them in their youth that he had always sworn he would be to his children. He prayed that they had never needed him in the night and that their tears had never gone unsoothed. He comforted himself that his wife would have seen to them.

His wife- oh, to see his wife again, to feel her warm skin beneath his hands, to bury himself in the heady scent of orange oils and pine from hair which glittered like struck gold in the sunlight.

He took a deep breath; now was not the time to dream of his lovely wife, not while he was yet so far from her, shabby and unwashed.

His hand rose to touch his chest. Beneath the concealing cloth he caressed the familiar smoothness of the golden band he wore suspended about his neck and that had served as his talisman for all the years he had been away from home and family. My gratitude forever for helping to keep me safe, he thought. Soon we shall be back where we belong.

At last he was free of the docks and the crowds. But he had a long journey before him on foot, and the sight of an alehouse close by fired a great thirst for the local ale; not of a quality to rival the brew of the Shire but welcome enough. He yet had a few pieces of silver in his bundle that would buy him a cup or two. He had taken a few steps toward the noisy building when his attention was caught by a man simply dressed in serviceable clothes but with the erect bearing of a trained soldier. The tall man was frowning as he made his way through the yard toward the stables, a small bag of grain over his shoulder. The traveler raised his brows, then grinned and followed with silent steps.

The tall man had just reached the stables attached to the alehouse when the traveler laid his hand on his arm. With a start the man turned, and gazed into clear grey eyes that did not waver but looked deep into his heart. Suddenly those eyes narrowed, the corners crinkling with laughter, and the man caught his breath.

“Faramir!” he whispered.

The traveler laughed quietly. “Even after ten years you still have keen eyes and slow ears, Beregond.”

“My lord, can it truly be you?” Beregond reached out a hand then stopped, as if still in wonder.

Faramir nodded and made to grasp Beregond’s arm in greeting, but to his surprise Beregond seized him and dragged him into the depths of the stables. They halted when they reached a quiet corner where they would not be overheard. Beregond turned to his prince and whispered, “My lord, where have you been all these years? The rags you wear- how gaunt you are! Did you suffer so?”

Faramir laughed and held up a hand. “Softly, good friend! Although I have had my trials, I am now well and more than pleased to be once more in fair Ithilien. I have many tales and you shall hear them, but they may wait for better times. First I would go back to Emyn Arnen, to meet my children. And Éowyn. Tell me, is my White Lady well and as fair as ever?”

He grinned, but his grin slowly faded as Beregond did not respond in kind but stood staring at him with troubled eyes. Faramir frowned to see the deep lines of care in the other’s face. “Tell me, Beregond,” he ordered quietly. “How is my family? Do Ithilien and the White City fare well?”

Beregond sighed. “I cannot be less than blunt. Gondor does well but alas, it is a sorry homecoming for you, my lord. You cannot go openly back to Emyn Arnen. It has been ten years and all is not as you left it.”

Faramir blinked. Did I hear him correctly? As he stared at the other man he noted that Beregond wore no sign of the livery of the White Company. Glancing at the horse he noticed it bore the plainest tack.

“I am forbidden to return to my home?” he asked slowly. “Is this by order of the king?”

“The full tale, as I know it, is complicated.” Beregond took a deep breath, but Faramir raised a hand to forestall him.

“If it is so serious we cannot talk here. Come, I will forego my ale; let us begin our walk toward home, until we reach a quieter place where we may speak freely.”

Beregond looked down. “My lord, the prince’s hall in Emyn Arnen is no longer truly my home. I no longer command the White Company and have retired to a small holding some hours’ ride from the hall. I came to pick up the seed for the spring planting.” He gestured at the bag of grain lying at his feet where he had dropped it. With a faint smile he added, “I fear I am an indifferent farmer.”

Faramir’s eyes narrowed but his voice remained calm. “Your tale promises to be ever more of interest. But know this, Beregond son of Baranor, you shall call my hall home so long as Faramir son of Denethor is lord of this land.”

But Beregond only shook his head. “Hear me first, then decide.” He swiftly prepared his horse and brought it out. The two men set out on food towards the dwelling of the prince, the horse plodding behind.

They spoke of common things as they walked the dusty road, though at his companion’s earnest entreaty Faramir fell silent whenever they met other travelers. But he listened keenly as Beregond exchanged greetings and whatever news the others wished to share. There was little of immediate interest, though he stored away even the idle gossip he heard. It was he, a supposed man of Harad, who excited the most comment and Beregond was forced to hurry them past while mumbling vague words that failed to satisfy even the least curious.

“This will not do,” Faramir said after the third such meeting, “for otherwise foolish rumor will fly forth and delay us before we reach my hall.” He frowned. “I would declare myself openly, yet your cautions fill me with unease.”

“An ill notion indeed!” Beregond exclaimed.

“I am who I am, Beregond. I will not lie to my people.”

Beregond shrugged. “Then I will do so.” He held out his hands when Faramir cocked an eyebrow at him, his own face serious. “My lord, I slew an honest man on hallowed ground for you. Do you think I would stumble over a lie that would keep you safe?”

Faramir was silent and Beregond continued earnestly, “If not for your own then restrain yourself for the sake of your family, for at least a little while.”

They walked on in silence and then at last Faramir sighed. “Well, all men must judge their own honor and live with it. Until I know better what transpires I will do as you advise and stay silent. Yet I beg you, Beregond, do not cheapen your own honor in striving to save mine, for in that way we are both lost.”

Beregond smiled. “In that I will obey you, my lord.”

“For the meantime, speak nothing but the truth: that you met me at the docks by chance and are escorting me to the prince’s hall to seek audience with his lady.”

The terse explanation held them for the rest of the encounters. Finally the road cleared of people and they were left to continue alone through the thickets. The road was easy and they did not stop until they were well inland and the sun had begun to sink in the sky. The pair settled under the boughs of a large tree after taking their packs from the horse and releasing him to graze. They ate and drank in silence about the fire they built, and then Faramir looked at his companion.

“Now tell me your tale. All of it; do not hold back to spare me, or any other.”