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 3: In Which the Wanderer Sets His Plans

“Well?”

Despite the lateness of the hour at which they had retired both had arisen with the dawn; the sun was still barely over the horizon as Beregond studied Faramir striding a few paces. “Stoop a bit more, my lord, to disguise your height and bearing- they speak too strongly of Gondorian soldiery. Limp, not so much that you may forget yourself and rouse suspicion, but just a little, that men may think you weary and weak.”

“Very well,” Faramir agreed with a sigh. “So I must adopt once more the semblance of the vagabond of Harad that I had shed when I debarked in Osgiliath. I was glad to be a man of Gondor once more; it is hard to resume the old guise.”

“Well, I am sorry for it but it must be,” Beregond said firmly. “At least until we know more.”

“Peace, Beregond, you have persuaded me. I will be guided by you in this matter and do not fear, the custom will return to me.” Faramir sat upon the ground and looked up at his friend. “You are alarmingly gifted in subterfuge,” he noted with a small smile. “Surely I did not know this before I left.”

The former captain of the White Company laughed softly. “It comes with the raising of a rascal. Bergil has guile better suited for the back streets of Minas Tirith than the hills of Ithilien and often feels the need to exercise it. I was forced to learn his tricks if I were not to be overmastered.”

Faramir shook his head, still grinning. “I fear what he is teaching Elboron, then. But Legolas is there to temper their enthusiasms.” His smile faded. “It will be difficult to reach Elboron without alerting Legolas, something I do not wish to do yet. Legolas would surely go to the king at once but I would not have Elessar involved in the settling of my lands, nor do I wish to alarm him unduly with an Ithilien in turmoil.”

“Especially if he were to immediately cast you into chains,” Beregond dryly noted.

Faramir grinned. “Elessar would not do so but I grant it would be difficult to prove my innocence while trussed like a goose. I wish I knew more of the king’s thoughts.”

“Perhaps I may ride to the city and present your story? He knows that I may be rash but honest.”

“Rash indeed! It would be death for you to set foot in Minas Tirith.”

“It would not come to that. I would merely ask a trusted old comrade to arrange for an audience outside the city.”

“Perhaps, but I dislike the thought of sending a friend into danger so blindly. I had enough of that during the war with Sauron.” Faramir scratched his chin and swore gently. “I shall never again dismiss so casually any opportunity for a hot bath and shave again.”

“But it was fortunate indeed that your cheek had not seen a blade for so long.” Beregond studied the other’s face and shook his head wonderingly. “And that Faramir of Gondor preferred to be a clean-shaven man and not a shaggy wild man of the desert.”

“So despite your scoldings I will pass?” Faramir stood and grinned.

A smile broke out on Beregond’s face and he embraced Faramir. “You will. Yet despite the beard and foreign clothing, and the skin burned brown by fierce southern suns, I would always know those eyes. You must take care not to look closely into another’s face, particularly the princess’s, else you betray yourself.”

Faramir gave a curt nod as he touched the long locks shading his eyes. “It would be best to avoid Artholas as well since he is familiar with my habits, although fortunately he has never seen me so overgrown.”

Suddenly Beregond exclaimed, “Ah, my wits have flown indeed! Have you no weapon?”

“A dagger,” Faramir replied, touching his side. “It is hidden yet easily reached when I need it.”

“A moment!” Beregond hurried to his horse and drew his bow and quiver. With a grin he held them forth. “Here, my lord. Will you not try your skill again?”

Faramir raised his brows, smiling as accepted the weapons. “It has been a long time since I last used a Gondorian bow- those of Harad are much shorter.” Glancing about he walked to the edge of the clearing and gazed thoughtfully at a distant tree as he strung the bow. Nocking an arrow to the string, he aimed at the tree, his muscles automatically flexing in his usual technique despite the long years of disuse. He breathed deeply and released, and then caught up and shot a second arrow. Shaking out his shoulders he tossed the bow back to Beregond.

Together the two men approached the tree, now adorned with two arrows barely a finger’s width apart. Beregond nodded. “Your skills have not gone rusty.”

Faramir smoothed the fletching on the arrows before pulling the shafts out of the tree and handing them to his friend. “My thanks for the memory, Beregond, but put them away for now. I have no use for such skills at the moment.”

His companion frowned. “Perhaps, but you would be safer with a sword, my lord. It will be difficult to defend yourself with such a small blade as the one you have.”

“And what poor vagabond would own such or be allowed to keep it?” Faramir shook his head. “Furthermore a well-armed man of Harad would both excite too much attention and be barred from the prince’s hall. I can carry neither sword nor bow.”

“That is true but surely we may find something better than a dagger.”

“What of this?” Faramir looked about and picked up a long stout stick. He swung it before him, judging the feel and strength of it. “If I were to trim this a bit it would serve as both cudgel and walking staff, such as what Mithrandir might have carried.”

Beregond eyed the staff with some dismay. “That is a lowly weapon.”

“I am now a lowly man,” Faramir reminded him sternly, “and do not forget it was by your own persuasion.”

“I ask your pardon, my lord.”

Faramir raised his hand. “Beregond, that is yet another thing. You cannot continue to address me that way. From now on you must accustom yourself to calling me-” For a long moment Faramir stared back at the road, eyes distant, and then an odd smile twisted his lips. Turning to Beregond, he gave the surprised man a fluid bow, his hands extended in a foreign gesture. When he spoke his voice was heavily accented and unrecognizable. “You may call me Anû ‘nBatân, gracious sir.”

Beregond blinked and tentatively spoke the unfamiliar name. He stared at the ragged stranger before him in wonder. “Suddenly it is as if I do not know you anymore. What manner of name is that?”

“It is Adûnaic, which is close enough to some of the older dialects of Harad that it will not raise suspicion. The name may be translated as ‘wanderer’. I thought it fitting.”

“What do you plan when we reach your hall, my- Anû ‘nBatân?”

His calm face did not betray his turmoil as Faramir replied, “Get me into the hall just before the serving of the night meal, amongst the common people who will be spending the night at the hall. After that, as soon as you can, arrange for my audience with Éowyn.”

“The princess does not receive many privately,” Beregond objected. “Even though we do not get many visitors from Harad, you will likely still need a ready tale for me to take to her.”

Faramir touched his chest. “That I have.”

Reaching into the neck of his robes he drew forth a thin leather string on which was suspended a gold ring delicately carved with a line of running horses, each horse nose to tail with the one that led it. Dropping the band into his upturned palm he studied it, feeling the warmth it had stolen from his body ebb away.

“How great a role rings have played in our lives.” He held out the ring, now lying cool and hard in the cup of his palm. “To any other who would ask say only that my business is with the princess. To her you will say that I am here to show an item to the Lady of Ithilien according to her husband’s wishes. She will not hesitate to summon me.”

Beregond glanced from the circlet to the other’s dispassionate face. “I did not know that you still possessed your wedding ring. I thought it lost with all else.”

“One by one I sold or bartered anything of value but held onto this alone even when I was near starving. Indeed I should have discarded it for it would have betrayed me instantly but that was and is the one thing I could never do.” Faramir’s low voice was distant. “And when those who tended me while I lay wounded proved to be honest folk and returned it to me I thanked the Valar that I still had the talisman that would bring me safely home.” He dropped the ring back behind its concealing folds. “I wonder to what grief it truly brought me back. But come, it is time we leave.”

Beregond readied the horse and the pair continued their journey. For the first few hours Faramir trimmed his staff and practiced his stride and speech until he was comfortable with his guise, while Beregond took care to repeat the assumed name often during their conversation in order to grow at ease with it.

They had traveled for some hours on the deserted road when the sound of horses rapidly approaching from behind alerted them. Turning back they saw three lathered horses being whipped without mercy to hurry them towards the two travelers.

“You!” one of them called, staring at Beregond.

“Do you know them?” Faramir asked quietly, his eyes alert beneath their concealing locks and headwrap.

“I do not,” Beregond whispered in return, “but it seems they may know me, though not as friends.” He raised his voice. “Do you hail us? What would you have of me?”

The men dismounted. As they walked forward they examined Beregond and then glanced at each other. One nodded before turning his attention to the shabby figure standing to the side.

“You are far from home, man of Harad.”

“I am a traveler, gracious sir,” Faramir murmured in his heavily accented voice. He bent his head and bowed to them but all the while watched keenly.

“What do you want of us?” Beregond demanded. “Speak!”

Without answer the men advanced. Two moved towards Beregond while the third walked swiftly towards Faramir, who abruptly frowned and drew himself up to his full height.

“Did you not hear my friend?” he asked, his voice stern and clear. “If you have no honest business with us then begone and leave us to ours.”

Faramir’s opponent checked a moment, as if puzzled at the change in Faramir’s voice and demeanor, but then freed his sword with an ease that spoke of long training. Metal rang nearby as Beregond drew his sword simultaneously with his attackers.

Faramir shifted his feet beneath his concealing robes and adjusted his grip on his staff.

His attacker’s face was impassive as he thrust his sword forth. The stroke was careless as if he were expecting an untutored victim and Faramir swiftly took advantage of his longer reach, jabbing the man hard in the stomach with the head of his staff. As the man choked and doubled over Faramir struck him across the back of the knees. With a pained roar the man twisted and lunged forward, his sword ripping through the shabby robes as Faramir leaped back. The prince dropped his staff and snarled the blade in twists of cloth, while pulling forth his dagger with his free hand. He dragged the other man forward and drove the thin blade into his neck.

The man collapsed. Taking only the time to fling the body to the ground and wrest away the sword from the dead hand Faramir leaped to aid Beregond, who was hard pressed by the two remaining assailants. With a shout one turned to face the unexpected threat. Faramir blocked the sword blow, relieved that although he had slowed somewhat from lack of practice he still possessed his skills. Together he and Beregond forced their assailants back.

The end came with shocking swiftness. Beregond’s opponent, tiring, tripped and Beregond struck. The blade slashed a deep cut into the man’s thigh that spurted blood. The man cried out and staggered back. Clutching at the wound he turned to run, but after a few steps his leg collapsed beneath him and he fell face down into the dust of the road.

The last assailant half-turned at his comrade’s cry and Faramir drove his sword into his belly. With a choked gasp he too crumpled to the road.

The sudden silence surrounded them. Breathing hard, Beregond stared at his companion and mimicked, “’Begone and leave us to ours’, my lord? You did not keep your guise so very long.”

“’My lord’?” Faramir retorted.

Beregond shrugged and glanced down at the bodies. “Well, we have our answer as to whether eyes lay upon the road to Emyn Arnen. Never had I thought that they would follow me.”

Faramir’s face was grave as he wiped the sweat from his face. “We also have our answer as to the dangers you would face upon the road to Minas Tirith. Your friends would not have heard from you again. Even now, had you been alone as these three had thought they would have been enough to ensure you did not reach the city.”

Beregond bent to inspect the bodies. “Mercenaries. Surely these are Artholas’ men but he thinks you dead. Why, then, does he still set his spies upon the road?”

“He cannot have been sure that someone else who knew me would not take it in his mind to come to Ithilien and Gondor with uncomfortable news.” Faramir shook his head. “Such a man cannot have rested well all these nights past, ever waiting in fear of a visit that might or might not happen.”

“A sleep well-earned, then,” Beregond retorted with a hint of satisfaction. “You still fight well, my- Anû ‘nBatân, even with but a stick.”

Faramir quirked an eyebrow at his friend. “I did not defend myself with a sword these past four years either. Do not fear for me, you have seen that I can handle a staff as needed. I am sorry I could not hold back my sword blows. That one might have confirmed his master’s identity to Elessar.”

Beregond shrugged. “There is no worth in such regrets. We must conceal the bodies and drive away the horses, to delay the news of this ambush for as long as we may.”

“And wash ourselves as well we might,” Faramir added, brushing at the drying spots of blood on his clothes.

The two men found nothing of interest on the attackers. They quickly dragged the bodies beyond the road and concealed them deep in the brush. After the distasteful task had been done they set the horses free and threw the harnesses and weapons into the brush as well. At last they collected Faramir’s staff and went off in search of a stream, before continuing their journey home.

There were no further hostile encounters for the remainder of their journey but both men remained wary until they cleared the trees and reached a series of homesteads. Faramir observed the passing farms with interest. “The lands and people look prosperous,” he commented at last. “Éowyn has done well.”

The last night of their journey they spent on the outskirts of a small forest. The evening was clear and cool, the stars burning steadily above them. Faramir began removing the horse’s tackle while Beregond busied himself building the fire.

“Tomorrow we will reach the house,” he said, giving the horse a gentle pat to urge it to graze. “If I recall we should enter late in the day, just before the evening meal is served. There is usually a great deal of confusion as those who wish to pass the night rush to enter and we will face less scrutiny.”

Beregond nodded but said nothing as he fed small branches to the fire.

Faramir eyed him thoughtfully. “My friend, what disturbs you?”

Beregond frowned and bit his lip. “You are right that Ithilien has prospered under the princess’ care. But, as for your house…” He glanced at the other. “It is different from when you left, and that too is the princess’ doing. And Artholas may well be there.”

“So I shall see myself,” Faramir answered calmly. “Be at ease. Tomorrow will take care of itself.”

Despite his reassuring words Faramir brooded over what he would find on the morrow. Unable to sleep, on an impulse he rose, careful not to disturb Beregond, and slipped silently deeper into the woods. He sighed, enjoying the presence and scents of the great trees that had once been so familiar to him. For a while he simply meandered along, picking out a path as he once more tested those skills that had served him well in his ranger days. He stopped before a huge oak and grasped one of the low hanging branches. Swinging himself up he vaulted onto a higher branch and then climbed up to a comfortable perch that faced the way they would pass.

Settling his back against the trunk he gazed out. Nestled in the night before him, amongst those green hills, lay his home. Where his enigmatic wife lived.

He tugged out the ring and studied it again, rubbing his thumb gently over the pattern. The engraving had been worn down from the years but the pale moonlight still picked out the unbroken line of horses, forever circling without end.

“Your ring- give it to me.”

“Oh? Do you cast me off after but a day of marriage, Éowyn?”

“Foolishness.” Her voice was tart, but belied by the smile that curved her lips. Her face turned grave as she looked at the ring he placed in her hand. “Hail the horse.”

“Of course. It is the sign of your house- the White Horse on the Green.”

“Horses are precious to the people of Rohan. I thought of them as I had this made for you. They run where the wind goes- proud, unfettered, free.” Her finger traced the endless line of horses racing across the surface of the ring. “No matter where they begin, though, they always turn their heads toward home, where they know there will be comfort and safety.”

Her gaze was intent as she held up the ring. Faramir closed his hand over her fingers and rested his forehead against hers. “You honor me, Éowyn.”

Faramir smiled and brought the ring to his lips before dropping it back inside his robes. He clambered down the tree and made his way back to the dim light of the banked fire.

He did not need to look into his wife’s heart. He already knew it.

A/N: "Anû ‘nBatân" literally translates as "man of the road" (source: The Ardalambion- any grammatical mistakes are mine!)