Book 4                        In Which the Wanderer Reveals His Dream

Drowsy birdsong…the rustling of the night breeze through the great oak tree in the courtyard that Legolas had coaxed into health…Éowyn’s pale gown glimmering as she paced the flagstones… himself ambling in her wake, stirred with wine and starlight and the teasing hint of orange and pine…

Pale yellow walls as warm as summer and half-hidden with falls of flowers – that memory had comforted him during the long nights of his exile. Now, staring about the chaotic courtyard heavy with the aroma of the stables, Faramir felt as if those memories had been but dreams born of the desert.

In the gathering twilight curses vied with shouts as grooms led horses bearing the caparisons of many different houses and slovenly boys scurried through heaps of rubbish that Faramir’s fellow foot travelers dodged with oaths. Discordant yelps punctuated snarls as dogs scrabbled amongst scraps and kicks that were dealt with equal impartiality. Plantings still clustered against the walls but the blooms were spindly, ravaged by the depredations of too many horses. Disorder reigned in the once-gracious courtyard.

Despite Beregond’s warnings he had allowed himself to keep faith during the long trek. His heart had warmed at the sight of the well-tended holdings they passed. At his first far-off glimpse of his house silhouetted by the late afternoon sun, he had laughed with joy. What greeted him upon his entrance into the compound, however –

“What madness is this?” Faramir demanded, staring up at Beregond. Before they had come within sight of the house he had insisted that his friend ride, for the two to walk together would have seemed odd.

Beregond’s face was stern as he dismounted and said, “I bid you welcome, Anû ‘nBatân of Harad, to the halls of the Prince of Ithilien, gone these past ten years.”

Faramir leaned on his staff as he frowned at the dirty courtyard, ignoring the stir his presence caused. Little remained of the fine walkways where he and Éowyn had promenaded and played with their children.  “How is this possible? Éowyn spent many hours in the planning of this yard and was justly proud of its beauty.”

“Do not show your outrage so clearly,” Beregond replied. “Now do you see why you must be prudent? Too much has changed, and there are too many unknown ears and too few friends.”

Faramir waved away the admonition. “I will not be hasty, yet I warn you that after seeing this I will break my silence sooner than later.”

“Gently! This cannot last now that you have returned.”

Faramir smiled grimly behind his beard. “No. It will not.”

Beregond beckoned to a stable lad and handed him his horse. “Now follow me, F – friend. You must be weary and night approaches.”

Faramir recognized few faces as Beregond led him through the throng. He sensed a great deal of guarded curiosity and some hostility at the presence of a Harad but no one openly challenged them as Beregond, grim-faced, strode toward the doorway until a tall dark-haired man bearing the arms of the White Company appeared from within. The soldier nodded gravely. “Beregond.”

“Greetings, Menelmir,” Beregond replied. “I bring a traveler I met on the road. As you see he has travelled far and wishes to pass the night within the hall before he continues on his way.”

Faramir bowed before rising to meet the captain’s searching gaze. Menelmir was more youthful than he had expected but it was the vague familiarity of his face that puzzled him, for the man was too young to have been a recruit sent to his command in Ithilien or even to have been a soldier in Gondor ten years before.

Menelmir looked at him in silence for a while. “Men of Harad are few here. Yet the Lady of Ithilien turns away no weary traveler,” he said at last. “In her name, enter and rest. You are safe here.” He nodded at the two men as they stepped past him.

Faramir cast a glance back. His eyes met Menelmir’s for a moment longer before the latter proceeded into the courtyard. Still puzzling over the frisson of recognition he commented, “A man of substance, though young for his responsibilities, and not overly trusting.”

“He arrived from Minas Tirith and after a private audience with the princess he was assigned to the White Company. A week later the princess pensioned me and I was still on the road to my new home when I heard she had named him captain,” Beregond answered with a sigh. “But I hold him no ill will. He is the one I would have chosen anyway to succeed me and has proven himself most capable despite his youth. A good-natured man and loyal though not given to idle conversation.”

After the noise of the courtyard the relative peace of the main hall was a relief. Beregond gestured to a distant table at which other dust-weary figures were gathered. “Sit, traveler, with others such as yourself, and rest until the meal is ready.”

“I thank you,” Faramir answered. Smiling, he added, “Gracious sir.”

Beregond smiled a little in return and lowered his voice. “Gracious indeed! Do you know, Faramir, how easily you have reverted to the ways and speech of the Haradrim? I would not recognize you save for your words, so pay heed to what you say.” He turned to find those friends of his from whom he could discreetly gather useful news.

Faramir set his staff against the wall before nodding a greeting to the others seated at the table. He was answered with hard glares and with a mental shrug he sank onto the end of a bench. Automatically his hands settled deep beneath the folds of his robe and his fingers played with the familiar shape of his ring.

The men of Harad were considerably less welcome in Ithilien than in the rest of Gondor and as such his movements about the house would be severely curtailed. He sighed. He had not realized how exhausting the decision to remain hidden in his own home, however temporarily, was proving to be. I am not a man given to deception, he thought. Beregond’s reasoning is sound but it has been too long since Faramir of Ithilien stood as master in this hall. Above all he resented that his first sight of his home after ten years had been sullied in this way, as would be the first meeting with his wife and children.

He drew a deep breath. Brooding had never been useful in his experience, or wise. Automatically he began practicing the techniques he had always used to relax when preparing to shoot his bow. The routine took longer than usual as he was careful not to betray his actions but by the end his head was clearer.

Despite his dislike of his situation he gazed about him in pleasure, at last releasing some of his rigid control upon his emotions. Unlike the courtyard the hall was as he remembered it, filling with the familiar bustle that preceded each evening meal – tables and benches dragged into place, candles lit, sleepy dogs chased away. He smiled to himself as a serving woman scolded a boy who was too slow with the firewood, her complaints warring with his impertinent retorts.

Members of the White Company were stationed throughout the hall. Relaxed though watchful, they looked at him often but did not approach. In his turn Faramir observed them keenly, pleased at their discipline. Clearly Beregond had not exaggerated about Menelmir’s abilities.

He examined the hall carefully and satisfied himself that the stonework was as sound as when he had left, just as the passages through which he had passed had been. Despite her declared rejection of martial ways Éowyn had always viewed the safety of her home as paramount. Which, he thought, made it all the more puzzling that she had allowed such lax practices as he had seen outside to happen.

His gaze fell on the tapestries that warmed the severe lines of stone. He recognized those that Éowyn had brought with her from Rohan but many others were unfamiliar, though he could still easily see her hand in the fine work and bold themes. He studied the vivid images, smiling.

“Why are you so surprised, Faramir? The women of Rohan are renowned for their needlework.”

“I had not thought it an art to your taste.” He admired the swift grace of her hands as she stitched, her needle winking in the firelight.

“The winter nights were long in Meduseld and I have never been one for idle hands. It is soothing work that exercises the mind yet also frees it for much thought.” A shadow seemed to pass over her face before she smiled again. “The smiths at Meduseld grumbled mightily when I scorned the usual horn and bone and insisted that they craft me the finest needles they could.”

The needle stabbed the wool and stilled as Éowyn flung back her head, her gaze bright with challenge. “Give me any length of steel and I shall conquer with it.”

“Shameful, that it is. Making merry as bold as you please, and more than free with Lord Faramir’s goods. Shameful how our lady allows those men here.”

“Allow, you say? Nay, don’t you know how she urged them to tarry, those bold ones who first approached her with their offers? That was enough to fire the others, ‘til now there isn’t a bright-eyed fellow in all of Gondor or Ithilien who isn’t warming his seat at Lady Éowyn’s table.”

“Will she be down tonight? I hear she prefers to spend her nights stitching in her rooms.”

“She does but she never fails to attend the hall for the evening meal.”

Faramir slid his glance at the two peasant women sitting near him. Their work-roughened fingers busily knotted yarn as they gossiped in low voices.

The second woman continued, “And is it such a surprise that men flock here? There’s still dark things come out of Mordor time and again and Lady Éowyn is hard pressed to send enough soldiers when and where they are needed.

“A pity that the scars of the wars have not yet healed. Éomer of Rohan does what he can but he and King Elessar have their own great duties.” She sniffed. “I do say Elessar should be grateful that Gondor has been left at peace with the most bothersome of sharp-eyed lads all here and as some thanks sent aid to our lady.”

“And she so proud, you think she would accept? You know that the king has said that he honors the wisdom of Faramir, who left his wife as regent while Elboron is not yet grown.”

“Wise our lord had always been but even he could not foresee his future and Éowyn is but a lone woman with great burdens. So it is not so odd that she eyes what may be of aid to her at home. Fine examples, some of those knights. It’s a strong man we’re needing to keep us safe even now with Elboron away with the elves– a sturdy man such as the one we had.”

“True, true. She may be but a woman as cold as the northlands that birthed her but perhaps she is at last looking to heat her blood again.”

“Bah, fish warmed twice is what she’ll be dining on with any of that lot, after what she’s had with Lord Faramir.” The second woman grinned. “But good enough when you’ve gone hungry a while, eh?”

“Ah, stop, you sly girl, you’ve made me drop a knot!”

The two sniggered and Faramir’s mouth tightened. At that moment a commotion at the entrance caught his attention and he turned to observe several approaching groups of laughing men, obviously arriving from some outdoor entertainment. His eyes narrowed.

So here they are, he thought. A sizeable lot.

He recognized many as men of property and standing, yet with the ambition to add to what they had. Others he thought of poor prospects and disturbingly young – closer to Elboron’s age than was comfortable. He glanced about the great hall again. Ithilien and this house at Emyn Arnen were fair and no doubt a great temptation. And of course, there was Éowyn herself.

A latecomer arrived and Faramir’s gaze sharpened. He studied the well-dressed noble who strode with such confidence into the hall. Dark-haired and blue eyed, he was still as tall and fair to look upon as on the last day they had met years before.

“Your patience is endless.” His friend smiled briefly before squinting up at the sky. “I would be ecstatic to be free of this dreary land.”

“I cannot agree with you other than, yes, my heart yearns for the green hills that cannot be found here.” Faramir laughed as he reached into the leaves above him and plucked a golden globe that he tossed to the other. “My thanks for arriving so quickly.”

“Your message urged haste, Faramir.”

“The sooner this last packet reaches Elessar the sooner I may leave.”

“Ah. I – see. Well, this is happy news but I vow this is a strange spot to meet.”

“This happiest of news called for a special place – here, amidst a scent that sings of my home.”

His companion sniffed the air curiously. “What scent?”

“Oranges.”

“Oranges!” the other exclaimed. He stared at the fruit in his hand. “Why would oranges remind you of Ithilien and not Harad?”

Faramir only smiled and handed him the packet.

Artholas of Lossarnach.

His face was familiar, guileless – the face of one who had been devoted to Boromir and who had also once served himself faithfully – but Faramir had no difficult now seeing the pride and discontent that simmered beneath the open countenance. Each time Artholas smiled and glanced around covetousness gleamed in his eyes; he was a man too comfortable in a house that was not his. Yet, as Faramir truly looked at him, he also saw the weariness born of shame over the betrayal of a friend and the countless sleepless nights spent waging losing battles with his greed. He shuddered at the darkness he saw and his anger was washed away by a wave of pity for the ruin of a good man.

The great room filled as the suitors threw themselves into their chairs and called loudly for wine. Some grumbled at the lateness of the hour and shouted at the servants to hurry with the meat even though custom dictated that the meal would not start until the lady of the house arrived to preside at the high table or otherwise gave leave. Faramir’s heart lightened as he noted the servants’ annoyance. He watched Artholas settle into the chair beside Éowyn’s – not the one reserved for the master of the house – and join in conversation with his companions.

Yet more people he did not recognize wandered in and the great hall rang with conversation while musicians played softly. Several young women joined the men at the tables with such easy greetings that Faramir’s eyebrows arched in astonishment that Éowyn had permitted such women into her house. He was distracted, however, when a little page appeared in the archway leading to the family’s private quarters.

The clamor died down as the boy stood before the doorway. Faramir’s stomach tensed in anticipation, He rose with the others as the page announced, “Éowyn, princess of Ithilien.”

She entered the hall immediately upon the page’s announcement, trailed by her women and Menelmir, and for one dizzying moment he felt as if time had spun back to the early years of their marriage. Heedless of his circumstances and Beregond’s worried regard, he did not bow with the others but leaned forward and studied her intently.

The years seemed not to have touched Éowyn. The slightly arrogant tilt of her head, the tall slender figure in white wool embroidered at neck and hem with green leaves, the hair kissed into radiance by the candlelight ­– she was the White Lady he had borne in his memories.

Her gaze swept the hall and fell upon him. She checked briefly while a faint frown creased her brow but no recognition brightened her eyes. Faramir sighed and offered her a courteous bow. After a moment she turned her head away and continued toward the high table, nodding at Artholas with a few words. Faramir saw no particular warmth in her attitude but noted how intimately the man smiled as he bent toward her to speak. Then to Faramir’s surprise Éowyn gestured to her women before turning and walking the length of the hall, accompanied only by Menelmir, toward where he stood.

Beregond appeared beside him. “Avert your eyes!” he whispered urgently.

Faramir frowned but recalled their conversations and reluctantly complied.

Éowyn stopped before the ragged traveler who stood with bowed head. She studied him for a moment before looking at the man beside him. “Beregond.”

Just a simple word but Faramir felt his body respond to the timbre of her beloved voice. She had always had that effect on him and he fought the intense desire to step forward and take her in his arms, to kiss her and lose himself in her clear grey gaze.

“Beregond, you are welcome, if unexpected.” The low cool voice betrayed little of Éowyn’s feelings. “Will you tell me of this stranger who accompanied you here?”

Menelmir had not wasted time in informing her of their arrival, Faramir mused as he glanced at the young captain standing behind Éowyn.

Beregond bowed. “His name is Anû ‘nBatân and he hails from the southern reaches of Harad.” Hesitating a little he added, “He stops only to break his journey for the night before moving on.”

Éowyn looked again at her disguised husband. “It has been many months since a man of Harad last visited Ithilien. Why do you come here?” Abruptly she asked, “Did you know Faramir?”

Faramir slowly bowed his head. “Yes, Éowyn daughter of Eómund,” he murmured, ignoring Beregond’s stifled gasp.

Astounded cries greeted his words and the news passed swiftly through the room. Faramir straightened and allowed himself a quick, keen glance into his wife’s face.

At first he marveled anew at how little changed she seemed. But the memory of her smile as he had bidden her and the children farewell before the gates of the house was belied by the rigid discipline in her expression now. Even his startling answer only earned a faint furrow between her brows. She reminded him of how she had been during the early days of their acquaintance: fiercely contained like the cold-eyed shieldmaidens depicted in the tapestries she had brought from Rohan, women fierce and proud in their devotion to the protection of hearth and hall. How had those stern women of legend dealt with errant husbands? None knew better than he the storminess of his wild northern bride’s heart beneath her regal façade.

Our hearth and our home, my Éowyn. But we have been parted for longer than we were together; will we be as strangers? Sorrow burned his throat at the barrenness of their reunion. I should be holding her close in the privacy of our chamber and renewing the promises of our marriage, not skulking in the guise of a stranger. I should be enjoying the laughter of my children in my own garden, not wondering how they fare in the care of others.

Faramir glanced at Artholas. The man watched him with hooded eyes, alert and thoughtful but not yet suspicious. Faramir’s attention returned to Éowyn when she spoke.

“Anû ‘nBatân of Harad, I bid you welcome to the prince of Ithilien’s halls. Tomorrow I will have you summoned so that we may have private conversation.”

Pleased that he had the desired audience so quickly, Faramir bowed again. “You are generous, Éowyn of Ithilien. I –” He tensed, leaning forward towards her.

The scent of her – the light touch of lavender, such as might have been scattered between her garments in her clothes press for storage through the winter, skirled through the air, carried by the warmth of her skin.

Perfectly ordinary. And wrong.

Unfamiliar.

“Anû ‘nBatân?” Her voice was questioning but she did not lean away from him.

He recovered as Beregond’s tight grip on his arm drew him back. “It is nothing,” he muttered.

Éowyn frowned a little before turning to return to the high table, accompanied by the silent Menelmir. Faramir settled back onto the bench amidst the renewed noise of supper being set out. Unconsciously he sniffed again.

“Pine, Faramir? In my hair rinse? An odd request! You have always expressed a great liking for the orange oils you gave me. Why do you wish me to add pine?”

“Orange is the fragrance of far-off lands bathed in unending sunshine. Pine is the scent of Ithilien where the forests lie dark and fragrant amidst the fresh greenery. Éowyn, on those winter nights we sit together before our fires I would breathe deeply of both woods and sunlight and thus banish the cold.”

She was silent before she turned her face into his cheek. “Then I will have the apothecary concoct such a blend. Summer forever, a scent to find favor–” he felt her lips curve into a smile,“–with both man and horse. Ah, do you laugh?”

“My lord?”

He did not chastise Beregond for his softly spoken words. “It is as if I have ventured into another man’s house,” he sighed. “This place, my wife– it is not how it should be.”

Beregond straightened from where he bent close to Faramir under the guise of adjusting his boot. As he turned away he dropped his hand to his friend’s shoulder and gave a brief but fierce squeeze.

Faramir sighed again. For twenty years hope had supported him during the defence of Ithilien against Sauron; for ten years more faith had strengthened him. He still believed with all his heart in his wife but he could not deny his disappointment with their meeting.

The food arrived from the kitchens and Faramir’s stomach growled, forcing away his despondent thoughts. The dishes brought to the table were simple but filling. His people’s farms obviously produced well but he was displeased at the lavish quantities being served at the suitors’ tables. His eye often met that of Artholas, whose attentions were focused on Éowyn but who also looked at Faramir at times with a grim set to his jaw. He showed no recognition of his former friend, only unease over the presence of a southerner who had somehow known Faramir. Faramir wondered how long it would be until Artholas sought him out.

Éowyn held herself aloof, dining sparingly, but ever and again her gallants appealed for her attention. Once upon a time she would have scorned such impertinence but now Faramir noted how intently she listened to the conversations around her without appearing to do so. She smiled a little for Artholas but more often than not her gaze strayed down the hall to where the supposed man of Harad ate his dinner.

Despite the situation it was the most pleasant evening he had spent in years. Faramir savored the warmth and good food and listened to the efforts of the musicians who strolled the hall, even though their attempts at making themselves heard grew ever more futile as the evening progressed.

“Are there no new songs to be played? No new tales?” a voice suddenly complained, interrupting a red-faced jongleur in the middle of a song. “You! Man of Harad! Surely you have stories to amuse us with?”

Other voices took up the cry and Faramir studied the drunken young knight who had called to him. He pushed aside thoughts of his ruined homecoming, his frustration, his longing. All night the house that he had built had been drawing forth their shared memories. Soon enough they would begin again but now was the time for him to draw on those remembrances that were his alone and begin to bring himself – all of himself – back into his house.

He smiled a little and then rose, smoothing his beard as he did. “To please the Lady of Ithilien, and in honor of the friendship between Gondor and Harad.” He stepped out to the centre of the hall and bowed to Éowyn. He paused a long moment, head bent in thought before he looked steadily at the expectant faces before him. “I will share some of the marvels I have seen and heard of. Do not disbelieve what I tell you, for although the Third Age has passed all has not yet gone.”

He began slowly, drawing on remembrances of evenings around the campfires during which his Haradrim hosts had schooled him in their stylized art of storytelling. He, who had so loved the silent treasures to be found in the dignified libraries at Minas Tirith, had been humbled by the tale weavers of Harad – men whose artistry in memory and the telling was a gift as enduring as the bound pages with which he had grown up.

Into the silence he spoke –

– of wizened old men who mumbled fortunes while anointing fresh pigeons’ blood upon the bones of their fathers – bones so highly polished that once freed from their ancient wrappings they gleamed jewel-bright –

– of grim journeys escorting priceless spices thorough the ruins of great cities, as the cries of those comrades snatched away by unseen terrors were smothered within the rain-sodden jungles –

– of women who stupefied men with their unearthly beauty so they were little more than fawning beasts fit only to abuse and torment –

– of exotic plants whose blooms, plump and sweet, trapped men’s minds within themselves at the first taste and drove such mad men to barter even their souls without regret –

– of tribes who worshipped beasts and regarded the world with wondering eyes untouched by any memory of the Valar ­–

– of the haunting singing of desert women veiled by silken curtains beneath the sultry night; of music that cried for home and those most beloved, that pierced a man’s heart with such intense yearning for his own distant land that he was nearly drawn to cast aside his honor and duty –

– and he saw reflected in his listeners’ eyes the fears and glories of a foreign land come alive.

Softly, then, Faramir began to sing. He sang of a young girl at play with her handmaidens beneath the sycamores in the gardens of her father’s house; of a tired carter switching his equally exhausted mule as they hauled a wagon through dusty streets; of the rhythmic caroling of the merchants in the bazaars as they sat behind chest-high piles of colors and scents and textures; of bright-eyed women gossiping as they drew water at a common well – foreign scenes but nonetheless as familiar to those who listened as the air they breathed.

It was not until the candles had burned low that Faramir ended his song. Gazing into the rapt faces he said quietly, “I give you Harad – neither to be feared nor hated for all its strangeness but at heart as like to Gondor as a man to his brother, if you would but look beyond the trappings. Hail the friendship of Gondor and Harad, and may it endure until the world is at last unmade.” He bowed to the high table.

In the silence Éowyn rose and looked at him, her grey eyes bright. “I thank you for the gift of your tales, Anû ‘nBatân of Harad. You have entertained us well and I bid you continue to partake of the hospitality of this house.”

Across the length of the hall Faramir smiled at her.

Everyone rose as Éowyn departed accompanied by her ladies and Menelmir, then returned to their entertainments. Faramir made his way back to his bench, nodding thanks for the compliments shouted at him but politely declining the offered coin.

“Is it real? Is it true?” One of the two gossips he had overheard earlier stood before him with mouth slightly agape, her poor rough hands clutched together.

He nodded and she sighed before she turned away without another word.

Faramir smiled to himself as he settled back upon his bench. The seed of friendship had been sown at last even here in the stubborn soil of Ithilien. Elessar’s hopes were not in vain.

He had discovered some joy for himself as well. Éowyn’s sternness at first had grieved him but she had listened to his song intently and by the end her heart had seemed lightened, to his gladness. Even Artholas had not remained untouched. He had watched with lowered brows, although Faramir thought it likely due more to his dislike of Harad that to any growing suspicion. There had been a moment while Faramir spoke that the man had stirred and frowned, as if searching for a memory; but Menelmir, bending to speak to Éowyn, had upset Artholas’ wine onto his sleeve and in the ensuing flurry Artholas had seemed to forget the moment. Yet Faramir hoped that conscience had pricked his heart or mercy would not find him at the time of reckoning.

The bench shifted and Faramir looked up as Beregond settled beside him. His corner of the hall was emptying as the other travelers sought warm nooks in which to spend the night; for the moment they were alone and in no danger of being overheard. Faramir eyed his henchman. “You are deep in thought.”

“I am thinking that at least some of the rumors about Faramir of Ithilien’s straying heart indeed had merit.”

Faramir glanced at him sharply but Beregond’s eyes did not waver as he continued, “When Anû ‘nBatân told his tales— there was such love for the land of Harad in his voice, a fervor that brought life to his stories.” He turned his head to study the far wall. “Forgive me. I was angry at you but at last I begin to understand why you tarried there.”

Faramir rested his hands upon his thighs. He replied in a low voice, “I have been a man of Ithilien for over thirty years; it is here my heart lies. Do not forget that.

“Yet I do not deny that Harad filled a part of my heart as well when I arrived there. I did not expect it; but it is a marvelous land full of worthy peoples, Beregond, beyond my telling, and I was then even more determined to do what I could to ensure Gondor and Harad would become brothers again as Elessar wished. Whether by negotiating with stubborn chieftains or spinning tales for drunken knights it has not yet ended and so those ten long years continue into tonight.”

His voice grew sad. “Yet how hard for those who must wait, as hard as it was for myself. I paid the price easily enough during the years against Sauron – those dear to me were all men of war and we all understood the matter. But my wife and my children – I will not let their sacrifice be wasted by not finishing this.”

“Let your heart be at peace, my lord,” Beregond murmured. “You ease the way for Elboron. And do you think one who had been a Shieldmaiden of Rohan and a daughter of kings would falter at this?”

Faramir frowned and nodded at the suitors, who were at last stirring themselves to call for their horses and men. “You do not see the whole. Do you not see how Éowyn takes no pleasure in their company yet must suffer them? To be so plagued again, in her own home, is not to be borne.” He gestured at Artholas’s back as the man left the hall.

“Softly, Faramir. What is done is past and all that we may do is judge by what is to come. That no man may predict.”

Faramir shook his head. “Enough. Tell me, Beregond, what say your friends?”

Beregond frowned. “I did not find them. I was told that Menelmir had sent them away from Emyn Arnen on unknown errands not long before I came to the barracks. Those remaining knew little enough, other than it has been more quiet of late, as if all wait for what the princess will do.”

“Will do?”

“So much talk amongst the maids. They say the princess has been laboring long on a secret tapestry that will soon be finished. When she is done, some say she will ask Elessar to approve a new lord. Others say that she will return to Rohan after seeing Elboron in place. There are other sillier rumors that I will not bother to speak. Some of the soldiers returning from patrol may know more but I cannot ask them until the morning.”

Faramir frowned at the delay. “Find them at dawn –“ he began but broke off as he noticed the small page trot into the hall and wind his way between sleepy men and dogs.

The boy stopped before him. In his piping voice he announced, “The princess gives you greetings, stranger, and bids you attend her in her solar.” He turned smartly and began retracing his route but stopped when he realized that Faramir had not yet risen.

“So Éowyn wishes to speak to me tonight instead?” Faramir murmured. “Decisive. In that she has not changed.”

“Take care!” Beregond whispered. “The princess will have many questions perilous to answer. She will wish to know who you are and where you have been.”

Faramir sighed and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.  

“I dream of it often of late.”

“Ah. And do you know what it means?”

He glanced at his companion as she strolled along the garden paths beside him. “Once it meant darkness inescapable. But now–” He frowned thoughtfully. “The wind and waves roar but I know neither fear nor despair as I watch that great green wall rush toward me–  only wonder at where it shall bear me. I had thought the dream had ended with the fall of Sauron but in the past month it has returned, and ever more vivid. Arwen, why do I still dream, and why has it changed? And why, despite my wonder, does my heart feel so heavy and disquieted?” He glanced at her again, his grey gaze keen and sharp.

The sounds of the garden rose and fell about them as the Queen of Gondor remained silent. Finally she replied, “Water is true only to itself; as kind as it is cruel, shaping and building even as it destroys. So my father taught me as we watched the falls work the cliffs about Imladris with a strength that he could not gainsay, even should he have wished it. But he also showed me that to understand the water’s way is to have power over it, so that even the mighty Bruinen might be coaxed to follow a path of his choosing.”

She bent to stroke the tall blooms scattered in the grass by the path, and then straightened to smile at him, her fair face grave yet kind. “All things are not yet clear to me, so I say only this to you: remember who you are, Faramir, and who are your friends, and then you need fear nothing casting you asunder from that which you hold most dear. Keep faith, my friend.”

He smiled and offered her his arm and together they strolled back to the shaded arbor where Elessar and Éowyn awaited them.

Faramir rose and smiled gently at his friend. “And perhaps that is not so evil a thing to remember.” He nodded at the small page and fell into step behind him.