The unconsciousness didn't last long. There was hardly a worse way to wake up than by bad pain. Faramir fought to get orientated for several minutes, wondering in vain why he was laying on hard, cold soil instead of his bed, why his left knee felt as if his lower leg had been torn off and why every breath was burning in his side. He must have taken a ride – why? At this time? And why had he fallen off his horse like an amateur?

Since the pain did hardly allow any movement, he tried to call his horse but his own voice sounded distorted, far too deep, and too slow. His hand trembling, he wiped the sweat off his forehead that was running down his skin in rivulets, burning in his eyes. A useless attempt at sitting up had him fall on his back, and he couldn't even breathe for a few seconds. At least some of his memories came back to him now, including the one regarding why he was feeling terribly sick, where this headache was coming from, as well as a thirst that he'd rarely felt before in his life. Something was poisoning his body, more with every minute. Where he'd still be able to fool himself earlier, telling himself it had just been a little too much alcohol in too little time, now at the latest, thanks to this complete helplessness, the right realization slowly started to creep in. He had not been drinking that much. It wasn't the wine that he was missing. Something had been in it that his organism was now desiring. Something that he had not believed anyone capable of administering it to him without his knowledge.

Gandalf's once educational words about the strict secrecy regarding elvish poisons had been a good excuse to fight this idea. Éowyn had probably even believed him. The truth was that it had been Faramir's own pride, forbidding him to even consider seeing such an intrigue. Stewardaides right among his people that he was trusting with his life – impossible! Now his own trembling and shivering and a first wave of cramps proved him wrong. Someone had indeed poisoned him, and the more he thought about it, the less likely it was that it had been the elves who wouldn't gain any advantage by that. They wanted revenge on the Stewardaides, not him.

That meant nothing less but that these criminals were now indeed being in his own house, together with Éowyn. And he had just left his wife alone although these people had only been waiting for such a chance. Faramir had to go back immediately … He didn't manage to do anything but arduously turn to his side. Never had he felt so betrayed by his own body. It was a scary sensation, especially since his mind was still being comparatively clear.

"On the ground, where you belong."

Faramir's eyes went wide when a voice started to talk to him that he could impossibly have heard right.

It was indeed his father's stocky silhouette cowering just a few feet away from him, in his costly black Steward-robe, his silver-gray hair that had looked so disheveled in the end, hanging down his forehead, tangled, not enough to hide though that Denethor was eyeing Faramir with exactly that disparaging glance that he'd always hated so much. That he'd never regarded Boromir with.

Suspecting his mind to play tricks on him didn't make that bitter smile on his father's face, this unbearable smug posture any easier to bear.

"Did you think I wouldn't find you?" Denethor's lips weren't moving and yet Faramir could hear him, like a venomous fog penetrating his thoughts. "Did you really think you could deceive me? I saw you, every time you rode out to turn this pitiful flock of rebels against me." As if his own mind was trying to taunt Faramir, the hallucination raised a cup of wine. "To my treacherous son who finally gets what he deserves. Sadly, I couldn't get rid of you in Osgiliath back then. Looks like they're giving me a second chance."

"You're not real." Oh, but he was. Not the hallucination itself maybe, but these cruel words surely were. Of course, his father had known what Faramir had planned to do against him. Had he ever expected anything else? And then he'd been wondering why Denethor had always treated him so dismissively …

The nausea grew worse; he didn't even manage to straighten up. He almost choked on his gag reflex. The pain in his side had his whole upper body tremble. When he made it to open his eyes again, at last, the hallucination had fortunately vanished.

He finally needed to get up … His head hit the rocky ground when he fell back again. The only thing keeping him awake was a soft touch against his cheek, a quiet bristle. Of course, the horse had heard him …

If one day, trouble should get too big for you to handle, after all, look west for that's where your wizard will always come from.

As if in trance, Faramir turned his head to the left.

No, it wasn't the sight of his mare awaiting him there but a proud, strong stallion, the Lord of the most precious horses of Middle-earth. His white fur melted with the moonlight into a shadowy silhouette, just like the white-clad rider on his back did.

Again, the weirdly familiar voice reached his ears, speaking to him in a song of the elves of Lórien that he had last heard from this kind, warm voice when he had been a little boy. One of the few nice memories of that time.

ever have you stumbled when the sky turned dark

and the road was blocked

yet no harm laid waste to your quest

for the eyes in the sky would watch

that star that lit your coming into this world

veiled its shimmer well

so no one else could see

still, ever it waits for your gaze to turn high

whenever you're in need

crossed borders just to see if you could

and set foot on the Anduin when it froze

and still, the eyes in the sky would watch

the star that lit my coming into this world

veiled my shimmer well

so only you would see

look up for my gaze to turn to you

whenever you're in need

for a million stars Eru unveiled

to grace the life of all

and never too dark will be night and day

for mine to ever fall

"Gandalf?" It was a more pleasant illusion but not a bit less confusing.

Faramir managed to brace himself up on his elbows and reached for the horse that was nosing his shoulder. The movement went straight through the ghostly manifestation which gave him the reassurance that he was only imagining everything. Maybe he was dreaming, too. Had that whole fight in Emyn Arnen been just a nightmare?

"I'm coming for you." Gandalf's gentle whisper, so close, as if he was kneeling right beside him. So soothing, as if he was resting his hand on Faramir's heated forehead. "Free yourself of the shadow on your mind. Lend me your eyes. I need to see where you are."

Faramir didn't understand but since it was only a hallucination, it didn't matter, did it? At least Gandalf wouldn't blame him for making nothing but mistakes all his life.

He slowly turned his head to the side, as far as the dizziness allowed him to, and let his eyes wander over the mountains close by, over Osgiliath in the distance where a few dancing lights revealed that there were still workers around to put the finishing touches to the reconstructed city even at this time. So close and yet way too far to expect help from there.

"Hang in there." The manifestation vanished as quickly as it had come.

Faramir weakly let his head drop on the hill's short grass, damp from the night. Only a dream … He would be waking up soon. He let himself slip into the new unconsciousness just too gladly, without consciously hearing the waddling steps nearby. Not understanding the kind of danger, he was getting himself into.

Gandalf's warning voice in his head came too late.

Not even the hot, greedy breath of a ravenous wolf grazing Faramir's skin could wake him up. The symptoms of the poisoning had done too much damage. The pain when something buried its sharp teeth in his cheek and started to tug firmly on the sensitive flesh didn't reach his mind either.

Only people who didn't share the heavy sorrows of Gondor's realm leaders that night, and who had not heard about the riots emerging thanks to the Stewardaides' new flyers either, might have noticed how quickly the starry sky over Minas Tirith was suddenly clouding over. How the temperature was dropping and how the air was filling with humidity until bright flashes and thunder were rolling over the mountains, basically coming out of nowhere. And it would have occurred to none of these people – unlike they'd happened to meet a creature of magic before – that the unusual break in the weather was an intervention of higher powers.

A wanderer traveling the mountains of Minas Tirith at most might have been doubted the chances of one of these flashes striking a certain stony slope so accurately. But on this fateful night, no one was being drawn to this dangerous area of all places, at least no one who wanted to be seen. Which was why the death of a single, lonely hunter that had only followed his very own survival instinct, remained a secret.

Many miles away, an exhausted old man slumped on his horse's back with a deep sigh of relief and said a silent prayer to the Valar before carrying on towards Osgiliath. Hoping that he wouldn't have to fight even more threats before he arrived.

When a loud scream in the small cell had her blood freeze, Arwen knew it was over. She didn't dare to look anymore. Squeezing her eyes firmly shut, she just waited for that well-known, disgusting pressure inside of her, the tearing burn when a blade pierced her body. She wanted it to finally happen, even if it was just so that this unbearable pain would go away, the knowledge that Aragorn was dead …

She couldn't tell for how long she had been standing there, leaning against the ice-cold wall, holding her breath when another scream echoed from the walls and something heavy fell against her, the blade on her throat slipping. Startled, she pushed her attacker's silhouette off of her, even while her instincts and her senses came to life again and had her reach for the weapon in a flash before it could drop to the ground.

When she spun around and lowered her eyes though, she saw in confusion that her enemy had stopped moving and that a pool of blood was spreading below his body. A missile had pierced him. Had someone …? But it had already been too late, had it not?

Fighting the fear with all she had, she turned her head, expecting nothing less than having to spot Aragorn's corpse next.

But her husband was sitting against the same wall that Arwen had just almost left her life at, breathing heavily.

The other Stewardaid was lying next to him. In his back, a short arrow was stuck as well.

At this point, it shouldn't have surprised Arwen anymore when someone grabbed her shoulder but the last few days of torture had left traces after all. She startled so much that she had almost thrust the dagger into her savior's chest. She could twist her wrist just in when she recognized the grey and brown tunics of a Dúnadan, when she was staring into worried but completely clear, dark eyes.

"By all the … Are you completely mad?"

"I think, you usually say 'thank you'," the man answered dryly. He put his other hand on her free shoulder next, brushing back her hair to be able to see her face better in light falling in from outside. "Are you hurt, Your Majesty?"

"I'm alright, just weak. The King …" That the new arrival, whoever it was that had just saved her life, would take care of Aragorn, was far more important than explaining to him that Arwen had no idea if she had indeed made it out of this dangerous situation unharmed that had been ended at the last moment. She wouldn't know that before she would be in a healer's custody next. Until then, her husband's wellbeing took priority. Still, she took the water bag that the stranger handed her in relief before he followed her urgent plea.

The sound of her voice must have revealed that it had been a while since she'd had a few sips of water last. The memory of how the Stewardaides had made it to take Aragorn and her prisoner in the first place, had her hesitate for a split second before unscrewing the bag. No matter how much her trust in certain men had suffered in the last few months, her instincts told her that this one hadn't just possibly dressed up as a member of Aragorn's former folk to poison her. It was over. Just another nightmare that she would have to live with.

"Thank you by the way," she added with a weak smile. "I hope you'll forgive me that writing a hero's song about the support of a stranger will have to wait until we're home."

The amused smile on the brunette man's narrow lips was very likable. "Langhour, Your Majesty." Well, that did explain why Aragorn wasn't eyeing the man with half as much confusion as Arwen did.

Langhour it was then. One of Aragorn's oldest friends, the man substituting for him as the Chieftain of the Dúnedain whenever he didn't have time for it himself. Why the man was suddenly being here that Aragorn had actually sent to Arnor again, together with the others, in the course of their journey to the west back then, was the most unimportant question in the whole world right now.

"My pleasure. I'm glad I could make it in time. Sit down, recover for a few minutes." Langhour rummaged in his belt again and insistently thrust a small bag with dried fruit into Arwen's hand. "Gather some strength. You're safe; there are no Stewardaides in sight for now."

Arwen let herself sink down against the wall, with a relieved, deep sigh. "Aragorn?"

It was childish but she needed to hear his voice at least for a moment to really feel at ease.

Langhour wasn't surprised that Aragorn's only reaction to his wife was a slightly raised hand. He was doing far worse; that he was actually able to sit straight seemed like a small miracle.

He got down on one knee next to him. "The situation is under control. Tell me everything wrong with you."

Aragorn didn't quite seem to be trusting his senses yet after all; he blinked at Langhour absent-mindedly a few times. "What are you doing here?"

"A certain elvish Lord with a particularly striking hair color is very worried about you and accidentally found me during my visit home." With a calming smile, Langhour felt Aragorn's shoulder. Unfastening his second water bag from his belt too, he started to rummage for herbs and bandages. The King was running a high fever; for him, it was even more important to drink something than for his wife.

"I came just in time." He eyed the Stewardaides' bodies darkly, thanking the Valar, not for the first time in the last few minutes.

Almost … He'd almost given up. Having to abandon a search was always frustrating. And when two lives were depending on it, even a Dúnadan with decades of experience admitted to himself only reluctantly when he was completely stumped. There had just been too many tracks. A few of the Stewardaides used the knowledge of their past as Rangers quite effectively. The tracks that Langhour had followed had branched off, again and again, leading him either deeper into the mountains or into a whole different direction, until he had felt like running in circles.

It still seemed like a miracle to him that in the end, his instincts had taken to the right path after all, and that the arrows of his small crossbow had hit right, though he had hardly had a chance to aim. It hadn't been the most elegant or painless method, but an effective and quick one at least.

Aragorn forced hardly more than an arduous sip down his throat before trying to get up already, bracing himself against the wall with his healthy, trembling arm. "Arwen? Are you sure, nothing happened to you?" He dropped back down with a pained gasp.

"Thanks to your very skilled friend here. Calm down, Aragorn." Langhour could hear the she-elf smile. Just a few seconds after the attack, she had almost found all of her serenity back already, an ability that most members of her kin had. After helping herself with some fruit, she didn't sound that knackered anymore either.

"What about you, can you walk?" Langhour tried in vain not to lose patience with Aragorn still mostly ignoring him, with his leader accepting it only reluctantly that Langhour was feeling the swellings and bruises under his half-torn, filthy tunic. No fractures as far as he could tell, but a lot of bruises and sprains. The ride home wouldn't be a cake run.

Given that the King had just almost lost his own wife and his life to these completely misguided men of his own folk, Langhour couldn't expect him to be as rational as usual immediately. Or to realize that in his understandable worry, he was being the very reason right now that they were not being on their way to a safe area and especially to some healers yet.

"That doesn't matter. The small life in Arwen's belly is far more important, that might have been lost in the last few days by fault of these madmen." Aragorn clenched his teeth hard when Langhour's expression darkened. With his help, he got to his feet at the second attempt, only to drop to his knees next to his wife. Apparently, he just had to make sure himself that the cuts on her arms were not being dangerous. He was already reaching out an impatient hand towards his substitute and was only satisfied when Langhour handed him two more bandages, soaked with hastily chewed herb stew.

Only when Aragorn could be sure that Arwen's bleedings were only superficial and had been well taken care of, he pulled her into a firm embrace. "I feared for you so much …"

"As I have feared for you, mîl nín. But it's over now." Arwen tenderly stroked his completely crusted dark curls, left gentle kisses on his forehead, his temple, not caring about the many red traces there. She held him as closely to her body as his battered chest allowed, ignoring the heavy, sharp smell of days without water and care on his body.

"We should get out of here, Aragorn. I want to get back to the city as quickly as possible. I need to know …"

"Then let us not waste any more time." If there was even a small, unlikely chance that the unborn had survived all this, they had to leave the danger zone all the faster. "That only two guards were posted here doesn't mean, there couldn't be others showing up. The Stewardaides' horses are at the foot of the hill; I left mine there as well. Their owners sure won't complain about you borrowing them anymore."

He eyed the dead once more, with growing aggression, his jaw grinding, then he put a hand on Aragorn's arm. "Come."

Aragorn arduously fought the hold that the last resentfulness had on his usually so grounded soul. Fighting the pain of a possible new, big loss that this crisis had caused, had to wait. Arwen and he would hopefully take some time for each other later, to process what had happened. Right now, all that counted was getting back to Minas Tirith in one piece.

As they walked down the hard path to the tiny, fenced-in mud hole below the hill, the other Dúnadan talked in detail about his meetings with Glorfindel and Erestor, the critical incidents in Emyn Arnen as Erestor had summarized them and especially about some disastrous new flyers.

In spite of his lousy condition, Aragorn became more restless with every of Langhour's words, tempted to just run ahead. It first took his substitute's sharp admonishment that he would blackout from the infections and the fever alone if he didn't take it slow, for him to reluctantly brace himself on Langhour's shoulder again.

Just as reluctantly did he let Arwen persuade him to cram two of the painfully sharp-edged pieces of fruits from Langhour's stash down his throat. He needed the energy if he was to intervene in this crisis that had become even worse. "I need to ride there immediately. Someone has to take this damn …" A coughing fit swallowed his next words.

"I would have to strap you to the saddle if you were even to make it to Emyn Arnen. Right now, I don't even know how I'm supposed to get you two to the city." Langhour shook his head disapprovingly.

Arwen eyed Aragorn searchingly from the side, her deep blue eyes already looking quite clear again. She had wrapped the other Dúnadan's coat around her shoulders because she was freezing worse in her thin dress than Aragorn in his at least still somewhat intact cloak. "I think I can ride," she said after another small sip from the water bag. "Eating something has helped. But you, Aragorn …"

She shook her head in distress, knowing exactly that she wouldn't be able to stop Aragorn, no matter how much she was worrying about him once more, especially after the last few days, no doubt. He had married a millennia-old she-elf who knew only too well when some duty couldn't wait, being the daughter of one of the most respected and wisest realm leaders of all time. She could only remind him of the most elementary rationality. Of course, he wouldn't be of any use to anyone unconscious and half dead.

"You're far too weak. If one of the Stewardaides sees you, most they'll do is finish what they couldn't achieve here. You could already faint on your way there. How do you think you can fight like this?"

"I don't think I can, but I have to." Aragorn let himself sink against the ramshackle fence with a sigh, reaching for Arwen's hand while Langhour started to prepare the horses, using the saddles hanging there ready. "You know that ada has hardly been trusting anyone as much as Erestor for millennia. And Glorfindel is someone he wouldn't lie to. I believe him, no matter how many mistakes he made. And if he's seen all of this right, it's not only Faramir and Éowyn who are in trouble."

The next words were hard for him to say. So many bad things had been happening between Legolas and him that they might never be able to make right again, but they were still friends and Ring Companions. The bonds from the war had still not lost their strength. "I can't allow Legolas to keep on succumbing to his own hate, Nauriel. Or something even worse happening to him in this fortress. I failed him badly enough. Maybe it helps if he sees how many people he has who risk their lives for him without hesitation."

"And you think he'll forget this hate if the Stewardaides get you killed after all?" Arwen visibly had to hold back from rolling her eyes. "Just let the healers take a look at you in the city first. There's no getting around it, Aragorn."

"I can continue to heal your husband. We'll stop on the way a few times to pluck fruit so that you can keep on refilling your energy. And His Majesty will ride with me on the first stretch so that he can hold on instead of having to steer a horse himself; that will ease the pain from his injuries as well. Just don't."

Langhour pointed at Aragorn sharply before he had done more than opening his mouth. With some effort, he pulled the cinch tightly around the middle of the taller, slightly stout gelding. "These are my conditions if you really want to go to battle with such bad odds. Don't worry, Your Majesty."

As was Langhour's nature once he had accepted a dicey situation, he tried his best to solve it. In this case, he wanted to give reassurance at least to the two of them. "If Elessar wants to follow the call of Emyn Arnen, I'll take you to the city safely. You can count on me."

While Aragorn had just been considering riding to South Ithilien himself immediately, that well-meant offer chased away every thought about that. "No, I'm coming with you. Getting to the city gate is not that much of a detour. I trust you, you know that, but whenever I tasked someone else with bringing my wife home so far, something has always happened. I won't leave her and our child alone."

He rested his lips on Arwen's forehead for a loving second. "You'll go to the Houses of Healing immediately, alright? When I get back then, I want you to give me the good news that the healer will doubtlessly have for you." His fingertips fleetingly grazed the locket around her neck, the memory of what Lady Galadriel had written to them on the occasion of their wedding. The vision that she had had about their child. Aragorn just didn't want to accept yet that this dream – that had, thanks to Arwen's war injury from the Black Gate, only happened already thanks to so much luck anyway – should have burst apart already. "Everything will be alright. At this time tomorrow, everything will be over. Maybe I'll even come back with a stubborn elf in my bag then."

"You do know my suspicions are usually more reliable than yours, right?" Arwen shook her head in sadness. She waited impatiently until another of his coughing fits had passed and then kissed him lovingly to let him know that she didn't resent him for his decision.

"We should leave. Here." She untangled herself from Aragorn and took a coarse, too large leather belt off her narrow hips that she had snatched before leaving the cave, and wrapped it around him. Langhour had already taken the two daggers of the Stewardaides, so that they would, fortunately, have those at hand too in case something would happen on the way home against expectations. "If you want to risk your neck so badly once more, you'll need a sword."

"Not sure I can even lift it. When all this is over, remind me that I have to go back to training how to equally wield a blade with both hands." Aragorn moved his right arm a little just to try it and did his best to suppress a moan.

Langhour on the other side of the fence just shook his head once again but remained silent. The younger man had already fought desperate battles himself, many of them by Aragorn's side; in their line of work, you couldn't avoid that. Admittedly, neither of them had ever been as battered though as the King was right now. "Just don't complain when you fall off the horse after the first gallop jump already."

"Is that hope I'm hearing? I knew it, all you ever wanted was finally becoming Chieftain yourself." Aragorn forced an askew grin on his lips.

"Of course. That was the only reason I spent half of the night crawling through the dirt, to not miss even the smallest clue," Langhour replied just as jokingly. "But no. I remember it very well how you broke in a horse of Lord Elrond's breed for the first time. There's still enough images in my head of how you got unseated again and again to satisfy my glee."

The Dúnadan led the saddled horses through the gate hanging askew from its hinges and lost no time getting up on one of them before pulling Aragorn up behind him, with his arms put around his upper body as carefully as possible, deliberately ignoring his pained moan.

Enough talking. Now all they could do was hurry and hope that the Stewardaides were too busy in Emyn Arnen to check immediately if their friends had gotten rid of the royal couple already ...