"It's late, Ilya. Lay back down." Slightly impatient after spending another sleepless night with such a difficult patient, Celeborn looked back at the talan door.

A moment later, he jumped up so heedlessly that he'd almost toppled over the terrace edge. "What?"

"It's getting worse." Tarisilya wrapped her arms so tightly around the curve of her belly that it looked painful. "I saw it in my dream … I think he's dying …"

"Come on." Grabbing her elbow, Celeborn tried to push her back towards the bedroom, but she broke away immediately and went past him, going outside without caring about her usually so pretty hip-length hair being a knotted mess spread all over her thin, red nightgown.

Her eyes restlessly searched the sky where the moon was hiding its face behind dark clouds as so often in the last few weeks. "Legolas needs me."

Her green brown eyes pleading, she turned to him as if after all these centuries, she shouldn't know very well how little that helped when she'd set her mind to something defying every rationality. "I have to go to him …"

"Go past another group of hostile Dunlendings? Or a couple of orcs? Of Stewardaides?" Celeborn asked, a little too gruff, and he regretted it immediately when tears streamed down Tarisilya's cheeks. But sometimes, that was the only way you could talk to this still quite young she-elf. Besides, it hadn't been that long since his own wife had been pregnant. Such outbursts were normal, he remembered that very well, and apologies, on principle, were only of use again once the baby had been born.

Unfortunately, that didn't change anything about Tarisilya's suspicions that had already come true far too often. "If you want me to ride to Ithilien …" He'd offered her that before, in vain.

She shook her head this time as well. She couldn't be alone here, that was just as risky as a rash ride through dangerous areas. Loneliness would have triggered a new depression. In spite of all fear for her husband, Tarisilya was very aware of what that would have done to her child. Squirrels, cats, and strange workers from Lórien were no replacement for conversations with someone she trusted.

"It would be too late anyway. Until we arrived, everything would be over already." Again, she hugged herself, her hands trembling when she stroked her belly.

If the Crown Prince would really … Just thinking about it might be scandalous, and far too premature. Yet they had to consider it. Tarisilya would feel such an event via their mental connection, no matter how weak that marriage bond might still be, maybe even in the shape of physical pain. And then she wouldn't be the only one.

Celeborn approached her hesitatingly and grabbed her shoulders. He'd actually not meant to tell her, except in case of the utmost emergency. But who could say one of those hadn't occurred already? "Galadriel gave me a few special potions for you. They will harm neither you nor the child. They only make sure …" He knew what it was that he was asking here. Appealing to Tarisilya's motherly instinct forced her to face an even bigger conflict than the comparatively easy decision to not just ride back to Gondor. "You should sleep until all of this is over. I'll wake you up as soon as we hear from Ithilien."

"You want me to leave Legolas alone? So that not even my thoughts are with him anymore? Our bond being silenced for good?" She tried to break loose again but didn't have the strength. Especially not the inner strength, for part of her knew exactly that she had no choice. That her baby had forgiven her all her carelessness of the last few months, was a pure miracle already.

"You owe it to the child. I'm sure your husband would agree."

That was admittedly just a wild guess, given how little clear thinking could be attributed to the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen right now, regardless of that not being only his fault. Sad as it was: Legolas either got rational again, or he would probably not see Tarisilya in these realms anymore and tell her what he thought about this proposal anyway.

The way, Tarisilya stared at the sky again told Celeborn she had made up her mind already though she couldn't say it, couldn't take this step towards him herself.

It was his job to get her inside, to get her to the bed and watch her so that she couldn't possibly run when she didn't even really mean to, while he brewed the sleeping tea.

When he finally thrust the cup into her hand, she was ready to empty it voluntarily, with a few quick sips, but even while she did, he could see it in her face that she was blaming him for persuading her.

And at the same time, there was some deep gratefulness she was radiating before her eyes fell close and the voices of despair in her head finally hushed.

It was panic that had Faramir wake up, freeing him from a condition somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness. In the first moment, he was convinced that he must have fallen into a river. His clothes stuck to his body cold and soaked. And that stinging pain ripping through his chest when he started to cough ... His lungs were burning from a lack of air, and this sluggishness that didn't allow for any movement at all …

Only when his mind fought its way out of the numbness, he realized that it wasn't water on his skin but the pouring rain. One by one, his other senses started to come back to life as well. He tasted something repulsive. Blinking a few times to get rid of the wetness in his eyes, he gathered his strength to sit up, surprised about how easy that suddenly was. So fast in fact that his injured side was giving him trouble and he would almost have toppled over. With clenched teeth, he reached for the spot. The smallest movement of his lips triggered pain in his cheek of which he couldn't tell yet where it was coming from but that was secondary. Not even his hand was shaking anymore suddenly. Now he could clearly feel how sensitive to pressure two of his ribs were. The fall from the horse had been worse than expected. How had he ended up in this impossible situation, by all the stars?

For now, he stayed where he was, with his eyes closed, trying to put the things into a context that had happened in the last few days. The black spring, elvish arrows pointed at him, Éowyn's empty look … Beregond's admonishing voice, and the nagging ones of other soldiers that demanded to finally attack Cair Andros … Instead, the elves had come to see him – why? Barhit had been there too, appearing out of nowhere, and then …

Aragorn. The thought of the King who had vanished hit him so hard that he was instinctively trying to get up. His knee, so swollen that the tight fabric of his pants almost strangulated it, reminded him painfully why he should rather not do that.

"Slowly." A very well-known, beloved quiet laughter made him take a look behind, still wondering if it was really Gandalf's face that he was seeing.

"No dream," his friend added, knowing the doubts about reality plaguing Faramir after this long time of confusion. "Although you did make it hard for me to find you relatively unscathed." He briefly gestured aside where the carcass of a badly burned wolf was spreading an unpleasant smell that only the rain managed to dampen somewhat.

Faramir instinctively grabbed his cheek and felt the initial scarring of a large, jagged wound. It was probably only thanks to Gandalf's healing skills that it didn't hurt even worse. That the animal had been hit by lighting had probably not been by chance either.

Before he could thank Gandalf, he saw the bright green, slender vial in his hands, and his rebelling stomach had him suspect that something had been poured down his throat. "What is that?"

"A gift of Lord Elrond and his sons." Gandalf sealed the vial with a pointed stopper and slipped it into one of the two bags fastened to Shadowfax's back. A quiet clank revealed, there were more bottles in there. "What is the last thing you remember?"

"A battle in Emyn Arnen …" Faramir tried in vain to find a position that didn't hurt. He was glad when Gandalf helped him lay down again. No matter how big his worry was about was what was going on in his home: If he wanted to do something about it, he had to gather his strength. Like this, he wasn't being of any help to anyone.

"Barhit … He said …" Without really realizing it, he reached in his pocket, for the round, hard item inside of it, pulling it out. It felt like scorn, feeling the ring in his hand that he'd mistaken for such an infallible proof. What had he been thinking? Why should the elves want to kill Aragorn? There was only one way how Barhit could have come by this jewel. And instead of taking the chance of finally having the man as his prisoner to question him …

That the guy had just been standing there right in his audience hall alone! His loyal men would have never let a wanted criminal in so undisturbed. "They're right among my people, aren't they?"

"Not for long, I promise." Gandalf caressed his forehead for a brief, calming moment. A deep wrinkle appeared between his bushy brows. "You're running a fever. I'm taking you to Minas Tirith."

"No, I can't …" This time, Faramir ignored the pain. He let Gandalf help him up and braced himself on the wizard, not putting any weight on the injured knee. "I have to talk to my people. I'm not the only one who fell for these traitors' words. Everyone there is in danger, including Éowyn."

With every thought regarding the months since his first reunion with Barhit, he saw it clearer, how many mistakes he'd made since then. The Stewardaides had scattered a seed that had been able to grow easily among his people, even in his own soul. Except for Beregond's, there had been only a few voices of reason; the mood had been too tense since the death of those four elves. "What have I done, Gandalf?"

"What you were told to do." His friend firmly grabbed his shoulders, the fatherly care replaced by a determination that almost bordered on anger.

It was anger. When the rain stopped and a few clouds dissolving let through the light of the stars, Faramir could make it out clearly. It was such deep wrath that he would have withdrawn if his stance hadn't been so shaky. Gandalf's eyes that were usually almost colorless glistened darkly, the wet strands of white hair hanging down his forehead made his usual royal appearance forgotten, revealing a very human version of an otherwise so perfect, magical image, hard to perceive with the naked eye. Not from this world. Different. Like it had been in the war.

At his wedding, Faramir had thought to never have to see this epitome of someone so mighty being overwhelmed by his own feelings ever again. After all, everything was fine now. The people of Middle-earth were living in peace, the Free Folks had united, the King had returned …

Instead, people were rebelling against said King, a civil war was imminent, and there was a hostility prevailing between Elves and Men that hadn't existed for Ages.

Had everything that Gandalf had fought for in the war, everything that he had even died for, been for nothing? Just because of a few men who didn't understand what an unbelievable gift Sauron's fall had been? It was only this thought, provoking this unbridled anger, still, Faramir couldn't suppress a faint shiver. There were beings that you didn't want to see lose control.

"It was not your fault. Never let me see this stupid self-hate in you again! Don't you start to let people tell you again that you're not good enough for your job."

"I feel like I've been asleep for half a year." Faramir couldn't be convinced so easily. He'd had his doubts if he was really the right man for this office from the start. It should have been Boromir wearing the black robe of the Steward now. Boromir would have had the skills for it. More than a year after the war, Faramir still felt like a beginner.

"In some way, you were."

Gandalf shouted an order at Shadowfax whereupon the horse ran off in a quick trot. "We have to hurry, so I can't tell you everything immediately. But know this, Faramir: Your mind was under a strange influence. With the help of the healers of Imladris, I discovered instructions for poisons that in distant times, have already brought warlords to their knees without the need for injury. It was risky." He closed his eyes for a moment. "We didn't know what the Stewardaides used. Many plants forming the ingredients for some of the potions have long gone extinct. In the end, four possible substances were left. We could create three antidotes. I'm relieved to see that it was the right one."

"If it is normal that I feel like I can never again eat or drink anything at all ..." Faramir tried to answer with a joke, but his expression stayed serious. Gandalf was telling him the same that the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen had tried to make him believe. And long before that, a messenger of the King that Faramir hadn't even taken serious. And still, this question kept on spinning in his mind, even now that the thick fog clouding his mind had cleared up. "Where did they get this poison? The Stewardaides hate the Elves. None of them could have …"

He paused because his memory showed him one of the most painful images since he'd taken office. Which was also the very explanation he was looking for.

The memorial ceremony for the dead elves in the Citadel courtyard. A leader numb with grief who didn't know any other way to deal with it but to scream his anger into the night with furious words, without realizing how much that would damage the peace between the folks. His wife standing next to him, pale, thin, silenced by so much wrath that she couldn't have done anything about it.

And somewhere in the very background, a red-haired dwarf in dark mourning robes, a stranger at this elvish celebration just like Faramir and Éowyn, with a question preying on his mind that he dared to ask only after that frightening drama had ended.

I looked in vain for your tight-lipped friend from Rivendell at the ceremony. When we parted ways at Cair Andros, he actually said he'd ride back here. He didn't get himself injured again, did he? That elf is so clumsy, let me tell you! When we attacked the Stewardaides, I almost expected his head to roll over the ground any moment!

Erestor. The eccentric Rivendell librarian who hadn't been of much use as a part-time advisor for the King. At that point, the situation had been far too muddled for that. But he possessed knowledge that others in this world would have killed for. A knowledge that the Stewardaides had taken advantage of before using a naive, untrained warrior as their plaything. Before using him to make a Steward affected by drugs believe, this scrawny elf – who looked as if he couldn't even lift a sword – had overpowered an excellent fighter like the King. And Erestor had played along.

"Why? Why in the world did he do that?"

"I hope that is something we'll find out now." For a moment, Gandalf looked as if he wanted to protest Faramir's plan again. But then he just sighed heavily and nodded. He, too, was aware that they would need the Steward's word to bring order to Emyn Arnen.

After all these, years, Faramir knew the wizard quite well though. He sensed that Gandalf was not only worried about Ithilien. This crisis would not stay in Faramir's home. "I'd like to ask you to ride to Minas Tirith. I'll be needed at home first. But as long as we don't know for sure what happened to the King, someone needs to be in the capital that the people will listen to."

"You won't make that alone," Gandalf warned him immediately.

"I won't be alone."

A hint of melancholy and even more anger on himself made Faramir lower his head. He had done wrong by his wife, treating her wrong. In fact, he'd done so ever since they knew each other, starting by announcing their betrothal to the people back then, completely rash and without her knowledge, without even seeking her permission. He had to be incredibly grateful for her still standing by him. If he actually had to prove to her today first how much he believed in her, then this crisis might even have been good for something.

"Accompany me to the hills. I can make it from there."

"Only reluctantly, my friend." Gandalf really didn't like leaving Faramir now of all times. Only knowing about the explosive mood in the capital weighed him down even more.

Shadowfax was, fortunately, coming back already, with Faramir's horse that had been scared by the thunderstorm. The bright mare approached her owner only hesitatingly; she was visibly having a bad conscience for leaving him behind.

"It's alright." Faramir briefly patted her neck.

Bracing himself on the saddle, to relieve his knee pain, he pondered feverishly how he was supposed to get up there now without embarrassing himself completely.

"Drink this." Gandalf dug up another vial from Shadowfax's saddlebag and held it out to him. "To numb the pain."

Faramir roughly pushed his hand away. "I've had enough of substances manipulating me."

"Then you should never visit our friends in the Shire." Gandalf winked at him, a gesture refreshingly well-known that lightened the mood. "They would be mortally offended if you don't try their beer. Come on now, get on the other side."

He helped Faramir walk around the horse and lifted him up by his healthy right leg, kindly ignoring Faramir's curse when he raised the left one over the saddle. "No more fighting for you today. I hope, we're clear on that. Next time, I won't be able to stand by your side."

"Don't worry." Faramir regarded the wolf that had almost had him for supper with an uneasy look and touched his left cheek with his fingertips again. By now, the skin was so swollen that he could see anything with the eye on that side anymore. He didn't need any clairvoyant abilities to know that that this would leave him with a very nasty scar. More than ironic given what Barhit's trademark was. Maybe it would serve as a reminder to think twice about whom to trust and whom not to in the future.

"How could you tell so exactly where that flash was supposed to hit?" Mistrustfully, he looked back and forth between the dead animal and the spot where he'd been laying.

Instead of answering him, Gandalf quickly spurred Shadowfax on. He'd either forgotten about Faramir's battered ribs or he was trying to use gentle violence so that his friend would ask for that painkiller after all.

The first steps let Faramir know already that it wouldn't even take much of Gandalf's stubbornness anymore before he would. As much as he liked him, sometimes he was tempted to hit him right over the head with his own staff. "Are you telling me, you didn't even aim? Gandalf? Gandalf, you can't be serious!"

There was no answer, but the wizard's shoulders were twitching suspiciously, and Faramir could have sworn, even Shadowfax let out an amused snort.

"The Steward!" The captain on duty, Beregond's substitute, rudely elbowed his mate in the side so that he would stop staring away in boredom, and pointed at the narrow, overgrown path leading to the palace.

"Where?" The younger soldier pushed back his helmet and stretched a little to be able to see better.

"He's back!" he shouted gleefully, louder than it was actually suitable at this hour.

"Already?" A third man approached the main entrance. "I thought he wanted to find the King. It's not like him to give up so early."

"He's hurt." The captain was the first one to notice, sounding frightened.

The closer the rider got, the clearer the many torches on the house walls were revealing their slumped, cramped position and especially the dark red traces and swellings on the left side of his face.

"Here we go," the third man murmured, it almost sounded satisfied. "The elves took revenge on him for locking up their friends. The Steward has had far too much patience with them."

The captain, fortunately, didn't have any patience today for this stupid bullying of beings who were surely innocent. "Stay here," he ordered the two of them sharply before running off.

"Steward, by all the stars! You need a healer immediately!"

"We have other things to worry about." Faramir signaled the man to support him and somehow made it off his horse without collapsing. "Alert! Wake up all the soldiers and my wife. Get the elves out of the dungeon immediately. They are no longer our prisoners. Ask them to come to the throne room."

"I can do that!" The youngest of the soldiers didn't even try to hide his relief. The Prince of Eryn Lasgalen was a war hero that most of them were looking up to in admiration. He had never believed it in the first place that the elves had done anything wrong.

"I'd prefer it if someone does that who didn't just have his first archery lesson yesterday," the third soldier remarked. "I'll organize it. You better get a healer for the Steward."

The younger one was very tempted to hit the other with his shield, somewhere where it hurt. Unfortunately, the man had been in service much longer than he had and was therefore authorized to give him orders. He stomped towards the Houses of Healing in offense, a building called that name based on and with respect to the far bigger place in Minas Tirith though it was only a small house right next to the Steward's.

Typical. And whose job was it now, dealing with healers who hated it to be woken up in the middle of the night?

"Steward, allow me to ask …" the captain started.

"No," Faramir interrupted him. "Not before everyone has gathered. Far too much shallow knowledge has been spread around here in the last few months already." At his first step towards the entrance, his leg gave out under him; the umpteenth curse that night escaped him. "Make sure the thrones are being protected. I don't want my wife to be in danger, and I can't protect her right now."

"From whom?" the soldier asked in confusion. "I thought, the elves … And that Barhit-guy is locked up too, isn't he?"

But Faramir just silently dragged himself on.

"Define failed." Barhit had seldom dealt with more pathetic figures than these three assistants with their helmets under their arms, with faces like a beaten dog's.

"He somehow learned about it …" one of the men stuttered. "He's about to muster everyone. I'm supposed to set the elves free."

"Well, then let's do him that favor." Barhit clenched his teeth so tightly that it almost looked like a grin, just to keep himself from yelling or punching something again. That wouldn't have given him an advantage for the upcoming escape.

"What are you waiting for?" When his completely idiotic workers just stared at him wide-eyed, obviously wondering about that odd order he'd just given, he kicked the bars hard to release some of his pent-up aggression. "Get me out of here, damnit, before the others arrive here! Get me some armor and my weapons. Make sure the horse girl stays in her room. And tell everyone with half a brain in this house to create chaos."

"How are they supposed to do that?" one of the men asked while taking the keys for the cell from his belt and unlocking the door quickly before stepping back immediately, in the justified fear of catching a kick next.

"Have them dance on the roof." Barhit pushed the door open so violently that it almost came off the rail. "In your language, that means: I don't give a damn as long as the Steward and his whore are busy until we're out of here."

"Why aren't we leaving right away?" With his head ducked, the youngest of the three looked up towards the house that more and more loud voices were sounding in. Doors were being yanked open, there were scared men everywhere.

Barhit ripped the cell keyring out of the other man's hand. "The pretty boy from the wood-elf realm has ruined my plans for the last time. We're not leaving this house before he has paid. Does anyone have a problem with that?"

When his men didn't follow him immediately, he spun around. While the soldiers were the ones with the weapons on their belt, with his tense posture, the immeasurable hate in his voice, Barhit left no doubt that they would all die if they didn't do something right for a change now. "Talk, go ahead! It will be the last thing you ever said."

Given the danger they were all in, the youngling seemed to lose his nerves. He stepped forward already, with his hand on his weapon, but his friend firmly held him back by his arm.

"Let it go. It doesn't make a difference. If we run now, we'll attract far more attention anyway. In a few minutes, when the house will be filled with nothing but unrest, we'll have better chances."

"Let go of me, damnit!"

The other broke loose and pulled his armor straight exaggeratedly before hurrying past Barhit with a scathing glance. "I didn't risk my life for you just to have you threaten me now. Do that again, then you can find your own way to escape the gallows."

You didn't make it as far as Barhit if you'd never learned when the right time to shut up came, so he let the man go while he was already silently considering a few creative ways how to punish such rebels in his own team.

But there would be enough time for that later. First, there was another person who needed a lesson about what happened when someone was annoying Barhit for too long.