Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing, if you don't count the odd OC here and there and the plotline.

Halbarad was deeply relieved to see the walls of Fornost rising up over the horizon.  After narrowly managing to avoid a side-trip to visit Belloth, he had half a mind to just sink into the nearest bed and sleep for a week.

Duty won out over sloth, but luckily Aragorn was sympathetic to his plight, and let him slouch in a well-worn and well-padded chair to give his report.  "As much as I hate to say it," he finished up, "I think that this might be a chance to see peace forged between our two squabbling neighbours."

"Forced, you mean." Aragorn frowned.  "And us expected to spend all our time sorting out further squabbles about who stepped over the line first when the fighting starts up again.  What do you think of them, these children of Éomund?"

"They frighten me," Halbarad admitted, and when Aragorn chuckled, added, "I'm absolutely serious.  Éomer has the makings of a very good general assuming he doesn't lose his temper and get himself killed before then.  Right now, he's a disaster waiting to happen."

"He's young, isn't he?"

"Thirty or so, I believe." Halbarad shrugged.  "Not all that young for one of the Rohirrim.  He's absolutely devoted to his sister.  I did get the sense that they were keeping me out of his way for my own good.  For which I am eternally grateful – I like my head where it is!"

"And his sister?"

"Imagine a Rohirric version of Belloth."  Grimacing, Halbarad added, "Now imagine that she carries a sword almost as sharp as her tongue – and knows how to use it."

"Dangerous.  Especially as she seems to be the one behind this little plan."  Aragorn leant back.  "Which, of course, I am going to have to accept, because there is no way I can simply leave the young Prince in captivity.  I do not appreciate being manipulated in this way, but there will be plenty of time to make that clear."

"As long as you do not ask me to deliver that message.  I have no intents of testing the limits of a shieldmaiden's temper."  Halbarad rubbed his temples, sagging back into the chair.  "I could sleep for a week."

"No," said Aragorn, smiling softly.  "I will send another to convey my answer to the Rohirrim."

"Thank you."  Halbarad sunk deeper into the chair.  Maybe he could just go to sleep here.

His relief was short lived, though, for Aragorn added the fateful words "Because I need you to go to Minas Tirith."

Ah, that would be the sound of the last straw.  "No.  Aragorn, no.  I detest the White City at the best of times.  You know this.  I would rather go back and face a thousand Éomers than have to be the one to tell Denethor what has happened to his son."

"You are the only one who has seen Faramir; you will have to be the one to convince Denethor that the Rohirrim will uphold their end of the bargain.  He's a difficult man to deal with at the best of times."  Aragorn sighed.  "You know I would not ask you to do this, cousin, if there was any other way…"

"I hate it when you're right.  You know that?"

"You may have mentioned it once or twice, yes."  Aragorn grinned, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.  "Don't worry, I'll give you enough time to catch up with Lothíriel before you go."

"Wait, wait… she's here?"  Halbarad bolted upright, running one hand through his hair awkwardly.  "When… why… I mean…"

Aragorn was now grinning so widely Halbarad was sure his head was going to split in twain.  "Yes, about a week ago, and because Imrahil figured out that sending her here for a while would both keep her safe and irritate Denethor enormously.  You're blushing, Halbarad.  At least this way, I suppose, you wont have to think up excuses to go to Dol Amroth quite so often."

"Oh, hush."  Halbarad allowed himself a soft smile, though, at the thought of the daughter of Imrahil, a sweet, patient creature very unlike the rest of her family.  "I don't suppose she… ah…"

"Red as a strawberry."  Aragorn shook his head.  "And yes, she did ask after you, as a matter of fact."  There was no stopping the smile now – Halbarad found himself unable to frown, even at the thought of braving the infamous temper of Denethor.  "Now, you'd better go clean yourself up.  You'll have no luck wooing her looking like a scarecrow straight out of the fields of Cardolan!"

Resisting the temptation to throw something at his king – which would probably be some sort of treason, not to mention a bad idea given how Aragorn had regularly beaten him soundly in pillow-fights when they were younger – Halbarad simply nodded and took his leave, attempting to be gracious about it.  He could hardly deny that he needed a good clean before he went to speak to Lothíriel – Aragorn might put up with him smelling like horse, but that was no reason to inflict his unwashed self on anyone else.