Disclaimer: As always, not mine, not mine, not mine.
A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers, especially French Pony; this chapter is henceforth dedicated to you. There will be much Faramir/Éowyn cuteness ahead. (Aww…) And the chapters will get longer after this, bear with me.
Three years ago Morglin had run east like a dog with its tail between his legs.
Now, he returned with an army at his heels. It was a pleasing thought. The Easterlings had lost many of their men in the last war, but that fire, that unending thirst for revenge still burnt in them. In their men; and in their women. Many of those who now marched were widows and orphans of the first war; they had lost everything already, and the deserts of the East bred hardy folk. What did they have to lose?
Other than life, that was, but they seemed to considered that a small sacrifice, and Morglin wondered, briefly, if they understood that they would die for their cause; not even for their cause, but for Pallando's cause. For Morglin's cause. The army contained many of the race of Men, and what Orcs Morglin had been able to round up, some few hundreds, and a score or so of Uruk-hai. Pallando had disappeared for a time, and returned with three great cold-drakes, lesser cousins of the great dragons who had once terrorised all the West. These were not like the winged beasts that Sauron had bred for the Nazgûl to ride; they were wingless, like great lizards, three times as tall as a man, and almost ten times as long, from tip of their horned heads, to the end of their tails.
It was a great army, indeed. When they reached Rhûn, it would be split in twain - one half would be under the command of an Easterling named Brodda, a tall brute of a fellow with a nasty temper. Morglin was not quite sure if he trusted the man, but no matter. Brodda's half would head south, to menace Rohan and Gondor beyond it; Brodda was aching for battle, that much was clear. With any luck, he would not survive the coming war.
The other half of the army - including the drakes, for only Pallando could control them - would continue towards Mirkwood, to engage the Elves in battle. It was a foolish thing, to challenge Elves on their own territory – but Morglin minded not. The drakes would keep them occupied long enough; and long enough was all they needed.
For it was all a grand diversion, a distraction. The true target was neither Rohan nor Mirkwood; it lay further west, although Pallando was avoiding speaking of their true destination. Morglin was not quite sure if he trusted Pallando, either, but at the Key had been returned to him, and lay under his clothes, close to his heart.
At night, he dreamt of the Map, of what he had been shown, of what was yet to come. He saw his revenge brought full circle, and the fall of Gondor, of Rohan, of all the West. Sometimes the dreams struck during the day as well, leaving him gasping, afterimages blurring his sight. Pallando was always most concerned for his well-being when the dreams came; Morglin wondered if the Key, and the Map, were showing him things that they would not reveal to the wizard.
And thus he claimed not to remember; Morglin knew too well the power that lay in secrets. Even if they puzzled him; he winced as, even now, another image fluttered before his eyes.
This one had come before, and always accompanying it was a feeling of dread, a sickness in the pit of his stomach. Seven stars, on a field of blue… What could it mean? He knew not, but he'd would not admit that to Pallando.
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This dream was not new.
The great wave rose up, the earth shuddering under his feet as it advanced, the sea, the eager sea, reaching up to swallow him whole, to swallow them all. Atalantë, Atalantë…
But it came more often now, and it kept changing, shifting.
"Aglarrâma azûlada yanâkhim, Phazân an'Nimir, Phazân an'Nimruzîrim. Hu-yanâkhim!"
Faramir awoke with a start. "Hu-yanâkhim…" he murmured, the strange word slipping easily off his tongue. He winced as light streamed in from the open window, then scowled as he noted the position of the sun. Not that he enjoyed the endless discussion with the squabbling lordlings of Ithilien, but this would be the third time this week he had been late to council. He swore.
"Tsk, tsk. Such language, my Prince." Éowyn laughed, and well she might. She had obviously already been up for a while, and was dressed for the greeting of visitors. Although, Éowyn being Éowyn, the pale dress, sweeping round her ankles, was accompanied by a pair of brown leather riding boots, scuffed at the toe. She caught his gaze, and grinned.
"Worry not. I have told them that you are unwell, and luckily for you, a certain Elf and his friends have been more than happy to keep our visitors entertained for a while." Éowyn tilted her head. "I think that perhaps you should speak to a healer, leofost. You have not been sleeping well of late."
"I do not need to see a healer." he told her, pulling on clothes haphazardly. He detested diplomacy and bureaucracy, but he'd spent enough time in the Houses of Healing for a lifetime, thank you very much.
"Not even for a tisane to help you sleep?"
"For that least of all." Faramir mock-shuddered. "I will not have any healers pouring foul brews down my throat. I am fine."
"Your father," Éowyn told her belly, smiling, "Is very, very, stubborn." To Faramir she said. "I could handle the negotiations if you wished to rest further." She moved over to help him smooth his unruly locks down, tutting absentmindedly at the crinkles in his shirt.
"Planning to take over, dear?"
"You know you would prefer it that way. I could run Ithilien, and you would be free to go riding with Elves, or to lurk in the library, frowning over the translations of those long-lost texts you 'liberated' from the archives at Minas Tirith."
Faramir grinned sheepishly. "That was a long time ago. Besides, they were in danger of spoiling from the damp. What else could I have done? And it was Mithrandir's fault for encouraging me."
"Hmph." Stepping back, Éowyn looked him over, apparently deciding that he was, in fact, fit for public viewing. "We should not keep our guests waiting any longer. They will think their Prince has deserted them."
Laughing, Faramir kissed her, then hooked his arm through hers, allowing himself to be guided downstairs.
A/N: The name Brodda is stolen from the Silmarillion. There aren't many 'authentic' Easterling names to chose from.
Leofost is Old English (Rohirric), meaning 'dearest'.
The language Faramir hears in his dream is Adûnaic, the language of Númenor, the lost island home of the Kings of Men. You'll have to wait for the translation, which hopefully I did not botch too badly. Atalantë is Quenya, 'The Downfallen', and was an Elvish name for Númenor after its destruction. Similarity to 'Atlantis' is supposedly completely intentional on Tolkien's part.
Cold-drakes: Tolkien distinguished between two types of dragon – the fire-drakes, the fire-breathing dragons, of which Smaug was supposedly the last, and the cold-drakes. They did not breathe fire, but were more numerous than their greater cousins, and during the Third Age became a menace to the Dwarves who mined the northern mountains. They were supposedly driven back into the far north, and not heard from again. Some had wings, and some did not. It is possible that the winged beasts the Nazgul rode upon were cold-drakes, or some kind of descendant or relation of theirs.