Note: – This story will be updated once a week, so those of you emailing me with requests to hurry – Quit it! Seriously, thanks for all the very kind reviews, that is part of the fun of writing is reading what everyone thinks.

Now, for those who are unhappy with Faramir requiring military service for his sons. (Den's Angel – you know who you are!) Sorry, read the end of the book - "For though Sauron had passed, the hatreds and evils that he bred had not died, and the King of the West had many enemies to subdue before the White Tree could grow in peace." There was apparently still a lot of fighting after Sauron's fall, it wasn't suddenly all hearts and flowers. As a soldier himself and the Steward of Gondor, I feel certain Faramir would consider at least some service time vital for all the men of Gondor, including his sons. And WHERE do you find Faramir complaining about his dad making him be in the army???? It is quite common in many countries to require a little bit of military service, and Gondor would surely keep a standing army.

Disclaimers: The usual (or see chapter 1) Again, thanks to everyone!

Chapter 2 - A Disintegration

Eowyn awoke suddenly, realized she had put out her hand to touch Faramir beside her and he was gone. Again. His side of the bed was cold, even though the blankets had been pulled up around her carefully, which meant he had been gone for a long while. She stroked his pillow for a brief moment, forcing down the sick swirl in her stomach, gathering her courage to go and search for her husband.

It happened nearly every night, now. In the beginning, it had only been occasionally but as the months passed the times she woke alone in the dark hours of the night grew more and more frequent, until in the last three weeks Eowyn doubted there had been more than two or three times that Faramir had slept the night through in his own bed. He wandered the house restlessly, or sat in his study, or the library, staring into the glowing embers of the fire, until sheer exhaustion forced him back to bed and he would collapse beside her for a few hours of shallow, tortuous sleep before he arose again at dawn.

He was thin. Thinner than Eowyn had ever seen him, the bones of his face and neck jutted out under his pale skin, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes that never left him. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, and didn't want to talk about it. Not that Eowyn hadn't tried. She had. On several occasions. But all she could ever get out of him was the assurance that he was fine and his sleeplessness would pass. But the weeks turned to months, and he still arose in the dead of night and wandered the house alone.

It didn't help that over three months had passed without a visit or a letter from Eomund. Three months since he had stalked out of the house in a fury, thrown his few things onto the horse's back and ridden away without a backward glance. The lack of visits was not that unusual, he lived in Pelargir, after all, not just a few miles down the road. The lack of letters was. In a prodigiously letter-writing family, there were always one or two notes in the silver tray in the front hall, opened by the addressee, but left out for all to read. There had been letters from Elboron, now stationed further north, Sam, giving a full account of his time in Minas Tirith, and Theoden, with a mix of news concerning recent library acquisitions and an update on Elabet's condition. From Eomund there had been nothing. Not even to his mother.

The girls felt the tension in the house, especially Estel, who had witnessed the argument between her father and brother, and they both tried in their own way to dispel Faramir's gloom. Alasse cosseted him, bringing his favorite foods, trying to coax him into playing games in the long evenings, offering to read aloud the stories she knew he loved best. He tried; Eowyn could see him deliberately set aside his mood and spend an hour or two with his golden-haired daughter, but as soon as Alasse would leave him the dark cloak of despair would descend on him again. Estel had a different tactic, urging her father to teach her new sword drills, inventing reasons why he should accompany her on rides through the countryside, and even asking once more that he try to tutor her in the ancient Elvish tongues that she found so incomprehensible. Nothing helped. Faramir would rouse himself for an hour or two only to sink back down into silence once Estel had gone and on several occasions Eowyn had found her dark-headed daughter in her room angrily weeping. She had tried to explain to Estel, to both of the girls, that everyone grieved differently, and their father's way was to keep quiet and to himself, but even as she spoke the words sounded weak and hollow.

"But we all miss Bara," said Estel one day when Eowyn found her crying in her room over Faramir's refusal to ride to Osgiliath with her. "He isn't the only one who loved him."

"I know," said Eowyn, stroking the dark hair tenderly as she sat beside her daughter. "But it's different for your father… It's been very hard on him."

"Because of E'mun." Estel's voice was quavery and harsh. "It's his fault, because of what he said, about grandfather."

"Now, now." Eowyn wanted no more accusations among her children. "Let's not worry about whose fault anything is. Let's just try to make things better."

Estel sighed and looked away. "I don't know how, Mother." Eowyn kissed her forehead. "I don't know how, either, Estel."

Only once had Eowyn managed to break through Faramir's defenses, when they had been sitting before the fire late one cool evening, and she had begun reminiscing about her childhood, the cold nights in Rohan spent gathered around the roaring fire. She had spoken of a vague memory of her father, his fair hair dancing in the firelight, as he sang a child's ditty and dandled her on his knee. She had laughed at the memory, but the laughter had been choked off when she turned and saw Faramir's stricken look.

"Do our children have such memories?" he asked, and the emptiness in his voice tore at her heart.

"Of course, my love," she reassured him, reaching over to cover his hand with her own. "Many of them."

"I don't have many happy memories of my childhood," he said in a quiet voice. "After Mother was gone, Father was always too busy, and as I grew older it only got worse." He stared into the fire. "Once I was past twenty and had my own ideas, my own views, Father could never quite accept it. When I was the age our boys are now…" He sighed and Eowyn saw his hands clench before him, the knuckles standing out whitely. "I suppose it is hard for fathers and sons when they are grown, to get used to the change in their relationship…to learn to see each other as men." Eowyn felt a pang and rose from her chair to move closer and kneel beside him, looked up into his eyes. They were dark and bleak and it was as if she could actually see the pain inside him. She reached up and touched his face and he seemed to start as though he had only just realized she was beside him. Swiftly he had kissed her cheek and risen, saying something about a matter he wanted to discuss with the members of his White Company before he hurriedly left the room.

Now, in the darkness, Eowyn steeled herself and got out of bed, wrapping her robe around her. She took the small candle beside the bed and used a splinter of wood from the fire in the hearth to set a flame on the wick, then padded down the stairs carefully, the flaring light reaching only a few feet beyond her and dancing weirdly off the walls and banister. Reaching the foot of the staircase, she halted, considering. The last two nights she had found him on the veranda, sitting on the steps and looking up at the stars. Quietly she pulled the front door open and stepped outside. The chill air instantly curled her toes and she gave a little shiver as she peered into the darkness, but the veranda was empty and she returned to the foyer and quietly pushed the door shut.

Turning to her left she knocked softly on the door of Faramir's study. There was no answer but she still turned the latch and opened it, looking inside for a moment to be sure it was empty. It was.

Down the main hall, past the staircase, she headed for the library. It was usually his last refuge, the room where he could find some measure of comfort, and more than once she had found him there asleep in the large chair that stood before the stone hearth, although more often he was just sitting and staring into the fire. She raised her hand to knock when a soft noise from behind the large oaken door stopped her and she leaned forward and listened closely.

The hushed sound of quiet weeping had stayed her hand and now it hovered inches away from the door as she heard the sound of her husband's stifled sobs. Eowyn's blood froze and she couldn't breathe for a few seconds as realization and understanding came to her. The muted cries were barely audible as Faramir's grief fought to find release alone in the night and he tried to control it, and Eowyn pressed a hand to her mouth as the tears sprang up in her own eyes. She rested her head on the doorframe for a moment, frightened and angry with herself. She had known how unhappy he was all these months and the desolate look had been in his eyes for so long that she had nearly forgotten his smile, yet she had told herself it would pass, eventually. But she had not guessed the depth of his sadness, and even as he spent more and more nights roaming the house as she slept, she had never suspected this was how he filled the lonely hours and now her heart swelled with shame and fear. Faramir had spent his entire life keeping his emotions under tight rein. That he was so overwhelmed he sat alone in the dark of night weeping sent a cold chill down Eowyn's spine as she realized she had no idea how to help him deal with his sorrow.

Another soft cry drifted through the heavy wooden door and Eowyn took a deep breath, knew Faramir would be horrified if he found her there, listening. Taking a cautious step backward, she silently retreated down the hall to the foot of the stairs. There she stopped and waited a moment before calling his name softly. "Faramir?" She went to the study and opened the door and quickly closed it, this time letting it thump shut noisily. She called his name again and repeated her charade with the front door, once more allowing the sound to reverberate down the hallway. As she started back toward the library she called out once again and this time as she reached the door it was pulled open and Faramir looked at her, his lean, pale face hidden in the shadows so that she could not see the tears he had hastily wiped away. "Eowyn?"

She placed the candle on a nearby table and reached for him and he hugged her, hiding his face in her hair, she realized, to give him a chance to collect himself. She held him tightly and felt the slightest tremble in him.

"I woke up and you were gone again," she said quietly, her breath warm against his neck and her arms wrapped around his alarmingly slender waist.

"Can't sleep," he replied, as though it were an unusual occurrence, and kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry I woke you. Let me take you back to bed." He turned her toward the stairs and held her close as they slowly climbed the steps and Eowyn let her head rest against him, could feel the damp spots on the front of his sleeping shirt but kept silent.

In the bedroom, after she blew out the candle and they crawled back into bed, she turned onto her side and reached over to slide her arms under and around him and hugged him to her. She could feel the tension in his muscles and she kissed his shoulders and his neck, trying to somehow comfort him. "Faramir," she whispered. "I don't know –"

"Shh." He rolled over to face her and gathered her into his arms. "Don't worry. Go to sleep." He pressed a light kiss on her cheek. "Everything is fine."

But Eowyn knew everything was far from fine, and as she snuggled against him she resolved to find a way to change things in the morning.

Faramir stared blankly into the darkness and stroked his hand down Eowyn's back, listening to her breathing slow and deepen as she drifted back to sleep. He waited until he felt her body relax softly against him, then kissed her gently on the forehead and slowly extricated himself from her embrace. Silently he slid out of bed, tucking the coverlet around her sleeping form and crept quietly out of the bedroom, back downstairs to the chair that sat before the fire in the library. He resumed the seat he had left less than an hour earlier and once more pulled the book lying on the nearby table into his lap.

"In the year 2984 Third Age, Denethor II, Son of Ecthelion, became Steward of Gondor." Faramir paused. This was all the further he had been able to read the first time, too. His father. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, visualizing the dark hair, the penetrating grey eyes, the brow that had seemed perpetually furrowed in thought as Denethor strove to find a way to protect Gondor. How had he managed, Faramir wondered. How had he been able to find the strength to govern a country while fighting to preserve its existence? How had he faced that black and sullen sky in the east each day? And how had he sent his sons into war? No wonder the news of Boromir's death had broken him, caused him to begin the descent into the madness that destroyed him. The memory of his father's face as he held the two halves of the great Horn of Gondor, soaked and discolored from their time in the Anduin, was suddenly fresh in Faramir's mind. He could remember the paleness of his father's face, the slight swallow, the way he had suddenly looked old and tired and weak.

The thought of his long-dead brother brought fresh tears to his eyes and he rubbed them tiredly. All those years ago he had convinced himself that he knew and accepted the reasons, thought he understood his father's reaction. Boromir had been the eldest, the beloved, the heir. He had died far from home on an errand called forth in a dream and entered into with his father's approval. Faramir had known all this for years and had been certain he knew and forgave his father for his actions. But now he understood in a way he had never wished. Now he knew what it was to have someone arrive only to break your heart with the news they carried. He knew that nothing had ever hurt him as much as the sudden knowledge that had pierced his heart the day Aragorn had arrived in Ithilien. Nothing had prepared him for the dark, empty place in his soul that had once been occupied by his son.

Faramir shuddered slightly. Now his own children knew the pain of loss. Now there was a room in the house that would never see its owner again. Now Eowyn walked each day out to the green mound beyond the house and sat among the simbalmyne. Because of him, Eomund had said. Because in his pride and arrogance he had asked Barahir to do what he knew he could not. Be a soldier. As Faramir had once been.

But Faramir had been a soldier because his father and the war had compelled him, had demanded it of him in a time of death and sacrifice, and he had done it and done it well, even as he had known it was not who he was. There was no war now. No desperate need for Barahir to take up his sword and mold himself into a warrior. Yet, Faramir wondered, did peace excuse one from his duty? Did not all the men of Gondor, including his sons, owe some small part of themselves to keeping their lands safe, protecting their country and their people?

And Bara had not died in war, another part of him argued. He had died because of a runaway horse, not wounds on a battlefield, suffered because of poor fighting skills. True, he had begged to be released last winter, and Faramir, seeing his discontent, had wavered, had spoken with Aragorn, asked Elboron his opinion, considered everything and made his decision. No, he had told Barahir. One more year. Just as every other man in Gondor served when he turned eighteen. No man was excused simply because he did not care for soldiering, and the Steward's sons must set the example, and Bara was improving, receiving good marks from his superiors. His son had nodded, shrugged, smiled his wide smile and agreed to finish out his time. It had not been mentioned again and Bara had held no grudges or ill will, but now Faramir could not help but wonder, if he had let him leave the army would he be alive today? Or would he have been on the dock talking to Elboron anyway? The question haunted him.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes again. There was a dull ache that seemed to live behind them constantly now and a matching one in the small of his back. He closed the book and leaned forward, letting his elbows rest on his knees while his hands held his head. He thought of Barahir, his blue eyes crinkled with laughter, his long, fine hands. Faramir's hands, Eowyn had always said. The hands of an artist or a musician and indeed Barahir had been skilled with both brush and harp. Now they were stilled forever, and Faramir felt his throat constrict again.

He had thought the knife-edged pain of loss would subside after a while, that after a time he would be able to think of his son without the blinding hurt suddenly slicing at him, as had been true with Boromir and his father. But the months passed and the pain never left; if anything it grew worse. And the dreams came, dark and terrible, and Eomund's words echoed in his ears, "Murderer." Faramir gritted his teeth and swallowed back the tears, refused to let them slip from his eyes, and felt the pain in his head increase as the memory rose up before him. Eomund's face with its cold eyes and sneering mouth, so much like his father's, the harsh words pelting him like stones and in the darkness of the library Faramir shuddered again as his son and his father seemed to merge together in his memory to accuse and indict him. "I'm sorry," he whispered into the darkness, unsure whether he spoke to Denethor, Eomund or Barahir. "I'm sorry."

Aragorn read Eowyn's message once more, feeling suddenly queasy with worry. She detailed the sleepless nights, the lack of appetite, and begged the King for his help in any way that might restore her husband to his family. Silently Aragorn handed the letter to Arwen and she quickly read down the frantic lines. Raising her head she looked at Aragorn. "He did appear to be rather distracted when he was here a few weeks ago," she said quietly. "And he was terribly thin."

"His grief is eating him up," Aragorn said, sitting down in the chair by the window of their private chambers. "That and Eomund's accusations." He stared out the window a moment, watching the city drowsing under the noonday sun. It had been more than three weeks since he had seen Faramir, and his Steward had looked unwell then. Aragorn had been concerned and shortened their meeting, urged him to return to Ithilien and get some rest, but apparently nothing had improved. Now a messenger had arrived only a few moments ago, practically demanding to see the King, saying that his lady had charged him with putting her message into Aragorn's hand with utmost haste. The man waited outside for an answer and Aragorn was unsure he had one. Healing he understood, but healing of the body was always far simpler than healing of the heart, and he knew Faramir's heart had been badly hurt. The awful wounds that Denethor had inflicted, along with those caused by his worshipped and beloved older brother's death, had faded in the long years of peace and contentment with Eowyn, but they were still there, beneath the surface, and now Barahir's death and Eomund's angry words, had ripped the old scars open once again.

"I will go back with the messenger." He made his decision abruptly and stood. "I'm not sure what I can do, but I cannot let things get any worse if I can help it."

Arwen nodded in agreement and put her arms around him. "Do whatever you must; I know you cherish him too much to let it go on." He hugged her tightly, turning over a half-formed idea in his mind, a plan that he would carry out if needed, but one that left him hoping he would think of something else or find it unnecessary when he reached Ithilien.

A few hours later Aragorn trotted his horse out of the woods and started up the long meadow toward Faramir and Eowyn's house. As they drew nearer, he dismounted and handed the reins to the messenger as he and the two guards who had accompanied the King moved off in the direction of the barracks and he approached the house alone. It was quiet, as if no one was about as he walked up the stone steps to stand before the door. A quiet scrap of conversation drifted around the corner and Aragorn followed it to find Eowyn and her daughters seated at a small table on the far corner of the veranda that overlooked the meeting hall and the ornate herb garden. They stared at him in surprise for a moment, then rose almost simultaneously and came toward him with happy greetings.

Aragorn hugged the girls and gave Eowyn a kiss on the cheek, seeing her thankfulness for his quick arrival in her eyes. She flashed a look at the girls to let him know that her letter was to be kept secret and he gave the slightest nod to show he understood.

"Good evening, my lord," she said, curtsying formally even as she smiled at him in gratitude. "We were just preparing to have dinner. It's so lovely out we decided to have our meal here, rather in the house. May I offer you something to eat?" He accepted and seated himself at the table as the house maids began to serve the meal. As his plate was filled, he looked around curiously.

"Where is the lord of the house?" he asked in an innocent tone.

"He's in the library," said Estel, motioning for the serving girl to double the portion of her favorite potato dish. "He said he was coming, but he won't. He's reading some book and will forget all about us." She suddenly looked up at the King. "Shall I go and get him, Sire?" Leaping to her feet, and overturning her cup in the process, she waited for his order while her sister mopped up the mess and shook her head in exasperation.

Aragorn smiled. She often reminded him of Boromir, brash and noisy, and yet somehow still appealing. "No, no, my lady, sit and eat. I will find him myself." He stood up and went into the house, passing the arched doorway that led to the kitchen and approaching the library door. It was pulled shut but not latched and he knocked gently and when there was no answer, he rapped again, harder.

"Estel, I'm sorry - " Faramir stopped in surprise when he opened the door to find Aragorn standing there. "My lord!"

Aragorn kept his face blank with immense effort. Faramir looked terrible. His face was horribly thin, with pale, waxy skin and sunken eyes, and his clothes hung on his too-lean body. His dark hair was gathered back from his face in an untidy braid and Aragorn thought he could see a slight tremor in the bony hand that grasped the door. Composing himself, he smiled and reached out to clasp Faramir's shoulder, forcing himself not to grimace at the feel of the bones beneath his hand. "My good friend," he said, "How are you?"

Instantly there was a veiled look in Faramir's eyes. "I am well, Sire," he said stiffly. "Is there something wrong?"

"Wrong? No, why?"

"You are here, in Ithilien," Faramir said slowly, his expression swinging between confusion and suspicion. "I thought perhaps…"

"No, no," Aragorn laughed easily and shrugged. "I just came to spend a little time with you and your family. Sometimes I feel like the world is closing in on me in Minas Tirith."

"That can happen here, too." Faramir spoke in a whisper, then seemed to shake himself and stepped out of the library. "I believe Estel said our meal was being served, would you join us?"

"Actually, I already was invited by your wife, but we missed your presence, and I volunteered to bring you to the table." They walked back to the veranda together, Faramir silently keeping his eyes down as Aragorn cast furtive glances at him, his healer's eye measuring the frailty of the man beside him. He did not like what he saw. Faramir was thin, as Eowyn had said, but she had not mentioned the pallor of his face, the dull look in his eyes, the distracted, wooden expression. Aragorn had hoped to be reassured by his visit, instead his worries had just increased tenfold.

They approached the table and were seated and served. Eowyn inquired after Arwen and the children and as they ate they spent the time exchanging news. Faramir remained silent, answering in short words only those comments specifically addressed to him, cutting his meat and moving his food about his plate but eating very little, Aragorn noticed. The girls finished and at an invisible signal from their mother, rose and left the table, bidding the King good day and stopping to kiss their father tenderly as they went into the house. Faramir looked at each of them and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips.

Eowyn waited only a few minutes before she thought of something pressing to tell the cook in the kitchen and excused herself to follow after the girls, leaving Aragorn and Faramir alone at the table. Faramir sat with his eyes downcast and there was an awkward silence that hurt Aragorn. He had always felt close to Faramir, from that first day in the Houses of Healing, and considered him far more than just his Steward. He was a friend, and to now have the minutes stretch uncomfortably between them was, to him, a sign of just how wrong things were. At last he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.

"Faramir." His voice was soft but Faramir flinched slightly and seemed to have to force himself to look up. Aragorn caught a glimpse of the anguish in those grey eyes even as the veil slipped over them once more. In seconds there was nothing, just a flat, waiting look.

"Yes, my lord?"

"How can I help you?"

The blank look never shifted. "Help me, my lord? I don't understand. I don't need help with anything."

Aragorn sighed, leaned back in his chair. "You look terrible."

"I'm sorry, my lord." The words were spoken woodenly.

"Faramir!" Aragorn sat up and reached across the table to place his hand around Faramir's wrist where it lay beside his untouched plate of food, easily encircling the thin arm. "It was not an accusation. I'm worried about you." He kept a gentle hold on his wrist, could feel the tension in his arm, the rapid pulse hammering beneath his sensitive fingers. How long had he been under so much stress? How much longer could he hold up?

Faramir knew what he was doing, pulled his hand away from the King. "Don't worry, Sire. I'm fine." He straightened in his chair and looked at Aragorn, and could see the concern on the King's face and for some reason it angered him. "I will not fail you in my duties."

"Duties?" Aragorn's face curled with astonishment. "Faramir, I'm not worried about your duties! I'm worried about you. You are not well."

"I'm fine," Faramir repeated.

Aragorn shook his head. "No, my friend, you are not. I can see – you've lost weight, I would guess at least twenty pounds. You ate nothing." Aragorn gestured toward the plate before him. "You do not look like you are "fine". He could hear his worry making his voice louder and consciously lowered it. "You look like you are about to collapse."

"I'm sorry." Faramir repeated his earlier apology, his eyes staring blankly past Aragorn, who felt his stomach churning. He had hoped Eowyn was exaggerating in her letter, her concern for her husband magnifying the problem, but it was obvious her fears were justified and he sighed. The plan that he had devised before he rode from Minas Tirith was not going to be accepted easily by his Steward. He had hoped to avoid it, but Faramir's condition made it obvious he would have to intervene. 'Do whatever you must' Arwen had said, and now he must hurt his dear friend even more, even though he believed it to be for his own good.

"I want you to take some time away," he said, and saw the suspicious look return to Faramir's face. "I am sending you to Rivendell-"

"No, Aragorn-" The hurt in Faramir's eyes was like a blade across Aragorn's heart.

"You must go," he said gently, once more reaching for his arm, even as Faramir drew back. "You are not well; you need to go where you can recuperate, somewhere quiet, where you can rest, away from - bad memories." He saw the dejected slump in his friend's shoulders and it was only further proof of Faramir's mental and emotional exhaustion that he would allow his dismay to show so easily. "Please, Faramir," he pleaded. He wanted him to understand and agree, not just obey the King's order.

Faramir shook his head slightly. "But I have duties here, who will see to them?"

Aragorn hesitated, decided there was no way to soften the blow. "I have called Elboron back from the northern frontiers. I sent the message this afternoon, before I left Minas Tirith. He can act in your place while you are gone."

The King could actually see the effect of his words on Faramir. His body jerked slightly and he seemed to suddenly diminish in his chair. "So, you had already decided when you came, then? You do not believe I am capable?"

"Faramir, it is not that-"

"It's not? Why else would you call Elboron back?" The injured expression was suddenly replaced with anger, the defensive anger of a wounded soul struggling to keep some self-respect. "I swear to you, I will not fail in my duties." His voice dropped and he suddenly lunged across the table and grabbed Aragorn's hands, his grip surprisingly strong for one so frail-looking. "I am not my father, to be broken by circumstances, to lose my sense of who I am because of –" He stopped, looked down, swallowed hard. "Please, Aragorn, I am begging you." Aragorn could see his struggle, knew the effort it took for him to plead with his King. "Please do not send me away."

"I must," Aragorn said softly, hating himself for hurting his friend so much.

Faramir released his hold on his hands and stood, suddenly angry again, paced the edge of the veranda. "And if I refuse?"

Aragorn could only stare at him for a moment, speechless with shock. He had not expected this. He and Faramir had had disagreements before, even arguments, but he had always known that he had Faramir's love and support and thought Faramir knew he had his. He had never considered he would not do as he asked. He watched as Faramir moved agitatedly across the veranda and despite his words, Faramir resembled no one so much as his father suddenly and Aragorn felt a vague uneasiness. "You mean," he spoke hesitantly, unable to believe that Faramir, who had never refused him anything, who had always been his strongest supporter, would now turn against him. "You mean you would force me to order you?"

"I mean I will not go," Faramir's face was flushed and his brows were furrowed over angry grey eyes. "Even if you order me."

"Faramir!" Aragorn cried out in surprise and astonishment. "You cannot mean that!"

"I do."

Now the King was on his feet and he faced his Steward, his friend of many years, their faces only inches apart. "But why? Why would you disobey me? When I do what I must out of my love for you?"

"Love?" Faramir's voice was harsh. "Is that what it is? Is it love to send someone away from their home when they don't want to go? Is it love to deny someone their wish for happiness? To force them to do your will? Is that how you show someone you love them, by sending them away?" Aragorn suddenly realized they were no longer speaking of Faramir and tried to calm the situation. He placed a reassuring hand on the thin shoulder. "Faramir-"

"Leave me," Faramir snarled and threw the friendly hand away. Aragorn stepped back, unsure what to do with this man he did not recognize, this unknown, angry stranger. He tried once more, reaching out to grasp Faramir's arm. "Faramir, wait-"

"I said leave!" Faramir turned and unexpectedly pushed Aragorn away from him, knocking him against the table. It was a light, wicker thing and the weight of the King tipped it over, causing Aragorn to lose his balance and fall to the stone floor of the veranda, cups and dishes following, shattering loudly. Faramir stood there, breathing heavily, and glaring down at him, his eyes dark and wild. For a moment Aragorn feared he might actually attack him, he looked so fierce, but he turned abruptly and walked into the house, past Eowyn and the girls, who had been drawn by the sound of raised voices and witnessed the entire incident. They stood with stricken faces, quickly moving out of his way to let him pass and he headed straight for the library, slamming the door shut and turning the lock.

Eowyn hurried to help Aragorn to his feet and he could see the tears coursing down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"It's all right, Eowyn." He shook his head and looked at her distraught face. "It is worse than I ever imagined."

"He is not in his right mind," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I am afraid for him." She could hear Estel and Alasse sobbing quietly in the doorway and went to gather the girls in her arms. "Shh, shh." Looking over the heads of her daughters she turned pleading eyes upon the King. "What shall I do?"

Aragorn sighed. "I don't know. I want to send him away, give him some time to recover, but he says he will not go, and I cannot bring myself to force him." He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He needed to talk to someone, to seek counsel, but Faramir had always been his best counselor. With another sigh he faced Eowyn. "I don't know. Let me think about it. I'll be back, in a day or so." He kissed her gently on the cheek and hugged the girls, feeling their sobs as they pressed against him and then headed toward the barracks to collect his men and start back to Minas Tirith, his heart heavy and his thoughts in a jumble.

They argued that night, after Aragorn had gone and she had convinced him to unlock the door. Argued in whispers and hushed words in the library late at night so that the girls would not hear. Eowyn stood in the hall, weeping, tapping on the door for hours before he had unlocked it and let her in and she had rushed into his arms but he had only stood there. He could not comfort her, he had nothing left to give, and she had stepped away from him, her hurt and sorrow turning into anger as her tears dried on her cheeks.

"Are you mad?" She knew the word would hurt, knew it would bring up the old memories, the whispered stories of Denethor and his final hours that were still told in the city and villages, and used it deliberately. "Why won't you listen to Aragorn?"

He turned away from her, turned and stared at the darkened window rather than face her stricken look. "I am fine. I just need some time alone."

"How much time? You've been locked in this room almost constantly for weeks. You don't eat, you don't sleep." Eowyn's Rohirric blood stained her cheeks as she took his arm and forced him to turn to her. "You are not yourself, Faramir. You must do something, before –" She saw the warning look in his eyes but finished the sentence. "Before you become like your father and let this destroy you."

"I AM NOT MY FATHER!" He shouted the words, thrust her away from him and crossed the library to rest his head on the mantle above the fireplace, wanting only to get away, to be alone. "Please, Eowyn." His voice was back to a choked whisper, hoping she would have pity and leave him, but Eowyn's fear drove her, fear for her husband, for his sanity, for her children and herself, and she followed him across the carpet and stood before him, tall and proud even as her eyes filled with tears.

"Then who are you?" she asked, her voice a harsh whisper. "I don't even know you," she said with a sob. "The man I love would never do this, would never act in such a selfish manner. He would not destroy himself, and his family." She saw him flinch but her fear fueled her anger and she reached out and shook him. "Don't do this!" He pulled away from her and turned back to the fire, and she pressed her hand to her mouth and stared at him, shaking her head. "All the things you ever told me about your father, what he did, how you felt." Her mouth trembled and a single tear rolled down her cheek. "I never thought you would become like him, never."

He moved so quickly he frightened her, grasping her wrist and jerking her toward the door. Wrenching open the heavy oak he glared down at her, his eyes dark and fathomless, before shoving her out into the hallway. "How dare you say that? How dare you? I am not like him. I am not – " He seemed to suddenly realize how tightly he was holding her arm and released her and she looked at him, saw a stranger before her, a man consumed with sorrow and despair, and he saw the look of horror on her face. "Just leave me alone," he said quietly and shut the door, leaning against it as he whispered "I just want to be left alone."

"My lord? Is that acceptable?"

"Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry, Fenn." Aragorn looked up and made an apologetic smile to his chamberlain, who had apparently been trying to tell him something for quite some time. "I'm distracted today."

"Yes, my lord." The fair-haired man bowed his head. "Then if you agree, I will postpone the chimney work until later in the week." Aragorn nodded absently and Fenn turned to leave. "Fenn? Is the Queen back yet?"

The chamberlain shook his head. "She is still at the dedication ceremony, my lord."

"Very well." Aragorn sat down in his chair. "When she returns, ask her to see me."

"Yes, my lord."

When he was alone again Aragorn let himself relax and slumped down in the chair, throwing his long legs out before him and rubbing his temples. Over a day and a half since he had returned from Ithilien and still he had no idea what to do. On his arrival home he had told Arwen all that had happened and she had shared his dismay and fear for Faramir, but neither of them had been able to think of any way to help him if he did not wish it. The King had been toying all morning with the idea of inventing some diplomatic mission on which to send him, and wanted to ask Arwen her opinion, but she had promised to attend the dedication of a new school and had left their chambers earlier, assuring him she would return by lunch time. He closed his eyes and waited impatiently, half his mind on the meeting he had this afternoon with the nobles of Lossarnach, apparently some discord about an inheritance. A meeting in which he was certain he would sorely miss Faramir's guidance and wisdom.

The sound of the door opening brought him upright in his chair and he looked up with a smile, expecting to see Arwen. Instead, he saw Fenn looking uncertainly at a man beside him, a man who pushed past the chamberlain to enter the King's chambers and Aragorn suddenly realized it was Faramir, his hand clutching at the metal latch of the door. The Steward of Gondor looked like the walking dead, far worse than he had just a day ago when Aragorn had seen him last and the King leaped to his feet and rushed across the room to him, taking him by the arm when he saw him sway unsteadily as he released his hold on the door when Fenn pulled it shut.

"Faramir!" Aragorn guided him gently toward a chair and lowered him into it, resisting the urge to press a hand to his head and check for fever. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"She's gone." Faramir's voice was dull but his eyes shown, glittering in their sockets. He looked up at Aragorn and the King could see he was nearly incoherent with exhaustion.

"Who? Who's gone?" He knelt beside the chair and took Faramir's hands, feeling the icy chill of his fingers, even though it was a hot summer day. He rubbed the cold hands between his and asked again in a quiet voice. "Who's gone?"

"Estel."

"Estel? When? Where?"

Faramir shuddered, pulled his hands from Aragorn's, and dropped his head into his palms. He took a deep breath, struggled to compose himself. "Yesterday. She said she was going riding but she never came home. Alasse found a letter, under her pillow." He pulled the wrinkled parchment from his tunic and handed it to Aragorn, who scanned the blotched words written across the page.

Alasse-

I'm going away. I hate it here now. I miss Bara, and Eomund, and Father frightens me. He's even angry with the King. When I find a place to stay, I'll write. Don't worry, I'll be fine. I love you. Tell Mother I love her. Tell everyone I love them. Take care of Father.

Estel

"She's afraid of me." Faramir's voice was hoarse with pain and weariness. "And now she's gone. Aragorn, I'm losing my children." His words caught in his throat and he fell silent.

"We'll find her," said Aragorn reassuringly. "She can't have gotten too far." He looked at the letter again. "It upset her when she saw us arguing the other day."

"I'm sorry," Faramir said, his head still in his hands. "I was wrong, I was upset, I was...." He stopped and looked at Aragorn with despair. "Striking the King is punishable by death. I put myself in your hands and at your mercy." He lowered his head again.

Aragorn could hardly bear to look at the tortured man before him. "Faramir, stop, stop! I'm not putting you to death, don't be absurd." He reached out and laid a gentle hand along Faramir's face, forcing him to look at him. "Listen to me. I'll find her. I swear it. But you must trust me and do as I ask. You are not well; you must go to Rivendell."

Faramir's eyes were dark and bloodshot and empty and he stared at the King for a long moment. "But, I cannot go now. Estel - "

"I'll find her," Aragorn said again. "I'll have the entire army of Gondor search for her if I must. But you, Faramir, you must go, to Rivendell."

"I cannot." Faramir's words were torn from him. "I have to find her. She is my daughter, Aragorn, my responsibility." He got to his feet slowly, moving as if he were unsure how to use his muscles, and took a few steps toward the door. "It is my fault she is gone; I frightened her, I must find her." He stopped, suddenly unsteady on his feet, and would have fallen had not Aragorn quickly moved to his side and caught him, draping Faramir's arm across his own shoulder and leading him back to the chair to ease him down. He knelt down beside him once more, grasped the cold hands.

"You do not have the strength to search for her, Faramir," he said softly. "You are unwell. You need to rest." Time seemed to pause for a moment and Aragorn could almost see the crushing weight of grief and despair on his friend and he waited, hoping there was enough of Faramir's own good sense still intact in him to realize the truth of the King's words.

"I can rest here." Faramir's head was bowed again, his dark hair obscuring his face, and he spoke in a monotone voice.

"No, you cannot, or you would have already." Aragorn kept his voice gentle, sensing he had broken through the last of Faramir's defenses. "Please, Faramir, go to Rivendell, get some rest, recover your health, and I will find Estel. I swear it." He watched as the words penetrated and his Steward finally realized that his actions and responses in the last few days only proved Aragorn to be correct, and at last Faramir gave a jerky nod of acquiescence.

"I will go," he said faintly, the words wrenched from him.

"Thank you." Aragorn reached out and gave his knee a gentle squeeze; thinking to himself that Faramir had never looked so fragile as at that moment. "I will have preparations made immediately, both for you, and for a search party." He had a sudden thought. "Where is Eowyn?"

Aragorn thought he saw Faramir cringe as he spoke, and his empty eyes were even more desolate as he looked up at the King. "She stayed in Ithilien…We – we quarreled, she is angry with me." Faramir whispered, staring blankly ahead of him. "I – " He suddenly seemed to realize where he was and who he was speaking to and he halted his sentence, lowered his head again. "There should be someone at home, in case Estel comes back," he said tiredly. "I tracked her to Osgiliath. I found her horse, she sold it there, but after that, I couldn't find any trace..." His voice trailed off and he simply sat, his eyes fixed on the stone floor.

Aragorn carefully got to his feet and placed his hand on Faramir's shoulder. "We'll start there, then." The vision of Faramir trudging the streets of Osgiliath in his condition tore at him, while the idea of he and Eowyn arguing, something they rarely did, was unsettling and he knew could only do more damage to Faramir's already precarious emotions, and he gently massaged the tense muscles beneath his hand even as he began to make plans. The door to his chambers opened and Arwen entered, her face instantly full of worry when she saw Faramir. She looked at Aragorn and he shook his head slightly to discourage any questions.

"Faramir." Her voice was low and welcoming. Immediately Faramir struggled up to stand before his Queen.

"My lady." He bowed his head and Aragorn saw the tears fill Arwen's eyes, knew his description of the Steward had not been enough to prepare her. She glided forward and took his hands, kissed his cheek gently. "I'm pleased to see you," she said. Faramir trembled and Aragorn pressed him back down into the chair.

"Sit down," he said softly. Faramir nodded. "Yes, Sire," he said quietly as he sank back into the cushions and Aragorn turned to Arwen. "Stay with him. I have arrangements to make." He left them and strode down the long corridor to his official chambers, barking out orders to guards and others who came running at his summons. Within minutes there was a party being outfitted to travel to Rivendell, and a Battalion of Gondorian soldiers headed for Osgiliath to search for Estel. Summoning a scribe, Aragorn took the parchment and ink himself and wrote a message to Eowyn to let her know where Faramir was, that he would be leaving immediately, and that the King was now leading the search for Estel. After dispatching that message, he took a fresh sheet of parchment and wrote out a terse note, placing it in the hands of one of his swiftest couriers. "This goes to Eomund in Pelargir," he said in a dangerously soft voice. "Bring him back here to me."

To Be Continued…..

Oooo, here is where I manage to make everyone mad! For those of you who have already complained that I'm writing Book Faramir (i.e. black hair, grey eyes), not David Wenham, sorry. But I have a feeling that those who love "Bookimir" will be aghast at this chapter, so think of me as an "equal opportunity offender."

Now, for those of you who are going to review this chapter and wail "But that's NOT the way Faramir is!!!" – Um, I know that. The whole point is that people under terrible stress don't act the way they usually do. Everyone has a breaking point, thankfully most of us never reach ours. Faramir has. I have never been one to convince myself that Faramir's nobility is somehow lessened if he has a few problems, like depression. I mean, geez – look at the family – Mom dies of sadness, Dad goes bonkers – the poor man is practically hard-wired for a little breakdown! Besides, you all love him to suffer, you know you do…….