Note: Some of you have asked about Aragorn's (and my) reasons for sending Faramir to Rivendell, so I thought I'd try to explain myself. In the "Complete Guide to Middle Earth" by Robert Foster, it says that in the Fourth Age, Elrond went over the sea but Elladan and Elrohir stayed in Rivendell, and were joined by Celeborn at a later date – after he grew tired of living in Lothlorien alone, since Galadrial had also gone into the West. Apparently there is no record of exactly who all stayed in Rivendell and when it was finally totally deserted. So, for me, at least, it is still up and running 30 years after the War.

I see Aragorn sending Faramir there for a few reasons - first, it's a place HE thinks of as safe, having grown up there, and he's hoping Celeborn ("the Wise") will be able to come up with a plan to help. He also remembers how much Faramir loved visiting before ('member, I sent him and Eowyn there at the end of my last story) and is looking for a place of "happy" memories. Also, he wants to get him somewhere where no one will think to look for him, so he can really have some time to rest. The only other place he might consider sending him, Dol Amroth, is too full of both memories and relatives. So, there is my reasoning, take it or leave it!

I also feel a little guilty because so many of you are already beginning to detest Eomund. Please don't! I don't detest him, I see him as the middle brother – with two older ones that he would whine to and two younger ones he could boss around. He is still learning to be an adult and his own person. Having been blessed/cursed with Denethor's personality (stubbornness and self-assurance can be virtues!!!) he just needs to learn how to temper it a bit. It would have to be a tremendous burden to be the children of Faramir and Eowyn, don't you think? Quite a bit to live up to…Anyway, don't hate the boy too much, he'll get his, don't worry, and he's really not a bad guy, just a little self-centered and anxious to prove he's a grown-up and doesn't have to listen to Mom and Dad.

Again – THANKS for all the nice reviews!

Chapter 3: A Deception

"How old are you, boy?" The Rohirric warrior's face was twisted from an old scar, the missing chunk of upper lip on the left leering up into an unamused smile. He leaned back against the tavern wall and pinned his gaze on the sturdy figure before him.

"Eighteen," said the boy, and even through his inebriated haze the man of Rohan could see the blush spread across his fair cheek. He said nothing, kept his eyes on the boy, who shifted his feet uncertainly. "Seventeen?" he offered hopefully, looking up into the mangled face, whose expression never changed. Beside the drunken man another Rohirric soldier laughed out loud at the assertion and the boy flushed even darker, then drew his dark brows together in a frown. "Sixteen, almost, and that is true."

"Sixteen?" With a snort the Rider buried his nose into his cup once more and swallowed a mouthful of ale. When he looked up again, the boy was still waiting, his hand nervously rubbing along his breeches. The Rider shook his head. "Go home, boy."

"I can't, my lord."

The Rohirrim guffawed into his cup and looked at his companions. "You hear that? My Lord, he says. I'm moving up in the world, don't you know." The other Riders seated at the table laughed loudly, clanked their cups together in a toast and bowed mockingly toward him.

Estel flushed again. She had made a mistake! He was obviously an eored leader, judging by the plume of his helmet and the air of command he had. She had watched him from the shadows for quite some time before approaching him and now she had already had made an error. Quickly she pressed on. "I can't, sir." Sir seemed to be at least a reasonable title and he did not correct her this time. "It's – well, it's hard to explain. You see, my brother, he was – he died in the spring, and now my father – well, sir –" To her horror, Estel heard her voice quaver and felt a tear escape from her eye. Angrily she reached up and wiped at it with her palm, inadvertently shoving her short hair away from her face.

Suddenly the man with the scarred face stood up and reached across the table, grabbed her by the chin and turned her head to examine the long bloody scratches and the bruise along her cheek. His mouth grew hard. "Beats you, does he?" He released her with a grunt of disgust.

Estel froze, dropping her gaze to the floor. It was not the lie she had planned to use but it would suffice. She nodded, feeling more than a little guilty in letting these men think her father had harmed her. Then the memory of his argument with the King came to her and she let out a shaky breath and nodded again.

The Riders traded glances, suddenly serious. A man who would beat a boy was contemptible in both Gondor and Rohan, and one of them looked at his captain and shrugged. "Let him come along," he said gruffly, "he can clean our boots." The others voiced their agreement and the youngest, barely more than a boy himself, scooted over on the bench to make room for the newcomer.

"What's your name, boy?" The captain asked.

"Stellan," said Estel as she gingerly took her place on the bench. "My name is Stellan."

She had made her plans after the King had gone, while her father was still locked in the library, despite her mother's entreaties and Alasse lay crying softly in the bed beside hers. There had been too many nights when she or her sister had cried themselves to sleep lately, too many days spent trying to gauge her father's mood, or in attempts to coax a response of some sort from him and she made her decision as she lay stiff and frightened under the covers, the memory of her father's angry face still before her.

In the morning she had risen early and slipped into Sam's room, pulling a pair of breeches and a tunic from his wardrobe and only hesitating a moment before snatching up his old jerkin, the leather one that he had worn almost constantly before joining the army. She looked for a moment at the boots beside it, but her feet were much too small; her own would have to do and she quickly wrapped everything into a neat bundle. The letter she had written hastily, after Alasse had gone down to breakfast, with several scribbled out mistakes and blotches of ink, and she had carefully slid it under her sister's pillow, hoping it would remain undiscovered until much later in the day.

She stowed the bundle behind the scratched-up cupboard in the back entry of the house, the one that held muddy boots, bits of horse tack, the occasional odd-looking rock found on a stroll about the grounds, and all the other odds and ends that were accumulated by a large family passing in and out. It was less messy than in the past, with all the boys gone, but still untidy enough that no one would be looking behind it any time soon. Then she went to breakfast. Neither her mother nor her father were at the table, instead Alasse sat alone, picking through some fruit as her tea cooled before her untouched. Estel could see the slight swelling around her eyes where she had cried herself to sleep last night. Feeling even more determined in her plan, she grabbed a roll and announced to her sister she was going riding. Alasse nodded sorrowfully and she went to the back entry, collected the bundle and headed for the stables.

She took the black mare, grateful that her grey stallion was turned out in the lower pastures, knowing she would not have had the heart to sell him when she got to Osgiliath no matter how necessary it might be. As it was, she had no trouble finding a buyer for the mare once she arrived in Osgiliath that afternoon. The finely-made animal had sold easily, even if she had to take far less than she was worth in order to find someone willing to pay cash with no questions asked. A girl with older brothers knew a lot, more than she should sometimes, and Estel had taken the mare to a side street near the main docks and in no time had a small sack of coins in her possession, rather than a horse.

Hastily heading for the depot, she purchased a ticket to Dol Amroth, using nearly all her money, and making sure the elderly man behind the counter knew she was from out of town. She asked for directions twice, wanting to make sure he remembered her and he smiled genially as he pointed her toward the ship. "Just turn right, go down the docks to Number 14, sweeting." She returned the smile, thanked him, and walked away, waiting a few minutes before turning left and making her way to a small inn a few streets off of the large square in the center of the city.

She paid for a night's lodging, and ate a small meal in the common room, ignoring the looks from a few young men seated nearby, and that was almost the end of her money, but she wasn't worried. She was young and blessed with an optimistic spirit and had no doubts that her plan would succeed. Once in her room, she set about transforming herself.

The children of Eowyn of Rohan had been raised with stories of their mother's courage and bravery, of how she had ridden to war with the Rohirrim disguised as Dernhelm and slain the witch king, and many nights Estel had sat entranced as her father or uncle had told the tale of that day, drawing embarrassed corrections from her mother in the telling. "It was not quite so glorious," she would say with a shake of her head, "You were not there!" and Estel had never made a secret of her disappointment in being female, when nothing stirred her blood like the sound of horns and the snap of a banner in the wind.

Now she stood before the sliver of mirror she had begged from the innkeeper and, taking a resolute breath, took out her knife and began to cut. Her long black hair fell around her feet as she hacked at it, and she had to keep turning her head to see her reflection in the mirror, but little by little she worked until it was trimmed just below her ears, the ragged edge brushing her neck. She squinted into the mirror and was startled to see her brother Theoden peering out at her, only with a slightly broader face. She had not realized how much they looked alike and grinned with pleasure. She could do this!

Next she pulled off her dress and climbed into Sam's breeches, the material feeling strangely snug as it clung to her legs; then pulled on his tunic and at last shrugged into the jerkin. The mirror was too small to give much of a view of her in entirely, but she felt sure she would not be recognized now as a girl, much less the daughter of the Steward of Gondor.

Hastily rolling her discarded clothes into a ball, she stuffed the rest of her meager belongings back into the leather pack she had filched from the White Company's barracks and looked into the mirror once more. For just a moment her nerve failed her, and she saw her lower lip tremble slightly, but she bit it sharply and took a deep breath. "My name is Stellan," she said quietly, "and I want to join the Riders of Rohan."

Squaring her shoulders and pulling on the pack, she turned and crossed the room to open the small window that looked out over the back of the inn. She was in luck. It was evening, dim and dusky out, and a trellis covered with vines ran along one entire side of the inn. She swung her feet over the window sill and climbed out, lunging for the trellis with both hands. She caught it without difficulty and began climbing down, carefully feeling with her feet for each step. The trellis was built of tough, springy wood, and easily took her weight, until she was near the bottom, where an insect had bored a nest hole into the slat, weakening it. It broke beneath her and she fell the last few feet, scratching her face against the rough stone wall of the inn before she landed with a thump. She blinked back the tears and felt gingerly with her fingers, finding only the scratches; decided she was not badly hurt, and shouldered her pack again. Since both her parents and all of her brothers had always cautioned her against ever going anywhere near Rattail Square whenever they were in Osgiliath, she decided that was exactly the place she would find what she needed. On the way, she casually tossed her balled-up clothes, with her hair trimmings inside, into the river Anduin. Then she went to find some Rohirrim.

The scarred eored leader had caught her eye as he joined his men for a drink outside the small tavern and she had gathered her courage and approached them. Now she sat at their table as the night deepened.

"He's quick." Feorl's voice held admiration and his companion gave a grunt of agreement.

"He's had good training." Wulffon's scarred face wrinkled into a true smile as he watched the newcomer spar with another Rohirrim. The boy was good, better than he had expected. Feorl looked sideways at his commander. Wulffon was a good leader, and a man with a good heart despite his fearsome appearance. Feorl had known once the bruises on the boy's face had been discovered that he would be coming with them, and in the past few days, as they had made their way back to Rohan, he had watched Wulffon befriend the frightened boy, and had tried to do the same.

He had been partially successful. Stellan was more than happy to talk about horses and sword drills, and had even piped up around the fire one night with a comment when the discussion had been battle tactics, much to the amusement of the other Riders gathered around the blaze. They had laughed at him, but Wulffon had silenced them with a word and looked at the boy keenly. "You know of the Battles of the Fords of Isen?"

Stellan was suddenly quiet, looking down at the ground. "My uncle has spoken of them," he said reluctantly, and soon afterward had disappeared from the circle of men around the fire, hurrying off to tend the horses.

Now as Feorl watched the mock sword fight before him he wondered again about the boy's past. He was obviously well-educated and his manner of speech seemed to point to a noble family. He rode as if he had been born on a horse, easily mastering the large bay gelding that had been allotted to him when they left Osgiliath and although his Gondorian heritage was evident by his dark hair and grey eyes, he had surprised them all the first morning by answering in Rohirric when Wulffon forgot and addressed him in their native tongue. Feorl smiled as Stellan parried his taller opponent's stroke with the sword and turned quickly, managing to bring the tip of his own blade up to the other man's neck and earning a whoop of approval from the watching Riders. Yes, he had come from money and privilege, Feorl was certain. But any questions as to his family, or his origins, caused only a veiled look to come across his eyes and silence.

Wulffon and the others who had been at the tavern that night with him had spoken of the bruised and scratched face, the suspicion of abuse, and the others in the eored had accepted the boy without another word. In only a few days he had become one of them, sharing a small tent with Feorl, waking early to fetch water and build up the fire, offering to attend to any small jobs among them. He seemed eager to please, and yet there was a melancholy about him. There was an odd sense of modesty about him, too, leading him to attend to his needs privately and seeming to be embarrassed by the rougher behavior of some of the other Rohirrim, but Feorl attributed that to his youth and the physical abuse he had suffered, and he tried to give the boy his privacy. Other than that, it was soon as if he had always been part of their eored.

Feorl congratulated him as Stellan returned the sword to its owner and came to sit beside him in the firelight. "Well done, lad."

"Can I have a sword of my own?" Stellan's face was flushed and his eyes were bright with excitement and Feorl laughed. "Surely."

"Really?" The grey eyes glowed, until Feorl continued his sentence.

"When you are older."

"Older? I'm old enough." Instantly dark brows were furrowed and a frown pulled at Stellan's mouth. "I beat him, didn't I?"

"Yes," Feorl agreed. "You did, and quite handily. But Hethorn is not an orc, boy. He fights fair, he doesn't take advantage. He didn't WANT to kill you." He shook his head. "Wait a little longer."

Stellan frowned again. "I had my own sword at home," he murmured and once again Feorl tried to learn more of the boy's past.

"Did you now? Is that where you learned such excellent technique? That is some of the best footwork I've seen in a while, especially by one so young."

"My mother-" Estel stopped, horrified that in her desire to answer Feorl's question and prove her right to a sword she had nearly spoken of her mother's fame and given away her identity. Her own sword had been left behind in Ithilien, of course, the expensive blade inlaid with silver and pearl too easily identifiable to be taken along. Beside her the Rider watched with interest as she clumsily covered her mistake. "My mother didn't like me having it," she said awkwardly.

"So your father taught you, then?" pressed Feorl, raising his eyebrows in surprise when Stellan abruptly stood up and walked away, ducking into the tent they shared. Feorl waited a few moments but when the boy did not reappear he followed, feeling guilty when he found him lying in his bedroll sniffling, his face turned toward the canvas wall.

"Stellan, I'm sorry. I know you don't like to talk about your father." Feorl sat down on his own blanket and pulled off his boots. Stellan ignored him and he sighed as he lay back and wrapped the blanket around him. They lay in silence for a few moments as Feorl tried to think of something to say to break the tension.

"We'll be in Rohan tomorrow," he said, mostly just to say something. "If you're lucky, maybe you'll see the King."

The reaction was not what he had expected. Stellan stiffened and rolled over to face him with wide, fearful eyes. "Do you think so?"

Feorl gave a small, puzzled laugh. "No, not really. He doesn't usually inspect all the eoreds personally, maybe once a year or so." The worried look eased a bit and Feorl was curious. "Don't you want to see the King of Rohan? He is the best horseman in all of Middle Earth, and few men can match him with a blade."

Stellan gave a slight shake of his head. "I've heard that, but I have also heard he has a fierce temper, and does not suffer fools." The grey eyes shifted and Stellan bit his lip nervously. "He might be angry that you let me come with you."

Feorl laughed again. "You have heard true, lad. His temper is legendary, and I would not want to be on the receiving end of it! But he would not be angry; we would certainly not be the first eored to bring along some homeless waif." He settled down in his blanket and smiled at the boy. "I wouldn't worry. Chances are you won't even see him, and we won't stay long before we're out on patrol again."

"I hope so." Stellan didn't sound reassured.

Estel's fears proved groundless. Just as Feorl had said, their eored clattered into Edoras with little ceremony, spent two days being refitted, and clattered out again without any appearance by Eomer, who surely would have recognized the sturdy figure in her brother's clothes. Less than a day after Wulffon's eored departed, a messenger arrived from Gondor with news of the disappearance of the Steward's daughter, and all those eorlingas in Edoras were put on alert. Wulffon's company, however, rode north in blissful ignorance of the fugitive they harbored.

"You understand this does NOT mean you are a full-fledged Rider?" Feorl tried to make his voice stern as he addressed the excited boy before him. Stellan nodded forcefully, his grey eyes dancing with excitement as he reached out his hand. Feorl snatched the sword back again. "You are still expected to build up the fire in the morning and make me my breakfast, and polish my armor, you know."

"Yes, yes," Stellan made a face and grinned, knowing Feorl was merely drawing out the moment as long as possible. "Fire, breakfast, polish, I know."

"Hmm." Feorl slowly handed the sword over, smiling as Stellan ran happy hands down the blade. "It is only because I know you can handle it, and because we are going to be in dangerous territory." He took Stellan's arm, his face suddenly serious. "I mean it, Stellan, we are near Moria, and since the Elves have deserted Lorien, the orcs can be bold. Be wary."

Estel looked into his face and nodded soberly, feeling the touch of his hand on her forearm cause a flush across her cheeks. She smiled, realized for the first time he was not really much older than she was, and quite handsome. His hair was dark blond rather than the pale gold of so many Rohirrim, while his brown eyes were a rarity among the usual blues and greens of the Northmen. Family stories hinted at some Haradric blood somewhere in the past, but whatever the reason, Feorl had a different look than many of his companions and Estel stared at him, suddenly noticing it. He looked at her, saw her eyes on him, her smile, and wrinkled his brow in bewilderment. "What?"

Estel came back to the present with a rush. "Nothing, I just – nothing." She gripped the sword harder and gave it an experimental swing, trying to focus on something other than the tingling on her arm where Feorl had touched her. "It is a good blade." Nothing like that she had left behind, of course, but a good, sturdy weapon that would take an orc's head from its shoulders well enough. She looked up at Feorl shyly. "Thank you."

The Rider smiled and reached over to tousle the dark hair. "Just stay safe, all right?" She nodded.

Wulffon's eored patrolled beyond Rohan's northern border for the next two weeks, Eomer-King having agreed to keep watch over the area for King Elessar of Gondor, but they found scant evidence of any orcs other than one small, abandoned campsite. Estel voiced her displeasure over their lack of enemies to Feorl one night as they ate. "This is boring. The ways things are going, I'll never get to kill an orc."

Feorl laughed as he took a drink from his cup. "Don't be too anxious. You'll get your chance." He looked at the boy affectionately. In the last few weeks he had found Stellan to be a pleasant companion. Intelligent, good-natured, a natural soldier with a boisterous sense of humor. "You'll make a fine Rider, one day," he said suddenly, surprised when Stellan's face fell. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Stellan stared into the fire and chewed his lip. "I miss-" He stopped and Feorl saw the grey eyes brighten as tears filled them. He waited, wondering if the boy was going to speak of his home and past, but in a moment Stellan swallowed hard and brushed his hand across his eyes. "Never mind," he said, forcing a smile. "Thank you for saying that. But I cannot be a Rider until I kill an orc. I will, before we go back to Edoras," he said. "I will." The young face in the firelight was determined and Feorl smiled and patted his back kindly. "I believe you."

Celeborn stood on the large porch of the Last Homely House and studied the quiet figure seated on the stone bench in the garden below him.

"How long since you left Minas Tirith?" he asked, his voice quiet and steady.

"Nearly three weeks," came Legolas's soft reply beside him. "Aragorn said to take it slow, and we followed the Old South Road, going east, rather than straight north. He didn't want to chance our meeting any of the orcs that live in the mountains."

"You stopped nowhere on the way, not even Edoras?" Celeborn's voice held no curiosity and Legolas knew he was merely thinking aloud.

"You have spoken with him, my lord, can you see him in Edoras?" Legolas' blue eyes were hard.

The Elf Lord pressed his lips together, called up the image of the guarded, brittle man he had welcomed to Rivendell earlier today and tried to imagine him seated in the loud, rowdy hall of Meduseld surrounded by Rohirrim. He grimaced. "No, no, you were wise to avoid it." He turned back to the chair he had vacated and sat down again, still keeping his eyes on the man in the garden. "Has he improved at all since you departed the city?"

Legolas took a chair beside him and considered, then reluctantly shook his head. "Not really. He is sleeping a little longer at night, but only because the journey has been tiring, I think."

"How long?"

Blond brows drew together as the Elvish prince thought. "Three, perhaps four hours a night. No more."

"Does he eat?"

"Barely enough to sustain him, and that only if I remind and encourage him." Celeborn could hear the sadness in Legolas's voice and looked over to find him giving the older Elf a searching look. "Can you help him?"

Celeborn steepled his fingers before him and let out a gusty breath. "My knowledge of healing is not so advanced as others. I lack Lord Elrond's skill, as you well know. And restoring a wounded spirit is a delicate matter. I feel that Lord Faramir's healing is more dependent on himself than anything I can do." He leaned back in his chair and rubbed a finger along his mouth. "Tell me again, from the beginning."

So Legolas told once more of Barahir's death and the funeral, of cruel, hard words spoken in anger and grief from another beloved son, of the gradual loss of health and uncharacteristic bursts of temper, and at last, near collapse upon Estel's disappearance. Celeborn listened carefully, as he had the first time Legolas had told the story, his eyes never leaving Faramir's still figure below him. There was a long silence when Legolas finished.

At last the Elf Lord stood up and moved to the edge of the balcony once more. "Until the girl is found, I fear little will change," he said. He turned to Legolas. "You say there are search parties looking for her?"

Legolas made a noise of annoyance. "The entire army of Gondor is looking for her. And I am sure Aragorn has sent word to Edoras, so Eomer-King will also be searching." He came to stand beside Celeborn. "I, myself carry messages for Elrohir and Elladan. We will be leaving shortly to search also."

Celeborn gestured toward Faramir. "Does he know you are leaving?" Legolas nodded. "What did he say when you told him?"

"He says very little, my lord." Legolas folded his arms and his face was sorrowful. "It is as if he is lost somewhere deep inside himself."

"An apt description, I think." said Celeborn. "He is lost. That is why I think there is little I can do, except try to help him find his own way back." His eyes rested on Faramir and then he turned to Legolas. "Tell Aragorn I will do my best, but..."

Legolas shook his head. "He asks no more than you are able to give. A quiet place of rest is a good beginning, and as you say, much depends on Faramir himself." He bowed slightly toward the Elf Lord. "I bid you farewell, my lord." Celeborn returned the bow but then paused and looked at Legolas attentively.

"Has anyone informed the hobbits of the Shire…about the girl?" He raised an eyebrow at Legolas, who immediately understood the unspoken portion of the question. The residents of the Shire had not been notified, either of Estel's disappearance or, perhaps of more interest to specific inhabitants of that fertile land, Faramir's ill health.

"No, my lord."

Celeborn clasped his hands in front of him and gazed down into the garden. "I would think they would wish to be informed of such news, I believe all of them to be quite fond of the Steward and his family, and some extremely so." Legolas's eyes widened as he grasped the meaning of Celeborn's words. He was called "Celeborn the Wise" by many, and Legolas knew that his strength lay not so much in always knowing or understanding a particular thing, but in knowing who DID. He realized that the Elf Lord was suggesting it would be wise to inform at least some of those hobbits who knew Faramir, and Legolas considered the idea for a moment, his thoughts soon fixing on Peregrin Took; Pippin. Always hungry, always talking. Pippin, who could be counted on to always look on the bright side of things, to give a hug when it was needed, even if it wasn't wanted, to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and still have it turn out all right.

Legolas found he was smiling and he gave Celeborn a little grin. He would take a short detour to the Shire when he left Rivendell. Perhaps the cheerful chatter of the Halfling could pierce Faramir's bleak mood. He bowed once more and left the balcony to descend the steps turning the thought over in his mind. He would not mention it to Faramir; there was always the chance Pippin could not come, and he knew Faramir was already uncomfortable and would not want anyone making any more special arrangements for him. He felt he was a burden to others as it was. Crossing the grassy lawn Legolas approached Faramir at the stone bench, the man's bent shoulders and lowered head wrenching at his heart.

"My lord?" He spoke quietly as he approached but there was no response, so he laid a gentle hand on Faramir's shoulder. "Faramir?" He winced regretfully as Faramir jumped up in surprise. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to startle you."

"No matter." Faramir's voice was low and he sank back down onto the bench and stared at the ground beneath him. Legolas sat down beside him and looked at the drawn face, the thin hands clasped before him and felt a pang of distress. He had tried mightily as they traveled to get Faramir to eat, to speak, to do anything other than stare fixedly at some unknown spot before him, but had failed most of the time. He had hoped that being on the road might make a difference, but nothing had changed and now that he had seen him safely to Rivendell he must join the search for Estel, and leave Faramir behind to struggle with his inner demons. He hated doing it.

"I'm leaving, with Elrohir and Elladan," he said. There was no answer other than a brief nod and Legolas again felt sadness at Faramir's distance. Remembering the many pleasant evenings he had spent on the veranda in Ithilien talking with Faramir, his heart felt a sudden ache and although he was not the kind to physically touch another often, and knew Faramir was the same, he reached over and tentatively took hold of Faramir's arm. "I will see you again soon, in Ithilien," he said quietly, "after all of this has passed."

"After?" Faramir repeated the word in a dull voice and gave him a mystified look and Legolas had the sudden understanding that it now took most of Faramir's energy just to make it through each day, leaving none to look ahead to a time when his sorrow and worry would be in the past. He squeezed his arm and nodded.

"After, Faramir. One day you will find you have passed through this trial."

Faramir merely gave him another vague nod and returned to staring at the ground below them. With a sigh Legolas rose and left him.

After. The word echoed in Faramir's head. Aragorn had said something similar when he had left Minas Tirith. Once he had agreed to go, Faramir had said nothing more, merely sitting quietly as Arwen made sure things were packed and preparations made while Aragorn sent for Legolas. Only he would make the trip with Faramir; Aragorn saw no reason to embarrass his friend by sending him out with a large party of guards. Times were relatively peaceful and Legolas should be all the protection they needed if they kept to the safer routes. When the Elf had arrived from Ithilien and the horses were ready, Aragorn had coaxed Faramir to his feet and embraced him. He held him close, and Faramir had let his head rest heavily against the King's shoulder for just a moment, feeling the solid strength there.

"This will pass, Faramir," Aragorn had said quietly into his ear. "I know it does not seem possible, but one day you will find yourself on the other side of this dark time, just as you have all the others you have faced." He had stroked the dark hair gently and Faramir had felt the awful pressure rise up in his chest and abruptly pulled away, fearful he would lose control and begin to weep before his King. Aragorn had allowed him to step back, but had kept a tight grip on his hands and looked into his face. "You told me at your home that you were not your father," he said, his eyes locked onto Faramir's own, seeing the unshed tears in the wounded depths. "You said you would not lose yourself. I know this to be true." He raised his hand and laid it alongside Faramir's face. "I know who you are, just as you do yourself, deep inside." He hugged Faramir again even though he could feel the tension in him and his Steward stood stiffly, not returning the gesture. "Rest, my dear friend, and come back to us whole."

Remembering the exchange now Faramir nodded and spoke faintly aloud "Yes, my lord," just as he had in Minas Tirith. From his place on the balcony Celeborn saw him and sighed thoughtfully.

The Elf left Faramir to himself as afternoon passed and the shadows lengthened across the garden, and still Faramir sat lost in his own thoughts, scarcely noticing the passage of time. When at last the sun began to creep below the trees Celeborn walked down the steps and approached his guest. "Lord Faramir?" He spoke again and waited patiently until Faramir turned to him with a blank expression. "May I show you to the room we have ready for you?" Wordlessly Faramir rose to his feet and followed his host, who slowed his steps so that they were walking side by side down the ornately decorated hallway. "I thought you would prefer being a bit removed from the rest of the house," Celeborn said as they walked. "Our sleeping habits here are rather unsettled and no one wishes to disturb you."

Faramir gave him a suspicious look to see if the Elf was mocking him but the bland look did not waver as Celeborn continued. "It is not a large room, but it is private, and looks out onto the woods. I hope you will find it comfortable." He finally stopped before a door made of pale blond wood, covered with carved leaves and flowers. Pushing the door open he gestured for Faramir to enter, stepping through the door behind him.

The room was quite spacious, despite Celeborn's earlier statement, and airy, with one great window and two smaller ones that faced north and the last bright streaks of afternoon sun flamed red through one corner of the glass. It contained a large bed, two padded couches, a clothes closet made of carved and painted wood, a round table and several chairs scattered about. On the paneled walls hung huge swatches of cloth dyed in the pale earthen colors the Elves of Imladris favored, pearl, tan and palest blue and they softened the room and made it feel warm and welcoming. A fire was laid and ready in the hearth should the need arise, but it was still warm enough outside that the door leading to the small balcony off to the side of the room was open to admit the evening breeze. Faramir's things were neatly stacked on the table and the window seat of the larger window. Celeborn waited to see if there would be any reaction but Faramir merely stood motionless, seeming to not even notice the surroundings.

"I will take my leave, then," he said, expecting no reply and receiving none. He turned to go, stopping at the door. "We all have our evening meal together each day at dusk," he informed Faramir, still standing silently in the center of the room. "As I am sure you remember. You'll hear the bell. You are welcome to join us, but should you rather not please feel free to take your meals here. Just let Lathelinor know." He waved toward the hallway they had just come through. "She has black hair, you will see her about. If you need anything, tell her, she is in charge of this wing of the house." Still no answer from the quiet man before him, and he turned to go, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Thank you." Faramir's words were barely audible even to the keen Elvish ears and Celeborn halted, fixing his eyes on the Man until Faramir raised his head to look at him. The pain and sadness in his eyes struck the Elf as more than any Man could bear and he had no difficulty believing that Faramir's misery was destroying him from the inside. He searched for something reassuring to say, something that might give some hope to a broken soul, but nothing came. His wife was the one with that gift, not he.

"My Lord Faramir." When he finally spoke, Celeborn kept his voice low and gentle, as it seemed possible even loudly spoken words might somehow harm the fragile figure before him. "You are more than welcome here in Imladris." Faramir nodded his head as he dropped his eyes once more to the floor and Celeborn left him with no further comment.

The evening light dimmed and the room was nearly dark before Faramir moved slowly across the floor and out onto the balcony. It overlooked the woods and tall, stately trees grew close, throwing their shadows across the balcony floor. A pair of low, cushioned chairs were there facing the trees, and he sat down and stared up into the sky at the first faint glimmers as the stars began to shine. A bell could be heard ringing faintly but he did not seem to notice it. As the trees disappeared into darkness and the starlight began to glow brighter Faramir closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

To Be Continued….

Once again – thanks for Clairon and Princess Faz for encouragement, and all the great feedback from everyone.