The lord steward stood at the window, watching the spatter of grey rain. Without turning his head, he commanded, "Bring him over here, into the light. Then leave and see that I am not disturbed."

His guards led Haldan forward until they were only a few paces from the steward's back. The old officer bowed and then, with his hands still bound behind him, sank awkwardly to one knee. Eyes downcast, he stared at the stone floor.

The guards' footsteps receded, and the iron doors of the council chamber closed with a hollow thud. Drops of rain rattled against the windows. Unmoving as stone, Denethor watched the storm. Then at last he turned to look at the other man. "There are few men I trust, Haldan. Most are well-meaning yet sadly lacking in wit. While others bow low before me but, in their hearts, they are traitors who disregard the will of their lord. Tell me, which are you? An errant traitor or merely a fool? In which way have I misjudged you all these years?"

His grey head still bowed, Haldan had no answer for this barbed question. In truth he would rather his lord had struck him than said such words.

"It is good beyond hope that my sons have returned, yet easily you could have lost them both." Denethor's voice rose as he spoke. "Boromir is reckless and young. I had hoped you would teach him some sense. I charged you to keep him from harm! Instead, you and his fool of a kinsman nearly led him to his death!"

At this, the old soldier looked up at the steward. "No, my lord, Captain Eldahil was not aware of our plans. Indeed, he travelled with us against his will."

"Do you think me a fool? You lie to protect him!" Denethor stepped closer and stared down at him.

Haldan felt a slight shock as he met the steward's keen gaze. Grey wolf eyes, the old soldier thought, and he was grateful when at last Denethor turned away.

"Yet it is plain that you do not lie," the steward said with a scowl. "Perhaps this matter is not as simple as it seemed." He drew his robe of sable more closely about him; the braziers had not been lit and the chamber was cold. "Now you will tell me all that happened."

"Yes, my lord," Haldan replied evenly. Still kneeling on the stone floor, he told his tale under the lord's sharp gaze.


After pacing back and forth for a while, Eldahil decided to write a missive to his father. Quill, ink and parchment still sat on the deep windowsill. He had not gotten any farther than

Dear Father,
No doubt you will find this difficult to believe.

when the bolts rattled and the door opened again. The captain of the Tower Guard entered the cell, followed by Boromir and two guards. At the sight of his cousin, Eldahil felt overwhelmed with annoyance and relief.

With the merest flicker of a glance at Eldahil, Boromir asked sharply, "Where is Captain Haldan? My orders are to fetch them both."

"My lord, you missed him by less than an hour. The lord Denethor has already sent for him." He told the guards, "Escort Captain Eldahil to the White Tower."

"Do not trouble your men to go out in that rain. He is wounded so I will be guard enough," Boromir said quickly.

"My lord, he might harm you or make good his escape."

"This man is my distant kinsman." Boromir put a slight emphasis on the word "distant" and gave Eldahil a scornful look. "I assure you that he is not very dangerous even when he has the use of both arms, and I will keep a heavy hand on him."

After he rescues me, let me see if I can strangle him with just one arm, Eldahil told himself.

Peering closely at Eldahil's face, Boromir frowned. "Indeed, have the healers seen to his hurts? He seems very pale."

Eldahil gave them his best weary look.

"Yes, my lord, a healer was sent for as soon as he arrived."

Restlessly tapping the hilt of his sword, Boromir said, "Well, he scarcely seems a threat. And even now we keep my father waiting." Taking Eldahil by his uninjured arm, he started toward the door.

The captain of the Tower Guard held out his hand. "If my lord would kindly give me the order to move Captain Eldahil."

"Here it is." Boromir pulled a folded square of parchment from inside his tunic. With a hurried bow, he handed it over.

"I thank you, my lord. Captain Eldahil, I hope that our next meeting will be in happier surroundings."

"Likewise, sir. You have been most kind," Eldahil called over his shoulder as his kinsman hauled him out the door. "Boromir, I can walk. There is no need to push me."

"Keep moving. We must not tarry here," Boromir said under his breath as they hastened up the steps.

Eldahil looked at him with growing unease. "And why would that be, cousin?"

Boromir cast a wary glance behind them. "Because that officer is about to read Haldan's letter, and I deem he will not be amused."

I was safer back in my cell, Eldahil thought. This is a poor excuse for a rescue. Yet he knew it was bootless to be angry at his cousin. For Boromir rained havoc on those around him with no more ill-will than a squall at sea. He means well, Eldahil told himself. I think.

After crossing the stone courtyard, the two men ran up the steps and into the Great Hall. Eldahil had been here once before—on the day that he had sworn fealty to the steward. Fealty with love. He sadly remembered the oath, for in truth there was little love between him and his liegelord. He winced at the thought of seeing old Denethor.

They passed between the rows of stone kings. At the end of the hall, the plain black chair of the steward stood empty.

"Now we must find my father and Haldan," Boromir muttered. "There!" He spotted the bodyguards waiting outside the council chamber.

"I must speak with the steward at once, regardless of your orders," the heir told them sternly. He pulled Eldahil's letter from the front of his tunic and gestured with it as he spoke. "I bear news that cannot wait."


Denethor paced in front of the windows as he listened. "So, less than two hours after you learned that Faramir was taken, your troop was already rowing down the Anduin. In that time, you mustered the men and gathered supplies. You even convinced a ranger to serve as your guide. We both know that my son could not have raised this expedition without your aid. Why did you help him?"

"My lord, I feared he would leave on his own. He would not hear reason, and short of drawing steel, I knew not how to stop him."

"You were made captain the year he was born, yet you could not sway him from this heedless plan?"

Haldan stared down at the expanse of green marble. He sometimes wondered if the lord was aware that his elder son was no longer a child.

"What say you to that, Haldan?" Denethor asked sharply.

"My lord, I –"

The heavy doors swung open and slammed against the walls.

"Father!" Boromir strode into the chamber with Eldahil following after him. When he caught sight of Haldan with his hands bound behind his back, he stopped short then ran forward to kneel before his father.

"Sire, any wrong was by my command. Pray do not punish them in my stead." His grey eyes were wild as he searched his father's face.

"There is no cause for alarm, Boromir — though well displeased with Captain Haldan, I have yet to send for a swordsman." Denethor glanced at Eldahil with narrowed eyes. "However, I do not recall writing an order to release your cousin from prison."

Before Boromir could reply, the captain of the Tower Guard burst through the door with a shout. "There they are!" A dozen of his men, along with Denethor's bodyguards, rushed into the chamber.

His hand on the hilt of his sword, Boromir leapt to his feet. One-armed, unarmed, and vastly outnumbered, Eldahil looked wildly about him then ran for cover behind his tall cousin.

"Halt!" At Denethor's shout, the soldiers came to a sudden stop. Silence except for the rattle of rain against the leaded windows. Denethor stared at his elder son for a long moment, then he gave a weary sigh and said quietly to Haldan, "In truth, one might have done worse in your place."


Unused to sitting idle, Hirluin began to help the healers with their work. He held the bandages and basins while they tended Faramir, and oft they would send him with a note to the apothecary or to the cook. The healers were ever short-handed so they gladly welcomed his help. However, when Denethor came to visit, the fair-haired ranger bowed his head and quickly slipped out the door. He was less reserved around Boromir, and indeed Faramir suspected that the two of them were in league and watched over him in turn.

Five days had passed since the boats had moored at the Harlond. Rain still fell from the eaves in endless chains of silver, glimmering in the cool, grey light. The healer rose from his seat by the window and lit the lamps; then he went back to squinting at his scroll. Though Faramir had not spoken of it, Hirluin seemed to guess his dread of the empty darkness, a blank tablet for his mind to overwrite with nightmares. As the shadows deepened, the fair-haired man sat faithfully beside him, leaving only to stir up the fire.

"The healer will take the night watch," Faramir told him. "Now it is your turn to sleep."

"Yes, sir," Hirluin replied yet did not leave.

For the most part, they were silent, but sometimes Faramir spoke quietly with Hirluin and asked about his life in the northern woods.

"There is little to tell, sir. We are humble folk," the young ranger said. The men of the household burned oak wood into charcoal to trade for goods or sell for silver. In the winter, they set traps and hunted for fur-bearing creatures. His mother and his grandam wove their clothing and gathered herbs and mushrooms in the woods.

"This is your grandam from Rohan?"

"Yes, sir. My father's mother."

In his mind, Faramir could picture this old woman, her face wizened like last autumn's apples, her long braids turned from yellow to white, but her back still straight as a sword as she carried her basket of mushrooms. Forage for farm animals was not plentiful in the forest, but Hirluin's father did keep an ancient, whiskered mare to haul the wood for making charcoal; she shared an outbuilding with their flock of chickens.

"What is her name?"

"The mare, sir? Heruwine. The name means "battle friend." We believe she once served as a cavalry mount for she bears white scars across her flanks, and she is a clever beast and will answer to many commands."

"An old trooper living in honorable retirement," Faramir said with a smile. It was said that the people of Rohan loved their horses like kin. He imagined Hirluin and the old woman plaiting the mane of this broken-down beast as if she were one of the famed Mearas.

A garrison of soldiers maintained the signal beacon on the summit of Halifirien. Once a month, the old mare pulled a cart of charcoal to the armorers and blacksmiths of the outpost. This was where Hirluin had met some rangers and had taken it on himself to join them. Faramir wondered if he now longed for the peaceful life of a charcoal-burner.

The young ranger had also travelled to Rohan to meet his father's kin, and Faramir had many questions about the distant land of their allies. Staring into the small fire, Hirluin told of grassy hills, bare of any tree, and sheltered valleys strewn with white flowers. His kinsmen had proudly shown him their herds. The mares, their flanks gleaming in the sunlight, grazed beside the foals in waist-high grass. "A fair land, that," Hirluin said quietly, his blue eyes still fixed on the flames. His blond hair stuck out in a ragged fringe above the white bandages that still swathed his forehead.

"I hope someday to see it. My brother has journeyed there, but I have not. If you were taught by the Rohirrim, you must be a rider of skill."

The other man looked up from the fire. "No, sir, I am most ungainly on horseback. Though my kinsmen tell me that, for a man of Gondor, I do well enough," he said, lowering his head to hide a shy grin. "Though when I journeyed to Gondor, the rangers said that, for a Rider of Rohan, I was not so bad with a longbow."

Faramir stared at him in wide-eyed surprise then laughed. The newest member of a patrol was always the target of good-natured jests, but with his foreign looks and quiet ways, Hirluin would have endured more than his fair share.

Then they talked about hunting and the creatures of the forest. The hour was late so they kept their voices low. Whenever the two men spoke of Ithilien, they took care to tread warily, for there were things in those woods which were best left undisturbed.

Sometime after midnight, the healer rose from his seat by the table. "You both should be sleeping, my lord. Do you need another draft for the pain?" The healer mixed a weak dose of wine and poppies. Longing for rest yet dreading the endless nightmares, Faramir drank it eagerly. Soon, he felt the creeping numbness in his hands and feet. The beating of his heart grew slower and slower, until a wave of blackness rose before his eyes and pulled him into blessed, dreamless sleep.

When Faramir awoke, the grey morning light streamed through the open shutters. Though rain still pattered on the herbs, the clear trill of a robin broke the green stillness. By the door, the healer stood talking softly to the warden. Hirluin, wrapped in a cloak, slept sprawled in the chair beside the bed. With a drowsy sigh, Faramir let himself drift back to sleep.

Slowly, he grew aware of the sound of quiet voices, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Boromir standing in the doorway, talking with Hirluin.

"We deemed you were asleep," his brother said as he crossed the room. He was clothed in somber black, his garments trimmed with rich sable and broidered with glints of silver, and he carried a heavy cloak over one arm. "I cannot stay. I must ride out to the townlands but will return ere nightfall."

He wears the livery of the Tower, Faramir thought. He goes in my stead to speak with their kin. As soon as Boromir had reached Minas Tirith, he must have sent word to the kindred of the slain. He could not go himself while Faramir's life was still in doubt, but now, as a mark of respect, he rode to the homes of those who had dwelt in the City or townlands. Faramir's voice was bitter when he spoke. "Those rangers were under my command. This task should fall on me, not you." He looked away from his brother, ashamed to meet his eyes. "I fail even to give them their last honors."

"This duty cannot wait until you are fit to ride," Boromir said. "That will be some weeks"

The sound of the rain grew louder. Faramir watched it falling in beaded curtains of silver.

Tossing the cloak across the low table, Boromir dragged a chair closer to the bed and sat down. He looked intently at his brother as he spoke. "Faramir, do not blame yourself for this."

Faramir watched as Hirluin, sitting in the light of the open windows, cut lengths of linen into bandages. The cloth shears slid closed with the faint ringing of steel on steel.

"I am a captain of war and cannot tell henbane from hemlock, yet it does not need a healer to see that you are grieved." The chair creaked as Boromir leaned forward. "Faramir, listen to me. Your men were outnumbered and taken unawares." He shook his head as spoke. "Fortune had turned against you that day. No deed of yours could have saved them."

His throat so tight that he could scarcely speak, Faramir said hoarsely, "The enemy had set a trap for us, and I was too blind to see it. Heedless of any danger, I led those men to their deaths."

Boromir frowned and bit his lower lip. "Yet you did not travel on the roads so I doubt that the enemy knew of your coming, nor would they have had the time to set an ambush. This was chance meeting and not a well-laid trap." He spoke as if he and Faramir were merely two officers talking about a skirmish, yet his grey eyes were troubled.

"They fell on us quickly and in good order."

"In that moment of surprise, the foe would seem to move swiftly. And you were wounded soon after so I doubt your memories are clear."

Faramir replied, "Mayhap you are right." He did not wish to further worry his brother.

"Faramir, I know of what I speak so put your mind at rest." He picked up the cloak from the table and drew it about his shoulders. "But now I had best be on my way else the night watchmen will have to open the City gates when I return." With a sad smile, he reached out a hand and tousled his younger brother's hair in his time-honored fashion. After bidding Hirluin good day, Boromir departed, the heavy tread of his boots fading down the corridor.

"Sir?" Hirluin's quiet voice broke the rain-dappled silence. The blue eyes were watching him with some concern. "Lord Faramir, the morning meal is here."

Until his shoulder was healed, he could not use the arm on his injured side so Hirluin cut his food in small pieces and helped him to eat. Whenever the fair-haired ranger moved, there was a bright glint of silver at his belt; he still bore one of the matching pair of daggers. Once Hirluin had learned that this was Lord Boromir's knife, he had tried in vain to return it to its owner. Not to be outdone in stubbornness, Boromir had ordered him to keep it as a gift.

After the meal, Faramir settled wearily against the bolsters and watched the cool rain dripping from the eaves. In a plum tree next to the windows, a robin hopped back and forth, weaving its nest with great care. He stared at the untidy pieces of grass. The wind caught each strand and slowly lifted it back and forth. Like hair, Faramir thought and shuddered. At the sound of Hirluin's voice, he forced himself to look away from the wispy curls of grass.

"Sir, forgive me for overhearing your words with Lord Boromir. I did not mean to spy."

Faramir nodded his understanding.

The other man paused then drew a deep breath. "But, sir, you are mistaken about the ambush. That day in Emyn Arnen, they did not lie in wait for us. I was at the edge of the ravine and saw them come out of the trees. Their swords were still sheathed, and for a moment they stopped as if startled. I deem they were as surprised as we were." Hesitating, he seemed to search for words. "You blame yourself unjustly."

"This matter has weighed on my mind so I thank you for telling me," Faramir said simply.

"More than once you saved my life, sir. Though I am the least of your men, I do not hold this lightly."

"Any debt is long since repaid."

To his great surprise, the young ranger dropped to one knee beside the bed and kissed Faramir's hand, saying, "That will never be, lord, though I live a hundred years." Then Hirluin blushed and quickly rose to his feet. "Forgive me, sir, I speak out of place."

"Amidst all these evils, there is one good - that I have found a loyal friend. Never will I forget it, though I live a hundred years," Faramir replied.

The grey hours passed quietly. In the late afternoon, the corridor echoed with the clink of mail and arms as the steward and his bodyguards arrived. Silent as a fox in the snow, Hirluin stole toward the door. Denethor, his brow furrowed in thought, turned to watch him leave.

While Faramir lay wounded, a truce had been declared between sire and son. Both men were wary of breaking this peace so they chose their words with care. For the first time in many months, they talked of herblore and astronomy and the history of Numenor. Always Faramir marveled at the depth of his father's knowledge. To his great relief, Denethor did not ask him about his capture or the journey with the orcs, though he feared that the questioning had only been delayed until he was stronger.


"Eldahil, son of Duinhil of Dol Amroth."

Stepping forward, Eldahil managed a low and graceful bow despite his broken arm, then he knelt on one knee. He knew not why he had been summoned to this audience, and it was with a wary glance that he looked up at the lord steward. His eyes are most unnerving, Eldahil thought. They seem to stab right through you.

With a thoughtful frown, Denethor stared down at his liege man. Eldahil wore the plain garb of a soldier of Minas Tirith, and his arm was still set in a sling. Strange to see this young swan in such dark and somber plumage, the steward said to himself. And the cygnet is dragging a wing, but mayhap that will keep him from mischief for a time. The healers had assured Denethor that, though the bones would take some weeks to heal, the arm had not been maimed.

Rising from the black chair, Denethor glanced at the gathered captains and councillors then began to speak. From long practice, he rang out the words like a bell so his voice would reach the farthest corners of the hall. "Captain, you lent a goodly sword to my elder son. As it was lost in battle, I would give you another to carry in its stead."

The captain of the Tower Guard stepped forward and handed a long bundle, swathed in blue and white brocade, to the steward. After drawing aside the covering, Denethor turned to Eldahil. A naked sword rested across his outstretched hands.

"This sword was given by the Lord of Dol Amroth to Beregond, the twentieth Steward to sit in this hall. It was forged by Barahil the Lame in the smithies of the south. Look closely and you can see his mark - an eight-petalled flower above an anvil."

Reaching up with his uninjured arm, Eldahil grasped the hilt and took the sword. The grip was wrapped with silver wire, and a rock of blue crystal was set in the pommel. He found the tiny flower and anvil at the base of the blade. Above the swordsmith's mark, a flowering tree crowned with seven stars was etched in the steel; he turned over the blade and saw that a swan-prowed ship had been etched on the other side. Eldahil looked up at the steward, his green eyes wide with astonishment.

Denethor smiled slightly. "The master swordsmith spared no craft to adorn both hilt and blade, and some would say such effort was wasted. What need for swans and white trees on a sword? But I say to look on these signs carved in steel and remember with gladness the bonds of fealty and kinship. Take this now in token of the love of your lord and his sons."

"May I prove worthy of this noble gift, my lord," Eldahil murmured in his drawling southern accent.

In a low voice, so only Eldahil and the bodyguards could hear, Denethor replied, "You showed courage and loyalty - and to my surprise, even some sense. Indeed, you give me hope that you may yet turn from your heedless ways."

Eldahil blushed and stammered, "My…my lord does me great honor."

With a gleam in his wintry eyes, the steward continued, "But let me hear of no more hunting expeditions, unless you follow the trail of our foes. The servants of the Enemy should be your proper quarry so leave the deer of Ithilien in peace. Now go you, Captain Eldahil, and put that sword to good use."

"Yes, my lord." Eldahil bowed low, struggling to hide a shamefaced grin. He backed away a few steps then turned and made a hasty retreat to the back of the hall.

After the audience was over and the captains and councillors had departed, Denethor sat down to his morning meal. A small table was set with silver dishes of cakes and cold meats, a bowl of apples, and white bread and butter. The servants brought two silver cups for he had sent word to the healers that young Hirluin was to join him. He had watched this quiet ranger while visiting the Houses. Hirluin seemed ill at ease among strangers, so the steward had decided to spare him the honor of a formal audience. However, Denethor still needed to speak with him most urgently.

"Hirluin, son of Ragnvald," the guard announced.