In a short matter of time, Aragorn had shed his armor, quickly washed his face and hands, and hastened to the room where Faramir awaited them, Imrahil close behind.
The room was bright with sunlight when they entered, a soft breeze blowing in through the window near Faramir's bed. Aragorn noticed that a large copper bathing tub had been brought into the room, and sat now in one corner. Water was heating on the heart of the room's fireplace, and upon the windowsill he could see a bowl of athelas steeping, its refreshing scent filling the air.
Commander Adorhil and his assistants were tending to Faramir, and at the entrance of the King, the older man stepped out at once to meet him.
"Sire," the soldier said in greeting with a small bow.
"Commander," was Aragorn's reply as he began rolling up the long sleeves of his dark linen shirt. "How is our friend?"
Adorhil sighed and glanced over to where Faramir lay, still apparently asleep.
"If you had been but slightly more late in finding him, Sire, I fear he might not have survived," he said. "I have seen some men who have suffered under the hands of Orcs and Haradrim, but the savagery of Lord Faramir's wounds indicates unusually severe treatment. It is a tribute to his remarkable strength and courage that he did not break beneath it."
They moved to the bed. Aragorn saw that Faramir had been bathed, and lay now on his side with only a cloth laid across his hips. With the obscuring layers of dirt removed, the wounds stood out even more grotesquely against his pale skin, and the anger boiled once more through the King's heart to see how vilely his friend had been used.
"It seems they were using some form of Orc medicine on his wounds, likely to prevent him from taking ill and dying before they could extract what they wanted from him," Adorhil continued as Aragorn knelt beside the bed. "Crude, but it seems that none of his wounds are festering, and there is no fever. The medicines, tools and bandages are all prepared, and my men and I are at your command."
Silence fell as Aragorn began to gently examine Faramir's wounds. He had only had time to briefly glance at them before; now, every one filled him with such anger that he found himself wishing that Karil had survived, so that every wound could be more thoroughly repaid.
The moments passed, each one revealing the true extent of Faramir's sacrifice, until Aragorn felt truly sickened by what Faramir's captors had done to him. Deep bruises of black and purple covered a vast portion of the Steward's body, the lash and rod had left their cruel marks, and he found some of Faramir's bones broken from his misuse. As he finished his scrutiny, Aragorn could not hold back the tears stinging the corners of his eyes as he imagined his dear friend and faithful Steward trapped in the grip of such suffering.
Yet despite all of this, there appeared to be no pain upon Faramir's face as he slept. Beneath the bruises and cuts that marred his handsome features lay an expression of perfect serenity, one that the King could only marvel at.
As he watched, Aragorn saw Faramir's closed eyes move slightly. Quickly the King knelt beside the bed and laid his hand atop one of Faramir's own.
After a moment, Faramir swallowed, and the eyes blinked open a little, their expression foggy. He seemed to look at nothing at first, then shifted his gaze to the face of his King. After staring for a moment, a glimmer of reverent affection flickered in the blue depths, and he sighed as a very faint smile touched his lips.
"My Lord," he whispered, so faintly that Aragorn would never have heard it had he not possessed the unusually keen hearing of a Ranger.
Aragorn grasped his Steward's hand and bent closer. "My brave friend," he said softly in greeting, a warm smile upon his own face, "can you understand my words?"
Faramir peered at him briefly in silence, then gave a very slight nod, the pillow beneath his head rustling with the movement.
"Then know that all is well," said the King quietly as he placed his other hand upon Faramir's brow, gently smoothing his hair. "The battle is done, Legolas and Henvain live, all you love are safe, and even now the Lady Eowyn rides to be with you. She will be here before another hour has passed."
At these last words, Faramir's drowsy eyes brightened, and Aragorn felt the Steward's hand tighten slightly.
Adorhil came to Aragorn and handed him a goblet filled with a clear red liquid. The King accepted it and turned to Faramir.
"This is miruvor, mixed with a potion of the Elves," he said, lifting the cup a little. "It will ease your suffering and give you rest."
He offered it to Faramir, but to his surprise, the Steward lifted one of his hands an inch from the bed and pressed his fingers to the base, as if to push it away.
"No," he mouthed, his eyes wider now, almost anxious.
Aragorn frowned, concerned and puzzled. "This will help you," he pointed out, wondering if Faramir was becoming seized with confusion. "You are in pain."
Faramir peered intently at him, and very quietly murmured the name, "Eowyn."
The King lowered the goblet, comprehension dawning on his mind. "You fear being lost to the potion's slumber when she arrives," he ventured.
The relief at being understood that came across the Steward's face confirmed the King's suspicion.
He knew well the feeling in Faramir's heart; were he parted from Arwen in a like manner, he would also prefer to bear any agony rather than postpone their reunion by so much as a moment. He handed the drink back to Adorhil, and took Faramir's hand once more.
"It shall be as you wish," he said softly. "Find what rest you may, my friend; we will work gently. When you next open your eyes, it will be to behold your lady."
Faramir gave his King a grateful smile, even as his eyes were slowly sliding shut. Aragorn released his hand and took to his feet, watching his Steward until he appeared to be in complete repose.
He then turned to Adorhil and said quietly, "Let us begin."
--------------------
Although Eomer's horse was the swiftest in all of the Eored, Eowyn very soon came to the opinion that even if it could fly, it would not be fast enough for her this day.
Every minute seemed as an eternity as she and Eomer galloped up the pass towards the citadel, Eowyn clinging to her brother as she sat before him on the saddle. Her heart was pounding even faster than the horse's thudding hooves, anticipation rising within her as she imagined that every beat brought her closer to her husband.
It seemed as if the pass would never come to an end.
"Eomer, please, can you tell me nothing of how my love is faring?" she asked as they rode. "You need not spare me; you know I am no swooning maid, unused to the horrors wrought by cruelty."
She felt him hold her a bit tighter as they rode. "I know you are not, sister," she heard him say from over her shoulder. "But I can tell you only that he was most cruelly used, but did not break, and those who caused his pain have paid the price for it. He still lives, and awaits you, but that is all I know, for I left the field as soon as we gained victory to carry you hence. The rest, we shall both learn together."
They rode the rest of the way in silence, Eowyn fairly clawing at the saddle-horn and wishing she could dismount and run the rest of the way herself, so eagerly did she wish to reach her lord.
At last, the pass widened, and she saw a large open iron gate before them. They passed through it, and into a wide valley bordered with mountains upon one side. The wreckage of war was everywhere; far away she could see mounds of burning wood, and corpses of every description covered the gray, rocky ground. Countless numbers of Men, Elves and Dwarves were walking about the field, tending the wounded and inspecting the dead.
To the south lay great fortress of stone, simple and ancient in its form, with the banner of Gondor fluttering atop its tallest tower. It was to the largest of the citadel's buildings that Eomer directed his steed. As they drew closer to its large wooden door, the portal opened, and Eowyn saw Imrahil emerge, watching them both with intense expectancy.
"Uncle!" she cried as Eomer reined to a halt; how weary the Prince appeared! He had removed his armor, but she could see by the heavy stains of red and black blood along his sleeves and leggings that he had been in the very thick of the fray.
"Eowyn!" said Imrahil in answer as she slid quickly from the horse and into the older man's strong embrace. "Praise the Valar you were able to come so quickly!"
"I thought it a journey of a thousand years," she replied as they parted, her hands gently clutching his arms as she gazed desperately into his kind face. "Faramir-?"
In answer, Imrahil took her hand and put one arm about her shoulder, gently guiding her into the fortress. "Aragorn tends him even now. He has been gravely injured, but breathes still, and under your love and the care of our King, I am sure he will regain his health ere long."
He drew her inside, and they walked with hastened steps down a long, barren corridor. Soldiers rushed about them, carrying supplies and securing the structure. They were all marked with the stains of war, but still gave her a bow of respect as they passed, for all knew the White Lady of Rohan.
She resisted the urge to shake off the Prince's hands and run to where Faramir lay, yet she felt her pace quickening as they moved along as if she somehow knew exactly where to direct her steps. Her heart was hammering now, her throat dry as dust, yet tears stung her eyes, and all she could hear in her mind was the repeated name of her husband.
Soon they drew near to a room at the end of one of the halls; she was almost running now, and Imrahil was doing his best to keep pace with her. The scent of athelas reached her; her heart soared, and she gently slipped from Imrahil's grasp and hurried through the door, her cloak billowing behind her.
All Eowyn discerned as she entered the room was a large bed-chamber, sparsely furnished, with a fire blazing in its hearth. There were some men there she barely noticed, and Aragorn was coming quickly towards her, his sleeves rolled up, his brow glistening with sweat, his blue-gray eyes filled with relief as he took her trembling hands and drew her to the side of the bed where Faramir lay.
She saw him then, and all else in the room vanished.
Eowyn's head swam for a moment as she sank to her knees, overwhelmed with the power of her emotions as she beheld her husband. Trembling, she swiftly took his hand in hers and pressed it to her lips, her vision blurred with tears as she gazed into his beloved face. He was on his side, facing her, his eyes closed, and at first she was too dazed to understand more than the fact that he was truly here, alive, and she was with him again at last, her Faramir. Sobs wracked her as she clutched his hand and stroked his cheek, a sensation of love stronger than any she had felt before flooding through her soul.
As she wept and caressed his face, she felt him stir beneath her touch. After a moment, he sighed deeply, in the manner of one rousing from a heavy slumber. The eyelids fluttered, then opened partway, and she found herself looking into his drowsy blue eyes.
Eowyn gasped and leaned forward, hoping he would wake enough to see her and know that she was there. He was staring at her now, his eyes widening slightly, and she saw that he knew her. He gazed at her with a tender expression of deep love, his eyes brimming with tears that soon slipped free and began to trail down his cheeks.
She grasped his hand and drew closer, smiling as she continued to weep, a sentiment far too profound for mere words passing between them as they beheld each other.
For an eternal span of time, she was lost within his gaze. Then she bent down and placed her lips upon his, her tears falling softly upon his face. At the same moment, Faramir lifted his face to hers as far as he was able, as if they had been guided together by the same silent command. She felt him caressing her hand with the feeble strength of a newborn as they kissed, his movements weak but full of urgent affection. As their lips fully met, she sensed a familiar warmth flowing between their souls, a sweet communion made all the richer by the unfulfilled longing that had burned in both their hearts.
It lasted briefly, for she knew that any longer would tire him. Soon they parted, and she drew away, still smiling as she looked into his face. Faramir smiled a little in return as he settled his head back on the pillow, his eyes never leaving hers despite the exhaustion in them. She stroked his cheek once more, and shook her head as she saw him trying to say her name.
"Nay, love, there is no need to speak," she whispered, one hand still grasping his. "My heart has heard all that you would say to me, and returns it to you tenfold. I am here. Rest now; there will be days, and years, to fill with words between us, when you are healed, and Ithilien welcomes us home."
Faramir smiled at her, appearing to understand as he made no further attempt to speak. Tears still glistening in his eyes, which were now beginning to close again. He sighed as they drifted shut, his gaze remaining on her face all the while. Within moments, he slept once more.
For several moments Eowyn was motionless, kneeling by the bed, holding her husband's hand and stroking his face as she watched him rest. At length, she took his hand in both of hers and kissed it, before laying it carefully beside him on the bed.
Aragorn and Imrahil were at her side at once, and helped her stand. As she climbed to her feet, Eowyn's eyes took in the whole sight of her husband's body, seeing now how truly severe his injuries were. She had been blinded before by the utter joy of being with him again; now, with the first flush of emotion passed, she saw how pale he was, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the terrible wounds and bruises covering his body. The horror grew the longer she stared, as the full understanding of Faramir's suffering grew apparent to her. Soon she realized that several moments had passed during which she had been wholly consumed by the heartbreaking sight before her.
She suddenly became aware that Eomer was beside her. he had put his arm around her shoulder, and was tightly holding her hand.
Shaking herself, she looked at him, the tears coming anew.
"I know," he murmured quietly, his eyes soft with compassion.
She swallowed, an ill sensation sweeping over her. "And you swear they have all been punished?" she whispered, feeling a small fire kindle in her gaze.
He sighed. "Not as much as I would have liked," her brother admitted, "but that power is reserved for the Valar. But yes, as much as we could do, we have done, and all that did injury against Faramir have been sent to the pits of Morgoth."
She eyed him solemnly for a moment, then reached up, wiped her tears, and unclasped her cloak.
"It is well," she said quietly, her blue eyes turning hard for a moment, "but I confess the wish that one of them could have been spared for me."
-----------------------------
For Faramir, it all seemed as a dream.
From the moment he had slipped into darkness following his beating by the Orc, a heavy mist had blanketed his mind. Exhaustion and agony had weakened him to the final measure, and even in his brief times of waking there were few clear thoughts, only feelings and perceptions of what ws happening around him.
Yet limited as his understanding was, Faramir still was not afraid. He knew Aragorn was there with the armies of the West, and the evil that threatened them all would be defeated. It was enough to ease his heart, for all that he had hoped to achieve through his suffering was coming to pass.
After floating for a timeless span in the void, he had heard a voice calling his name in the stillness, and a loving hand stroking his cheek. After a mighty effort, he had opened his eyes to behold the beloved face of his Uncle. Faramir began to tremble with joy, almost not daring to think that it was real, that they had come at last, and he was free.
Then the beloved touch and voice recalled him again, and Faramir knew that it was no dream. Somehow he found the strength to whisper his Uncle's name, heedless of how dearly the effort cost him.
The mouth of a water-skin brushed his lips. Wracked with thirst, he accepted the drink eagerly, then allowed himself to fall back into the velvet-like darkness, satisfied that all would be well.
He was drifting fitfully between the waking world and the mist-filled realm of his dreams. He felt gentle touches on his hands and face, and heard the loved voice of his King whispering an Elven blessing to him. Faramir was too worn to comprehend the words, and so yielded himself to their lyrical sound, its beauty enfolding him in a sweet, inexpressible serenity.
The King had been there when he next awoke as well, and now he found himself able to understand what was spoken to him, at least a little. He learned, at least, that the day had been won, that Henvain and Legolas had survived their journey back to Gondor, and that Eowyn would soon be with him. It was all he needed, and he sank back to slumber once more, praying that she would find a safe and swift road to him.
The sleep was light, more of a hazy half-awareness than actual repose. There was pain, and he was acutely aware that Aragorn and the healers were beginning to treat him, being as gentle as their ability allowed. It was not pleasant, but Faramir had no desire to ease his distress with the elixir Aragorn had offered him. He far preferred to bear the discomfort, rather than risk being lost to the potion's slumber when Eowyn arrived.
For a long span, it seemed, he hovered in the twilight world, enduring the pain and waiting. After a time, the gray mists seemed to lift, and Faramir opened his eyes to find himself gazing into the beautiful face of his wife. Never had he known a sight more wondrous, or a joy more pure. All pain, all weariness, paled to insignificance at the sight of her, and there was nothing for him in the world except the fair White Lady.
A nameless longing seized him at that moment to leap to his feet and draw her tightly into his arms, to bury his face in her silken hair and bathe her soft skin with his loving tears. Alas, he found himself unable to even speak her name. Yet they were still blessed, for as one they were drawn together by the same silent desire. As her lips touched his, a sweet tenderness swept over him, uplifting his being to the very heights of rapture. He felt her soul meet his, the communion touching his weary spirit to its utter depths.
At that moment, his true healing began.
Then they had parted, and he slipped back to rest with the music of her voice in his ears.
More time passed, he knew not how much. There was dull pain now, and he vaguely realized that they were beginning to treat his wounds. With a sigh, he opened his eyes, and saw Aragorn kneeling before him, the cup of miruvor again in his hand.
There was no objection to accepting the potion now, as his beloved was with him. The cold metal of the goblet touched his lips, and he slowly swallowed its contents. In the next moment, Eowyn was beside him, holding his hand and tenderly stroking his hair, the soothing motion soon lulling him to sleep.
He drifted for a while, surrendering himself completely to the effects of the elixir. The long struggle to resist breaking, to endure the horrific pain, to maintain his hold on life, had driven him to the far limits of his strength. Yet now, he knew the battle was over, and they had won; now, he was able to lay down the heavy burden and find release, knowing that he had faithfully done his duty.
There was only soft blackness for a time; then the dreams began, all calm and beautiful.
The lush scent of roses wrapped about him; he felt himself a child once more, lying in his mother's arms as she rocked him to sleep beneath a summer night sky. He nestled into the embrace, the soothing sensation of her love enfolding him. In his dream he saw that she was wearing a mantle of dark blue, much like the one she had owned in life, now given to Eowyn. Yet upon the throat and hem of this garment, he saw the delicate sparkling of real stars.
This vision faded; he slept without dreaming for a time, then felt himself drawn back to a hazy awareness. He had a vague notion that he was lying on his stomach, a cool, soothing wetness on his back. Singing reached his ears, soft and mesmerizing, and he realized that someone was holding his hand and very gently stroking his brow.
Extremely drowsy, but curious, he opened his eyes.
His sluggish mind could not make out all that he saw. He perceived that he was prone on the bed, and sitting next to him was Legolas, chanting an Elvish hymn to him as the healers tended to his raw back.
Legolas met his gaze and smiled, still singing. Faramir peered at him for a moment through half-lidded eyes, memories of their parting during the Orc attack in Mordor sifting through his mind. For a time, he had imagined the Elf was dead. As he saw Legolas now, the melodious words of his song easing away the pain, a devout prayer of gratitude arose from Faramir's heart to the Valar for sparing his dear friend's life.
The Elf seemed to know his thoughts, for there was a look of kindly understanding on his ageless face. The singing continued, and Faramir closed his eyes as the ancient words and calming touch eased him back to rest.
He was not alone now as he slumbered. The spirits he had sensed nearby in the cold solitude of his cell were with him still, staying close even as the strength of their presence began to fade from him. He wordlessly bid them farewell, united in a final loving touch as he drew farther from their realm.
At times, he became somehow aware of all that they were doing for him in the waking world. Aragorn never seemed to leave his side; always, it seemed, he could hear his King's gentle voice above him, and feel his healing touch upon his wounds. Memories wafted through his dreams, of another long-ago day when Aragorn had drawn him from utter darkness and back to life. The same awesome yet humble power that had eased his pain that day flowed through him again, lending him strength, and Faramir's heart swelled with grateful love for his King.
Then he would feel Eowyn's hand taking his, her soft fingers caressing his cheek, and he would fall asleep once more.
Another dream appeared before him. He was standing atop the Tower of Ecthelion, whole and strong again. Before him, a magnificent dawn was breaking over Gondor, full of glorious light and wondrous colors such as he had never seen before. Every spire and dome seemed ablaze in the brilliant sunshine, and over everything lay a profound air of peace.
He stared at it in elation, feeling the warm, fragrant breeze drying the tears on his cheeks. Never had he seen his beloved home so beautiful. He could feel the life stirring within her, strong enough to last for ages without reckoning. A strong impulse came over him to fall on his knees and weep for joy, for he knew he was seeing a vision of years to come, a foretelling that Gondor would endure because of what they had accomplished this day.
A hand fell upon his shoulder, and he turned eagerly, knowing who he would see. Boromir was there beside him, his familiar wide smile upon his face, his golden hair flying behind him in the summer wind. There was a light upon his face not born of the sun, and within his green eyes shone a tranquility that had no match on Arda.
Boromir grasped his brother's shoulder firmly. "Do you see, little brother?" Faramir heard him say in a fond voice. "I told you that the storm would pass!"
Too overcome to speak, Faramir smiled at him, his eyes filling with tears. His brother laughed, the sound full of love, and pulled his brother into a firm embrace.
Faramir wrapped his arms tightly around his brother, aware that there was no need for words between them. A short time passed as he felt Boromir's arms draw closer about him; then all began to fade to darkness, the warmth of his brother's embrace remaining to the last. Yet even as the dream came to an end, Faramir knew they were not truly parted, and one day they would meet again.
When awareness drew him forth again, he first noticed that all now seemed still. He felt the wonderful softness of the bed embracing him as he lay on his side, the down pillow cradling his head. Opening his eyes a little, he saw that night had fallen, the room dark save for the soft glow of a few candles. Faramir found himself looking through the window at the azure sky, now beginning to fill with stars.
He thought of his mother, and smiled.
Slowly, Faramir's languid mind became aware of what had happened. His injuries were fully bandaged now, the deeper wounds stitched closed, the broken bones wrapped. As he awakened further, he felt a familiar presence with him, a silky softness brushing his chin. Bending his eyes down, he saw Eowyn lying sound asleep in the bed beside him, pressed to him as close as possible, her head tucked down upon his chest.
He smiled, and pressed his lips to the crown of her head, love overwhelming him once more. The sound of footsteps approached, and lifted his half-opened eyes to see Aragorn standing beside the bed, drawing its coverlet over them both. The King appeared very tired, his clothes stained and slightly disheveled, but when he saw Faramir gazing at him, his face broke into a relieved smile.
"The healing is done," Aragorn said in a hushed tone, draping the blanket carefully across them. "Rest now with your lady, my dear friend; soon, I will tell you all that has happened."
He extinguished the candle by the bed and departed. Faramir watched him go, then nestled close to his wife and closed his eyes, savoring the miracle of feeling her beside him once more. A wondrous serenity fell over him as he settled his cheek against her golden hair. He was still too spent to imagine much beyond the moment, but this did not trouble him. Karil's evil had been vanquished, he was restored to those he loved, and for now there was nothing more his heart desired.
Soon he joined his wife in contented slumber, bathed in silver starlight, and enfolded in the blessed embrace of perfect peace.
------------------------
"Henvain, are you certain this is a good idea?"
"Of course not, Fae, but after a day like this, I'd say we've all earned ourselves a drink!"
Henvain tried not to be too distracted by Faelor's question as they made their way along the outer edges of the Gondorian camp, saying the first thing that came to his mind in answer to it. It was hard enough making his way across the rocky Mordor terrain while using a cane, without tripping or spilling the large flask of ale he carried slung over one shoulder in the bargain.
The battle was long over, and Henvain had spent many hours since his arrival in the valley assisting in the establishment of the healers' tents, distributing food and supplies to the men, and generally being as useful as he could without actually being able to move around too quickly.
Many times during the day as he worked, he had found himself thinking how different it all was now. When he had last laid eyes on the valley, it was crawling with thousands of seemingly unstoppable Orcs. Now they were all dead and gone, or scattered, and the banner of Gondor flew above the Citadel's tower.
Then, too, he thought, he had been quite afraid, and certain he would get himself killed before reaching home again. So much had happened in the short time since then, and when he had the odd moment to reflect on it, it seemed to him as if he were different now as well.
Then Henvain, not being the contemplative sort, would shrug uncomfortably at the notion, and put the thought aside to ponder when there wasn't so much to be done.
The two soldiers were walking along the outer edge of the Gondorian camp, now spread across the plains before the fortress. The entire valley floor was covered with the glow of campfires, their dancing flames masked from time to time by the shadows of the soldiers moving around them. The cool evening air was rife with the sound of the mens' voices, rising in laughter or heavy with sorrow as they recounted the feats of the day.
The tents of the healers could also be seen dotting the landscape, their white forms standing ghost-like against the dark ground. There, the fires were larger, heating cauldrons of water and food for the men within their sheltering walls. Many men and women could be seen bustling in and out of the tents, assisted by some of the soldiers, and the discerning ear could hear the groans of the wounded men mingling with the laughter and talk of the other warriors.
At the edge of the valley far from the camp, even greater fires roared, their thick, black columns of smoke billowing slowly into the air. There the last of Karil's siege towers were being devoured in flame, along with the corpses of his slain followers. The dead Orcs and Uruks had been swiftly gathered for burning, so as not to pollute the field too long with their foulness. Their enormous pyres now blazed against the sky, their ashes blown away on the healing summer breeze.
Faelor scowled as he rubbed his nose with his uninjured hand. "I'm sure the King himself wouldn't argue that we've won our rest tonight," he replied as they walked along, "but I'm thinkin' he wouldn't be so keen on us just walkin' over to the Haradrim camp and offerin' them a share of our Gondorian ale."
There was a pause as Henvain tried to steer himself around a rather large rock in his path.
"I don't see why not," he said when the chance arose. "From what I heard, they deserve a drink, too."
Faelor nodded firmly. "No doubt of that," he asserted. "You should have seen it, Henvain-the way they all just rode right over those Orcs an' helpin' us take that fortress." He shook his head. "If it hadn't been for them, it would've taken us hours to fight our way into it, if we ever could have at all."
Henvain's expression was sober. "Don't imagine we'd have found Lord Faramir alive, if it had come to that," he said softly.
The other soldier grunted. "That's a fact," he muttered sadly. "From what the boys have said, the ones who've seen him, those Orcs almost broke him in half. But he never told them a thing."
A deep sigh came from Henvain's lips, and he shook his head once, saying simply, "That's the Captain."
"Mm," Faelor said in agreement. "But he'll be all right, with the King lookin' after him. I'm telling you, though, it'll be hard for them back at home who hate the Haradrim now, like that Tuornen. If they hadn't rode in, Lord Faramir might be dead now, and a lot more of our men as well. Even some of the men in the ranks are talkin' different, at least about the Haradrim who helped us today. I heard tell Adir had three other tribes with him today, not just his own, can you believe it? At first it was just one tribe wantin' peace, now it might be four."
Henvain glanced down at the flask hanging by his hip. "Well, I hope they're not all too thirsty, because I've only got a couple of pints."
"I suppose we'll find out soon," Faelor noted. They had passed the edge of the Gondorian camps, and were now in the barren lands beyond. In the near distance, other fires could be seen against the horizon, and the faint red blurs of the Haradrim tents.
They stopped, and Faelor glanced at Henvain's leg. "You sure you're up to this? It's a long walk."
Henvain squinted at the far-away fires, then hefted the flask on his shoulder, settling it more securely. "Yes," he said with resolution.
Faelor seemed doubtful. "If you hurt that leg again, you'll never hear the end of it from old Ioreth," he warned.
The other soldier gave him a frustrated look. "The leg is fine," he insisted. "At any rate, it's nothin' compared to what Lord Faramir went through, so I'm not even thinking about it. And if you think this walk looks long, try dragging yourself from here to Ithilien."
His friend seemed to consider this.
"Now," said Henvain, squaring himself and gripping his cane firmly in his hand, "I am goin' to go see if any of them Haradrim lads want a drink, after all they did for the Captain and Gondor. Maybe after we've had a few rounds, between the lot of us, we might be able to make sense of all this."
He turned and set out, with as firm a step as he could manage.
Henvain was not too surprised to see Faelor at his side a moment later. He smiled a little to himself, pleased to think that his friend had survived the battle to walk with him once more. For a time they trod the path in silence, each man wrapped in his own thoughts.
Suddenly Faelor stopped and lightly grabbed Henvain's arm as he peered ahead.
"Henvain!"
Henvain had halted as well, and said in a low tone, "I see them."
Coming towards them, shadows against the distant glow of the Haradrim fires, were three tall figures, moving forward at a steady pace. They were not far away.
Henvain's heart began to pound. "Do you think they're sentries?"
"I don't know," was Faelor's even response, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. "They don't look like they're carrying weapons."
"They're carrying something," Henvain hissed back, worried despite his confidence in the Haradrim's good intentions. What if they were mad renegades like Karil, eager to ambush any wandering Gondorian soldiers and then creep back to their camp with no one the wiser?
Suddenly the open land seemed quite wide and lonely, and the moonless night very dark indeed.
The figures came nearer, and clearly had noticed them.
Henvain finally pushed down his fear and drew himself as tall as he could. As the travelers came closer, their crunching footsteps now heard upon the ground, Henvain noticed that his normal first impulse-to run and find a place to hide as fast as possible- was not as acute as it usually was. He was not afraid to stand and face these men, or at least not as anxious as he would have been in months past. He was a soldier of Gondor, and felt more the part now than he had since first donning the army breastplate.
It was an unfamiliar feeling, but he had little time to examine it, for the newcomers were upon them much sooner than he expected.
The footsteps stopped, and for a moment the men gazed at each other in appraising silence.
The starlight was faint, but in its glow Henvain saw three young Haradrim soldiers, plainly dressed in loose red clothing much torn and stained. Bandages and bruises could be discerned on all of the men, even in the darkness, and the smallest of them had his left arm bound in a sling.
One of the Southrons was taller than the others and seemed older, a black beard visible on his chin. In his hands he carried what looked like a large, dark box. After studying Henvain and Faelor for a moment, he stepped forward and said, in a thickly accented and somewhat nervous voice, "Do not fear, we are friends."
Faelor and Henvain looked at each other. There was a pause, then Faelor cleared his throat, turned back to the Haradrim and said, "You speak Westron?"
The man nodded. "A little," he confessed, "and I must speak for my brothers, who do not know your tongue." He indicated the two young men behind him. "They are Huru and Dirahl, and I am Gaharn, of the Third Tribe."
Faelor inclined his head a bit. "I am Captain Faelor, and this is Lieutenant Henvain, of the Army of Gondor," he said, and Henvain was impressed at how steady he was keeping his voice. "We are friends as well, and mean you no harm."
Gaharn laughed a bit, and looked back at his brothers, who also seemed relieved and amused. "That is good," he said. "I am ashamed to say, we were afraid - we thought you would not understand our coming to you in this way, and might try to fight us."
"Oh, no," Faelor assured them, and Henvain echoed him, shaking his head. "No, no, we were just..." He coughed. "Well, you see, we were not too sure of you, either, truth be told."
At this, the Haradrim chuckled in sympathy. "It will take some time to become used to trusting each other, it seems," he observed.
Faelor shook his head, smiling. "I suppose it will," he agreed.
Henvain licked his lips, preparing himself to speak. "Look," he said, coming forward and unslinging the flask from his shoulder, "we thought, after all the help your people were to us today, that you lads might like a taste of real Gondorian ale. To seal the bargain, in a way, now that we've all spilled blood together."
He saw Gaharn blink in surprise, then break into a grin. "We were just coming to your camps for a similar purpose," he said, slightly lifting the box in his hands. "Men of your army saved the lives of our Chieftain and Prince Jadim, and put an end to the cursed one among us. For that, we sought to offer our thanks, and brought this wine of Harad to share with you."
Henvain stared, dumbfounded. "Ah," he managed to utter at length, before smiling himself. "Well! We've the makings of a real festival here, I think."
"I think that is so as well," Gaharn replied, lowering the box. "Let us go to our camp, where we shall grant you every hospitality."
Faelor shook his head with a smile. "There's no place for a warrior like a Gondorian campfire, my friend," he said. "You'll all be most welcome after today, I assure you!"
Gaharn seemed to consider this, and turned to confer with his brothers. They seemed torn between desiring to show Faelor and Henvain their camp, and paying a visit to the Gondorians.
Henvain glanced at the two camps, which seemed the same distance apart now. He then pursed his lips and looked about him.
"Well, you know," Henvain said slowly, when the Haradrim had paused in their deliberation, "it looks to be a long walk either way, and I'm wagering we've each of us had about all the hard work we can take for one day. The rocks here look good enough to sit on, and I imagine between the five of us that we can get a fire going. What do you say to sitting down, and trying those drinks right here?"
Gaharn and his brothers shared glances between them, and a new discussion started.
In the meantime, Faelor peered at his friend. "I don't think the commanders of either army are going to take very kindly to us sitting out here away from our camps all night drinking," he pointed out.
Henvain simply shrugged and grinned. "I'm willin' to take that chance, Fae," he said. "If our two lands are goin' to be gettin' along now, I can't think of a better way to start the matter off."
Before long, another small fire was burning upon the open plains of Mordor. A short time later, a new song could be heard wafting upon the night wind, the words of Westron and Southron blended together in a harmony unheard of in all the ages of Man.
The song was a bit unsteady, perhaps, but beautiful nonetheless.