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Your Heart Will Be True

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 13

The Unmasking of a Traitor

Dearest Diamond,April 19th

Are the flowers in Tuckborough blooming yet? Minas Tirith is a glorious city at all times, but I miss the Shire in the spring. Even the queen's skill in gardening doesn't seem to make much of an improvement. It would help if the city itself had less holes in it; old wars don't heal quickly. But listen to me! Talking about wars. We've done with wars, Diamond my love, and the only thing left to fear is Prince Eldarion. I think his father expected Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn to be a better influence on him… He's gone back to stalking poor Captain Duurben in the corridors. Lord Faramir finds it amusing, though he tries not to laugh in the captain's face. A most wonderfully kind man is Lord Faramir.

Alas, my dearest wife, you read the words of a most miserable hobbit! If only I could have persuaded your father to let you come… but perhaps it is best for you to stay in the Shire. I find myself longing for two homes, and unable to bear the fact that they are so far apart. Don't worry: in the summer I shall come for you and when I return to Gondor, I'll bring you back with me even if I have to kidnap you. I could prop up a ladder beneath your window and you could open it and smile down at me. Remember how we used to run through the meadows in the moonlight? Until your cousin snitched on us, that is, and your father went out with his lantern to find us. I don't think I've ever met anything so frightening as your father when he's watching over you… It made me feel a robber, or worse, to be enjoying your company. I wonder what he would think of me if I lured his youngest daughter off to the far side of Middle Earth? What would you think of me?

The weather is wet.

How are the doings in Long Cleave and Hobbiton? How is our dear Mayor Sam? I always knew that was the job for him — he has the build for it, and the manners. I should be too impatient and too lazy by turns. How are Rosie, Elanor, little Frodo, Rose, and little Merry? Didn't you think it was awfully unfair of Sam to choose Merry and not me to name his son after? He will have to name the next one for me. Let us just hope it is not a girl. (Speaking of Merry, please tell me you are having success in rooting out a lass for him! As the sensible one, he really ought to have caught that bouquet and been married first. Perhaps it is just my Tookish good luck that I found such a gem as you to be my own! And the pun was intentional, so don't you go correcting me.)

I am trying to picture your dark curls right now. I have the lock you gave me to help, and as I finger its softness, I can see you in your veil and apple blossoms. Was there ever a lady, elf, or angel with such a face as yours? No, I think that would be quite impossible. Besides, I also have absolutely wondrous pictures of you in the kitchen, flour on your nose, and your cheeks pink. Elven ladies simply do not cook — or if they do, I have never seen it. They certainly could have nothing on your pies. Between desires for your arms around my neck, and wishes for your cakes with my supper, I am practically wasting away.

Did I ever tell you that the stars in your eyes sleep in the sky at night? I can see them watching me from my window. I don't suppose you have heard me whispering you good-night in the evenings… Perhaps I should try yelling from the High Courtyard.

Things are in a bit of a tizzy here at the palace just now. Someone with too great a nasty temper and too little respect for what King Aragorn can do when properly nettled set a poisonous snake in the queen's bedroom. I promise you, this has never happened before. The queen was bitten and looked unlikely to recover, except that Aragorn and his elf friend, Legolas, have gone to get medicine for her. Such a to-do! Aragorn has a bad habit of avoiding his own guards, but I think this wins the prize. When we awoke the next morning to find that they'd gone off and left the city entirely, Captain Duurben's heart nearly failed, and Lord Faramir looked — well, to be quite honest, I'm not sure how he looked. There are few men I respect so highly as Lord Faramir, but he can be awfully funny at times; I could have almost sworn he had expected it. He went to Aragorn's study and found a good many letters explaining why he had gone, though not exactly 'where'. They hinted at Lothlorien, but I got the impression he and Legolas didn't want to be followed. They shouldn't have worried; with all the rain, you'd be better off trying to track a fish in a river. Not that Captain Duurben hasn't tried… I've only just now gotten off duty long enough to write this letter. There is a courier going west to try and intercept Aragorn and I intend to send this with him.

Arien, the queen's lady-in-waiting, seemed relieved that something was being done. She's always been kind to me — I think you both would get on nicely. She used to live in the northlands and she loves to hear about the Shire! Lady Eowyn is here with the prince and princesses; I think she might be amused by the whole thing. Or as amused as anyone can be with Queen Arwen still so ill. I tell you, Diamond, I should like to find the brute who did this and wring his neck! The queen is practically the sun and moon here in the city, and the people are now miserable. We are all stuck waiting for Aragorn's return.

I wish I could write you a poem. In the Shire we seem to have too many for eating and not enough for wooing, and most of the ones I find here are written in elvish. I hope you know how much I adore you. I don't have enough parchment to tell it, and I must go and report to the captain now anyway.

I miss you. I love you. With all my heart,

Peregrin

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April 19

Minas Tirith, Gondor

"There you are," Duurben said as Pippin entered the guardroom, his face bright. "Though how you can manage to look so cheerful is beyond the skill of man to tell."

"I've just finished a letter to Diamond and it's gone off with the courier."

Technically it was not allowed for private messages to be piggy-backed on official couriers, but Duurben, for some reason he had honestly never been able to explain to himself, had turned a blind eye to it. At least in Pippin's case.

"The fourth watch has been sent out; I've removed you from it temporarily," Duurben explained. "I have need of you."

"Certainly. What are we doing?"

"Attempting to discover what has become of Lieutenant Tantur."

"Oh dear, you've misplaced him? That's a common problem with nephews. Or so my uncles have always told me…"

Duurben's mouth twisted into an odd shape as he tried to hide a smile. "I believe the unrest a few nights ago may have given him a relapse. He was looking steadily more ill and when he requested to be let off his night watch the evening before last, I allowed it. He was supposed to be back on duty yesterday and there is no sign of him. I had meant to ask him if he saw anything of the king's departure that night."

"I doubt it," Pippin shook his head, long practice allowing him to scuttle along at a pace which matched Duurben's long stride. "Have you ever seen Aragorn when he isn't being king?"

"Yes."

Pippin blinked a little in surprise. His captain really never talked about his past. "When was that?"

"When he served in Gondor under Steward Ecthelion. He was disguised as Thorongil at the time."

"More names. One could make a hobby of collecting his names."

"Perhaps."

Pippin eyed him, wondering how much information he might be able to glean before his superior clammed up again. "So I take it you served under him? And then after he left, what did you do?"

"Continued in my duties as a soldier of Gondor and guard of the Citadel. I had become a lieutenant under Captain Thorongil during the battles against the Corsairs, and afterwards I was promoted to Captain. After the death of Steward Ecthelion and the succession of Steward Denethor I was given a small contingent of soldiers and sent to guard the various towns south of Osgiliath."

Though not more familiar with military politics than he could help, Pippin snorted with understanding. "Doesn't sound as if Lord Denethor was fond of you."

"Perhaps," Duurben admitted. "I fear, in Steward Denethor's eyes, my loyalties may have been considered questionable. But it granted me a chance to meet Captain Boromir and Captain Faramir when they first began to defend the city there. As the elder, Captain Boromir was frequently at more pressing points along the battle line, but I fought beside Captain Faramir many times. My company was ordered with his into a short skirmish run in Ithilien. He fought most bravely; I often felt he had a good deal in common with Captain Thorongil."

"With Aragorn?"

"Aye."

Pippin nodded in agreement, then asked abruptly, "Did you ever love a woman?"

Halfway up the barrack steps Duurben nearly tripped. He caught himself and looked sharply at the hobbit. There was only open curiosity to be found; no ulterior motives. His eyes fell in acknowledgement. "One. Just one."

"Where is she?"

"Dead. Twenty-six years."

Pippin looked sorrowful, his curly head tilted and his accent more pronounced as he whispered, "I'm sorry. Will there ever be another?"

"No," Duurben murmured softly, starting to climb the steps again. "Some hearts are only able to love once, Master Pippin. Utterly, completely, and with all their being. But they cannot unlearn the past enough to move on. I fear Thorongil's heart is such a one."

This time it was Pippin who halted, startled, on the steps. It was the closest he had ever heard the captain come to calling his friend by his first name. When they reached the top of the stairs, the conversation ended as suddenly as it had started. Somehow it was understood that such topics belonged to the dim staircase.

Duurben strode to the end of the row and pounded at the door on the end. Most of the soldiers shared rooms, but the lieutenants and the captains were granted quarters of their own. There was no answer from inside this one.

"Lieutenant Tantur?" Duurben called. Again, no response. The door had been locked and Duurben glanced about for a key but could not find one. Slipping under his arms, Pippin peered through the keyhole.

"Key's not in the lock. Have you any wire handy?"

The captain blinked, then reached into his pouch and unwound a short length of thick wire from his whetstone. Expertly the hobbit eyed it, twisted it back and forth until it broke into two pieces, then bent the pieces into odd patterns and began to jiggle them in the lock.

"I fear that will not work," Duurben sighed, "the locks are of dwarf manufacture. Steward Denethor had them—"

The door swung open.

"Nothing against dwarves, but…" Pippin trailed off delicately, rubbing his short nose.

Anxious to avoid any possible explanations for his subordinate's suspicious talents, Duurben inclined his head and entered the room. It was a disaster. What had not been removed entirely from the chest in the corner had been cast about the room.

"Maybe his grandmother was sick and he left in a hurry," the hobbit volunteered. Then, catching his captain's pained expression he amended, "Oh, I suppose he would have told you, wouldn't he? What's that smell, by the way? Did Tantur smoke a pipe?"

There was a faint dusty green odor to the air that suggested dried plants. Taking a long step across the narrow room, Duurben lifted the edge of the pallet — and froze.

Pippin blinked. Under the pallet on the slats of the bed frame were smashed dozens of herb strands, such as could be found in the Houses of Healing. The pressure of the bed had crushed them, sending out their smell. Lhandlas. Duurben let the cot fall as though it had burned him.

"Perhaps the healers gave them to Tantur?" Pippin asked, trying to deny the suspicion that was growing in him.

"Lhandlas is only used for snakebite." Duurben was now rifling through the debris on the floor. There were rags with dots of blood on them — always two dots, close together, like fangs. He brought out a round basket with its lid removed and put his nose to the opening, inhaling the dry, reptilian scent that clung to the weaving. A crumpled sheet of parchment lay discarded in the corner and he dropped the basket and reached for it, smoothing it and scanning the script there. It was a carefully taken down copy of the guard schedule on the night of the assassination attempt. And it was written in Tantur's hand.

His own mind putting pieces together faster than was comfortable, Pippin was alarmed to see Duurben's hand shaking. For a moment he wondered if the man was going to be ill.

"Tantur," the man mouthed, no sound behind the word, and Pippin's heart ached. Tantur. Duurben's nephew. His flesh and blood. A murderer and a traitor.

Pippin wished that Aragorn could be there, certain that he would know the words to say since the hobbit had none. All he knew was that to Duurben, whose loyalty was as incorruptible as the sun, this must seem like the end of all things.

"Ilúvatar…" Duurben pleaded softly, letting the paper fall and closing his eyes for a moment, as if to block out the world. And then his lids flew open again. "Oh no."

"What?"

"He was bitten."

Pippin frowned; the words had not sounded concerned, but apprehensive.

"He was on guard duty near the Hall of Kings. If he caught word of where the King and Legolas were going for the cure—" Breaking off he turned and left the room in two strides. Pippin could hear his footsteps echoing back down the stairs.

On his own way out the door, the hobbit paused and looked back over his shoulder. He wondered if he ought to have guessed — he had seen Tantur at the healers, with a wound he could have easily given himself as excuse to get at their stores — he had seen him already breathless when they were called out to search for the 'intruder'. But the man had been a friend and thus, to his hobbit mind, above suspicion. Uncomprehendingly, he wondered how a man could come to such a pass. Fear? Perceived wrongs? Gold?

Either way, it was simply another trouble to add to an already overflowing kettle.

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Faramir listened in silence as Duurben spoke and when the captain of the guard finished he still did not say anything for several minutes. It was unsettling, but this whole situation was unsettling.

"Thank you for coming so promptly, Duurben," Faramir said. "I fear if Tantur set out to take the antidote for himself, there is little we can do. Lord Aragorn and Prince Legolas are too clever a pair of woodsmen to allow themselves to be found and warned by us. I think the best we can hope is that Tantur will also be unable to find them."

"Yes, my lord, but if he does manage to find them, they have no knowledge of his… his treachery."

"Aragorn is a shrewd man with much insight into the hearts of others, and Legolas is an elf," Faramir reminded him. "They should not be caught completely unawares."

There was a silence and Faramir gazed sadly at the man across from him, who was now looking so very old. Duurben had already been a seasoned fighter when Faramir had first known him, but for all his vigor he was no Dúnadan. This had to have been a severe blow to him.

Rising, Faramir came around the desk and gripped the captain's shoulder. "This was no doing of yours."

"Yes, my lord," Duurben nodded with difficulty.

Faramir's clear gray eyes met the other's troubled green ones. "I am sorry, Duurben."

"As am I. It is well my sister has already passed from this earth." The words were clipped.

"Perhaps it is. Shall I call on Lieutenant Thenin to oversee the day's watch?"

"No, my lord, if it please you. I shall attend to that myself." He bowed and left the room.

"He is a proud man," Beregond murmured from his usual post at the back of the room.

"And a good one. I am grieved that such a thing should have befallen him. Looking over Aragorn's account of the evening the possibility of a traitor seemed unhappily probable. I could not imagine Duurben choosing anyone whose loyalties were questionable, but this is beyond any fault of his. Kinship is a common blindfold." His face was grave as he looked down at the elven carving in the desk, his fingers brushing the delicate tracery. "Now there stands only the question of whether I, as ruling Steward in the absence of my king, am officially required to find my king and bring him back, or whether that is in fact a waywardness of duty. Furthermore, what steps must be taken to apprehend Tantur before he increases this disaster?"

"Perhaps, my lord Faramir—" Beregond began, but was not permitted to finish. Outside in the Hall of Kings itself the entrance doors had been flung open and there came the sounds of a quarrel between two of Duurben's younger guards and a third man.

As Faramir stepped swiftly from the room, alert for trouble, the argument ended abruptly — the third party having simplified matters by shouldering his way inside.

"Halt, there," Beregond cried sternly, coming up just behind Faramir, his hand ready on his sword hilt.

But then the man passed the first shaft of window light and they saw that he was limping and bloody. "Greetings to you as well, Beregond," the intruder acknowledged gruffly.

"Bartho?"

"So it seems." The general came to a halt before them. The insignia that would have denoted his rank was missing, and the fabric and leather of his clothing was slashed and stained reddish-brown from wounds that had been bandaged without the inconvenience of undressing. There was a strip of cloth from his cloak around his sword hand, blood matting his hair and beard, and his boots were caked with mud. "I must speak with the king."

"King Elessar is not here," Faramir said. "In his absence I have been left as temporary Steward. There has been an attack on the borders?"

"Yes, Lord Faramir. I had been expecting such a thing for some time, but not so suddenly or with so little warning. There are Southrons attacking our lines. I was patrolling and had left Captain Erynbenn in charge behind me. My company only barely escaped with their lives; most of them have been sent on to the Houses of Healing."

Faramir nodded, noting that Bartho ought to have followed them there, but refraining from saying so. "How many strong are they?"

"I know not. It was only a few hundred that found us, but my company was only thirty men strong — it was not intended to be a fighting force. Erynbenn had the larger company with him, but like as not: still futile. I doubt he will be able to hold off the second attack when it comes. We will need more men."

"Of course," Faramir nodded. "I shall bring them myself." He turned towards the study, ignoring Beregond's apprehensive look — and then quickly turned back again as Bartho suddenly buckled where he stood. "Beregond!" the Steward cried reflexively. "Catch him!"

But it was Faramir who caught Bartho and lowered him to the polished marble of the hall.

"Go, get a healer," Faramir ordered his guard, and Beregond left on swift feet. His fingers working systematically Faramir undid the taller man's belt and pushed aside his vest and tunic. A deep wound in the abdomen had soaked through its bandage and was trickling blood over his fingers. Pulling off his own vest, Faramir pressed firmly against the flow, his stained fingers checking Bartho's pulse. He was relieved to find it was still strong. In another moment, the general's eyes flickered open. "You should not have ridden so far untended," Faramir told him. "These dressings needed to be replaced hours ago."

Bartho frowned. "Waste of bandages."

"Waste of commanders. No, hold still."

In a few minutes more a healer arrived with several men and a litter to take Bartho to the houses.

"Are you well, my lord?" Beregond asked anxiously. The sight of Faramir in only his shirtsleeves and covered in blood worried him.

"Quite. And you see now why it is imperative I go myself to the battle. Bartho will be here at least a few weeks." His wheat-colored hair brushed his shoulders as he shook his head once. "I shall leave this evening and collect more men from the garrisons along the way."

Slowly, Beregond nodded in agreement.

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Eowyn moved around the guest chambers silently, packing her husband's saddlebags while he changed from his bloodstained shirt. She had just buckled the leather flap down when a gentle hand rested on her shoulder, its familiar weight causing her to pause and smile. Her fingers reached up to touch Faramir's.

"Eowyn?" he asked softly.

She turned to look at him, her face bare inches from his. "My lord?"

"Something is troubling you… Can you tell me?" There was concern in his sensitive gray eyes.

Eowyn's mind sped to the small life growing within her and wondered — but no. Faramir's duty was plain; she could not divide his heart in such a way. Her news would have to wait still longer.

"I shall miss you," she whispered instead.

Faramir smiled a little and bent to rest his forehead against hers. "And I you. I am leaving you my heart. Watch over it for me?"

"I promise. If in return you watch over the rest of you."

"That's Beregond's job."

Eowyn laughed briefly, cupping her hands about his face, "Make it your own as well, or I shall refuse you permission to leave!"

"Very well. I promise." Kissing her gently on the mouth, he took up his sword and sheathed it.

Turning he opened the door and strode out at an even pace towards the courtyard.

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And so it was into the middle of chaos — of wounded men being guided towards the Houses of Healing, of guardsmen preparing to leave with Lord Faramir, of tidings of war, of anxiety for the queen, of dust and clamor and confusion — that Gimli son of Gloin entered the uppermost circle of Minas Tirith.

The dwarf stood at the head of the steps for a long moment, his arms crossed, his stocky legs spread, and his beady eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun on white stone. His wild red beard was twisting in the breeze and a full compliment of axes hung about his belt and across his back.

"I suppose peace and quiet would be too much to expect," Gimli grunted. He was so occupied with his observation of the general activity that he failed to notice the more subtle creepings behind him.

Simultaneously a small voice shrieked, "Look out!" and a weight crashed into his back.

"Blast your eyes!" Gimli roared as he fell, and landed full length on the grass. His mouth filled with grass and his helmet slid off.

"Uncle Gimli!" Eldarion cried in delight, rolling off him and offering him a hand.

The dwarf grunted and shifted back onto his feet, his helmet remaining on the turf. "You, young prince, have too much of your father in you for comfort!" Then he wrapped a sturdy arm around the boy's neck and tousled his hair roughly, turning him loose with an affectionate scowl.

"Why Gimli, this is a surprise," a clear voice laughed, and the dwarf looked up with an almost sheepishly happy glance at the Lady Eowyn.

"Didn't know you'd be here either, if it comes to that."

"There is much to tell," she said seriously. "You have come to repair the gate, have you not?"

"Amongst other things. I've left my craftsmen at the quarries to begin work. This city is like a giant cheese; how you survive the leaks I can't understand. Men just aren't capable of proper stone-work."

"I fear you are right. But come, I must stay near Gilraen before she decides to join the others in battle. She pays no attention to who might run into her."

Gimli followed her and together they guided the children away from the noise and towards the other end of the high courtyard. Keeping her voice low, Eowyn related the incidents of the previous few days.

"Now, with battle already begun, Faramir is leaving to lead the men. They shall all be gone by morning."

"And Aragorn and the elf?"

"As I said, they suggested they were traveling towards Lorien, but we could find no trace of them. The rain was against us, as was the stealth of rangers and elves."

"But this traitor is following them?"

Eowyn gave a graceful shrug, her sharp eyes clouding as she reached up to push some of her hair from where it had blown across her face. "Faramir fears it is so, and I must say I agree. In which case we worry that he might choose to simply steal whatever they planned to bring back for the queen, rather than gather his own supply. Or perhaps he might finish his work. Lord Aragorn was intended to be slain, and in that Tantur failed."

The dwarf sat for a while, mulling her words over in his head as he watched the children chasing each other about on the grass. He was fond of them as he'd seldom been fond of anyone else. When had he first started caring so much? With the Fellowship — Aragorn and Legolas in particular.

"Well," he grunted. "I thank you, my lady, for your time. Give my regards to your husband and the hobbit, if you have a chance. And watch the lad — he'll give you more trouble than a dragon in a jeweler's forge."

"But Gimli," Eowyn protested suspiciously, "where are you intending to go?"

The dwarf and risen to his feet, unintimidated by the tall, slender form of the green-clad lady behind him. "After them, of course."

"Are you serious? Gimli, they left four days ago! You can never catch them."

"Fortunately, I don't need to catch them. Just get to Lorien before they manage to find that cure."

"And how will you get there?"

"I brought a pony," he grunted, pausing at the top of the stairs to watch her, "and if he won't take me the whole way, I'll run the rest. I'm a better hand at running than I look."

"Well, then—" Eowyn started, then stopped with a sigh. "May the Valar lend your feet wings, Gimli son of Gloin."

"Farewell, lady," he nodded and stumped at a quick pace down the stairs. Drat the both of them, he thought grimly, Laddies, if either of you is any less than walking and breathing when I find you, I'll kill you.

TBC…

Authors' note: Our apologies for lateness even beyond our new schedule change! A bothersome problem arose with a new modem, some cross-wiring in the network, and Sarah's computer's inability to get a proper IP address assigned by the router. Confused? So are we; but it's fixed now, so who cares? Thank you for your patience!