A/N: Thank you all again for the lovely reviews!
Aslan's Little Lioness, you're really too kind haha!
"Something troubles you," Elrond observed from where he was sitting, breaking the silence that had settled over them since he had entered the royal suite.
"It's Faramir," Arwen explained, delicately embroidering a blue silk shirt with a flashing, silver thread. "Estel doesn't know what to do with him."
Aragorn made a pitiful attempt to glare at her, but he could put no venom behind the look, despite his vexation at her baring his hurt so easily. Sighing he nodded, letting the frown melt off to be replaced by a look of exhausted worry. "I suspect I made him uncomfortable." He suspected it was more than discomfort.
"You suspect?" Elrond prompted, setting the silver goblet down on the table by his chair.
The king turned his gaze away, studying instead the burgundy curtains hanging by the window, and the surrounding white stones that made the outer wall. "Well, I know for certain he was uncomfortable. He had the look of a man in pain," Aragorn rubbed his hand over his face, trying to push back the guilt that was eating at him and forced himself to return his gaze to the participants of the conversation. He didn't know what he had done, and might not have done anything wrong, strictly speaking, so dragging himself over the proverbial coals wasn't going to help anything.
"Did you ask him?" Arwen asked, pointedly pausing her work to meet his eyes.
"How could I?" Aragorn returned, wincing. "Faramir goes to ground when cornered. One wrong move and I could lose him." He had to admit to himself that she had a point.
"Is the situation truly as grave as you think it is?" she asked, her eyes lingering on his only a moment longer before returning to her craft. "He's a ranger, my love, like you. There is much strength in him, you must know this," she reminded him, glancing up for just another second to meet her husband's gaze.
"Faramir will be fine, whatever happens. I do not fear for his sake; he will heal, he has that strength," Aragorn agreed, waving a hand in a way that was not quite dismissive. "My fear is selfish. I worry he will turn away from me and see me as a friend no longer."
"While I understand the worry, I think Faramir needs you just as much. As long as that need is present, he shall cling to you," she assured him.
"That's no consolation," Aragorn said, looking down into his cup and swirling the wine. "I don't want him to have to rely on my approval. He should know his own merit, apart from me."
Arwen shook her head at him. "And he will. You have to trust him, too, Aragorn," she reminded him and he nodded miserably.
"I do," he said, setting his own drink down. "I must continue to."
A hush settled over the three of them as they sat, almost comfortably but for the slight tension between father and son.
"How is your wound today?" Elrond asked, breaking the silence.
"It aches, but the scar is unchanged," Aragorn said dully, mind elsewhere.
"I could see to it again," the Elven Lord offered.
The king shook his head. "No, thank you, I'm alright."
There was an awkward pause, and Elrond cleared his throat. "You are not the only one who fears losing someone dear by imprudent action." He got to his feet. "Goodnight, Estel."
"Goodnight… father." Aragorn stood slowly, centering his weight on his uninjured leg before reaching a hand out toward Elrond, catching the elf's arm as he moved by toward the sitting room door.
Elrond stood stunned for a moment before folding his son into a short hug. "Sleep well."
It was another three days before a new message arrived with the rider from the Haradrim, and Aragorn sent him back with a response within the hour- a rejection of their further attempts to set negotiations within the borders of their own realm.
The exchange of letters continued for some weeks in the facade of polite professionalism that veiled the underlying hostilities of both sides.
At last, under threat of a full-scale invasion, the Chieftain of the Haradric Tribes agreed to set the meeting on the border of Gondor and Harondor, land that, by all rights, belonged to the Numenoreans, but had been under occupation for more than a thousand years, and hotly contested for just as long.
Aragorn had no intention of leaving Harondor under enemy occupation.
It was early morning, the sky still a silver gray before the blue of the horizon could cross the dome above Minas Tirith and herald the start of the bustling life in the city.
Astaren was dressed in the ceremonial armor of the Stewardship, and, in Faramir's opinion, looked far more fitting in the garb than he, a simple ranger doing his best to play the role of a diplomat.
The grim faces of the rangers around him reflected his own doubts about the mission back to him- none of them expected Harad to be honorable in its dealings, and some of them probably expected to die.
"Lord Faramir!"
A shout rang out across the courtyard before the stables, and he jerked, his head lifting from the last inspections of their gear to search their surroundings for the source of the voice, troubles forgotten for just a moment as his eyes landed on the flashing blonde braid of the maiden calling him.
Eowyn ran up the steps, her handmaidens struggling to keep up as they followed, arms laden with flowers. "We have only just arrived and Lord Aragorn tells me you are setting off for Harondor. I must curse my timing, I had hoped to call on you with my brother."
"Lord Eomer is here?" Faramir asked, wincing. He was certainly leaving his king and uncle more than their fair share of work.
"He is. He had come hoping to speak with you," she continued and he tore his eyes off her to resume inspecting the equipment.
"I cannot spare a moment, I am afraid," he said heavily, sparing a glance to his men, some of whom were repressing tears as the ladies of Rohan placed flowers in their hands as a respectful farewell from a sister kingdom.
"He knows," Eowyn said softly. "We are here to see you off, with Lord Aragorn's blessing." She lowered her voice. "He wanted to come himself, but I believe he is injured." She said it as though to be overheard would shame her. "Lord Elrond is very watchful, and Aragorn is moving stiffly."
He sometimes forgot that Eowyn herself was an expert healer; Aragorn was very good at pretending to be fine. "Yes," Faramir whispered back. "There was a fire, a little over a month ago. You must have seen the charring in the Pelennor?" he asked and she nodded, eyes widening.
"The dwarves of Erebor had not yet completed a new gate for the First Circle, so there was a wood gate up that caught flame and fell, lighting a hovel ablaze with children inside."
"Aragorn saved them?" she guessed, wringing her hands. "And the building collapsed."
He nodded, neglecting to mention that he had been injured in the same fire.
"How bad was it?" she asked, setting a hand on Faramir's shoulder, forgetting to remain hushed.
"A chipped bone," he said, matching her tone. "Little else. He was lucky."
She nodded, but still looked troubled.
"The hobbits are around," he said, changing the subject. "I think you will find that your visit was well timed in that regard. Merry misses you quite a bit, I think."
"Merry misses me?" Her blue eyes bore into him and he looked away, at last tightening the girth strap on Astaren as he prepared to mount.
"Him and others," Faramir admitted, setting his foot on the stirrup.
"You?" she asked, tone devoid of emotion.
He kept his face neutral and nodded. "Of course," he said. "You are a good friend."
"My lord," a ranger began to speak, a flower Faramir recognized as simbelmyne held lightly in one hand. "We are ready for departure."
"Farewell, Lady Eowyn," Faramir said softly, pulling himself upright into the saddle, feeling just a little more like a leader than he had. "Be well."
She caught his hand and pressed a bundle of simbelmyne and athelas into his hand. "Your country needs you. The Haradrim will not keep their word," she warned and he nodded, kicking his heels and setting Astaren into a walk.
"Ride," he ordered. "Stay together. I will not tolerate stragglers."
"Farewell, my lord," Eowyn said softly.
Faramir was not certain he had been meant to hear.
The journey was long and grueling, following the Harad Road down through green Ithilien to Tolfalas and beyond the banks of the River Poros, and yet had the effect of reminding Faramir once again how uncomfortably close Dol Amroth, and his only remaining family, was to the border of Harad, how close they were to harm.
Across the Poros, the landscape quickly began to change from the rich green forests of Ithilien to grassland, and wide, rocky expanses and overhangs, leading ultimately into the desert. It wasn't visible at that distance, it could not possibly be, but in the shimmering heat, the white expanse of the horizon stretching far beyond the rim of the world seemed to pull the vast sandy plain into view.
Faramir pulled Astaren to a halt, raising his hand to signal to the men with him that they should not go further.
The road narrowed ahead, passing between two halves of a jagged rise, split through in the middle as if by some divine wrath. It wasn't easy to tell how wide the top was, or how far the impression ran between them- everything in his bones said the location was primed for an ambush.
If it were him, he would have troops on top of and behind the massive rocks- with the size of them, he could hide cavalry and even a mumak or two.
He tugged the reins again and Astaren began to back, slowly setting one hoof back, and then another.
The other rangers followed suit, hands drifting to weapons.
It wasn't until his fingers brushed by the feathers on his arrows that he realized he, too, had reached for a weapon.
The breeze shifted, carrying with it a cough from the other side- no one reacted.
Only he had heard the sound.
It was faster than thought that his bow found its way into his arms, the string to his cheek, and he let the arrow fly, taking what seemed to him to be the slowest arc over the rise in their path.
It disappeared from view.
There was silence for a second longer, and then a cry of pain- a cry his men heard loud and clear.
His arrow had found its target, and the silence broke.
The trumpeting of mumaks filled the air, turning his heart cold and confirming his worst fears.
"Retreat!" He could barely hear himself over the screaming din of the swarming enemy, their horns mingling with their battle cries and the thundering hooves of their own horses. "Retreat!"
The enemy had cavalry, and javelins, and already men were dying.
He saw Haradrim fall, arrows sprouting from the chinks in their armor, and heard the cries of his own men as they fell from their mounts. The smell of blood filled the air, and already his fingers burned. How many arrows had he sent into the crowd pursuing them as Astaren carried him out of their reach?
The world lurched and his own mount fell, legs tangled in a bola.
Panic took hold at last, and he found his knife in his hand as he struggled to free his leg from her weight.
"Still," he gasped, dropping into her kicking legs, cutting at the sturdy rope.
The tangle came away and she righted, already kicking and snapping at the approaching soldiers, circling her master.
Knee now aflame with pain, he tried to stand, reaching for his sword as he did.
"The steward!" The cry sounded distant to his blood-pounding ears, but the effect was immediate.
The three Haradrim closest to him fell, choking on blood and Gondorian arrows, but his relief was short-lived as six more filled in.
He did not dare try to re-mount.
Astaren's hooves came down hard on one man, knocking him to the ground. Without pausing, she set her hooves on his broken form and kicked another foolish enough to approach her flank, caving in the helmet over his face.
Faramir shook himself and at last managed to free his sword, taking another three men before a spear found his side.
Time slowed and he found his gaze dropping to his hands.
The Steward's ring still sat on his finger, covered in blood- though he was unsure whose. He dropped his knife and yanked the seal off, dropping it into Astaren's pack and yelling at her to leave.
The spear was still in his side, and its wielder twisted it, causing him to stagger, but he turned, raising his sword despite the pain to hack at the neck of another.
The spear twisted once more, forcing him to his knees and the sword went wild, burying into the flesh of a soldier's arm.
The ring of opponents closed on him and he dropped his sword, lacking the strength to pull the blade out of his enemy's bone. He snatched up the fallen knife instead, baring his teeth against the pain and brandishing the blood soaked tip.
The barbed tip of the spear prevented him from getting free, but the approach would be costly for any man who dared attempt it.
To his horror, no one did.
It was clear to everyone present that he was a dying man, no more strong than a fish impaled on a stick, gasping its last. There was no need to enter the range of his knife when they could just twist the blade buried in his side.
It was only as his vision was fading that Faramir at last dared to relinquish the hold on his knife with an artful flick of the wrist- burying it into a new sheath of flesh to be found in the throat of a Haradrim Captain, one last spiteful strike at his captor, and in his mind, a fair trade- a captain for a captain.
The last things he heard were the screams of horses and men, and the trumpeting of the mumaks as darkness closed in over him, for what he thought must be the last time, a desperate prayer stumbling feverishly over his lips.
Father, greet me when I wake from this dream and think better of me, apart from this world. Mother, teach me to love him again. Brother, forgive me for my failures. Eru, I beg you to welcome me. I would come to you if you would have me.
The darkness gave no answer, and he did not ask it to.