It had been perhaps a day or so past a week since Faramir had left for Harondor.
No more missives had come from Harad, and as spring stretched into summer, the Pelennor healed from the fire that had ravaged the grassland.
Aragorn had made little progress in finding the culprit who had started the fire in Ithilien, and walked the castle tense and watchful, uncertain if there were traitors in his court- or rather, uncertain if they were present at any time.
It was a near certain thing that there were traitors.
Worse than the tension though was the veneer of normalcy, the mind-numbing monotony that had set in with the rhythm of their days.
He had finished reviewing the injury reports from the Ithilien rangers and had finalized treatments and retirement plans for both the rangers who would be returning to their posts, and those who were too physically broken to remain in service to Gondor.
Imrahil was by now very familiar with the inner workings of Minas Tirith and performed his duties as supplement to king and steward very well and with a flourish Aragorn hoped might rub off on Faramir; the lord of Dol Amroth would publicly burn requests from nobility he deemed as dishonoring their station- not so expressly, of course, but few members of the court missed when a document bearing their own seal found its way into the fire. In secret, he and the king searched for signs of Faramir's tormenter as well, but the trail had been cold for too long to make much headway.
Eowyn regularly attended the audiences Aragorn held for his people, and at first, he could not fathom why; audiences were not the most interesting event to attend, but at last he began to notice that she was studying his method. She'd mimic his posture and body language, and her eyes rarely wandered from him.
He was content to let her learn the ways of Gondor from him.
He had just finished mediating a dispute concerning the profits to split between the owner of a cow and a cheesemaker who processed the milk from the animal when Eowyn approached the throne. Aragorn did not notice her at first, his mind still on the everyday problems faced by his people, but Arwen stood, opening her arms to embrace the princess of Rohan and drawing his attention. "Lady Eowyn! Thank you for joining us again today."
Eowyn returned the queen's embrace, blue eyes still boring into Aragorn. She pulled away, setting a hand briefly on the queen's shoulder. "I'm happy to."
"Something troubles you?" Arwen prompted as Eowyn stepped closer to Aragorn.
The shield-maid nodded, glancing nervously over her shoulder. "The men in the next group are going to lie to you," she said in a hushed tone, leaning close for Aragorn to hear.
"You know this?" he asked. "How?"
She winced, uncertainty playing over her fine features, and at last she shook her head. "The same way Grima could not dull my spirit or blunt my steel," she said with a helpless shrug. "I simply do, I suppose."
"Thank you for telling me. I shall be on my guard," he assured her, gripping her arm for a moment.
She nodded, glancing over her shoulder for a moment before returning to her seat.
Aragorn surveyed the men who were approaching.
There were two distinct groups among them, and clear hostility between the two.
He had seen his citizens enter with disputes before, and some could get quite heated, but none had maintained this level of outright hatred between them.
There was certainly room for deceit there.
Neither story added up, either. There was time unaccounted for and inconsistencies, such that Aragorn could scarce follow the narrative from either side, just that each blamed the other for a series of rapidly escalating misfortunes.
He took a breath to halt them, patience growing dangerously thin.
Father-
Aragorn jerked back and started to his feet, looking around wildly.
The action succeeded in silencing the arguing crowd of men before his throne, but the king's attention was no longer with them.
He turned back to face his queen, trying to calm the panic that had climbed into his throat at hearing the pleading tone of Faramir's voice.
Arwen stood slowly, and offered him a hand.
His fingers slipped easily into hers and he watched as her chest heaved suddenly and her face drained of its color.
"Faramir?" she whispered, and he nodded, tugging suddenly at her hand to lead her out of the throne room.
"My lord?" a guard called and he waved his free hand dismissively.
"I will take no more audience today. Fine both parties for lying to their king," he called back, not bothering to slow his pace.
He strode into the war room down the hall, flinging the door open and drew from his waist his elvish dagger to plant the tip firmly into the map on the table, marking the location before it could be driven from his mind. Mark made, he withdrew the tip, absentmindedly resolving to have the map recopied onto a fresh sheet of vellum. He leaned closer as he studied the split he'd made in southern Harondor, a little further south of what served as the contested border.
The location seemed familiar. There were hills marked around it, and outcroppings of rocks in the area that brought to mind his time in Harad as a youth, traveling to learn the ways of his enemies.
It had not been until leaving Harad, accompanied by a servant he'd won in a game and freed on principle that he had learned the significance of that place as they had passed through it.
He could see it clearly in his mind, the irregular outcropping rising before his eyes as he gazed into Gondor, the path bloody.
The Serpent's Mouth was a choke point and had been for the length of the war, but Gondorian forces had not pressed the border at all since Denethor came to power some thirty thirty years- almost forty now. It was a difficult point to hold, as it facilitated ambushes from both sides, but had no place for long-term troop bastions.
The full reality of the location settled on Aragorn's shoulders as he realized with a sinking dread that he had indeed sent Faramir into a trap despite his best efforts to de-fang the Haradrim by keeping them on the border. Perhaps he had even dropped the opportunity into their laps, and now the son of his heart was injured, certainly, but perhaps dead or worse, captured.
Aragorn had seen before how the Haradrim treated their prisoners, and for generations, the brutality coming from their desert-dwelling enemies had inspired desperate ferocity in the Numenorians who would not be captured alive.
"That isn't marked," Eowyn's voice broke through his thoughts, startling him
Aragorn had not realized she had followed them out of the hall.
"What is that?" she asked, pointing to the map, her blue eyes sharp with battle-light.
The king of Gondor remained silent as he considered her.
If Eowyn knew Faramir were in trouble, she would almost certainly go charging off before he or Eomer could do anything about it.
Arwen glanced between the princess and her husband, her fingers still entwined in his.
"Lord Faramir is in danger, isn't he?" Eowyn asked, eyes darting briefly back to the map before returning to bore through his soul. "And he's there?"
"My lady," Aragorn started, a cautionary note in his voice. He raised one hand in a gesture one might make trying to calm an angry cat.
The shield-maiden did not let him finish. "He was there, but you don't know now," she concluded, and he winced. Her knowledge was uncanny. "Then surely the armistice is ended?" she asked.
"If I am correct," Aragorn started, though he knew without doubt he was right.
Arwen shot him a look.
"Yes," he amended. "It is ended. Gondor is again at war. It is good that Eomer is here, I have need to speak with him on the matter."
"I'll fetch him," Eowin said, turning on her heel with a graceful yet dangerous swish of her skirts, visibly restraining herself from breaking into a run down the hall.
"I need Imrahil," Aragorn said, turning back to face the map on the table with a darkening look upon his face. "I'll have to look him in the eye as I tell him I will make no negotiation for Faramir's return."
"That may cost Faramir his life," Arwen gently, though she did not need to.
"I know," Aragorn agreed. "But concessions would reward the unjust, cost many more Gondorian lives and dishonor all that he stands for. I must only hope that our vengeance is swift enough to wrest him from enemy hands. It is my duty as king. All must know that to break faith with me is to covet death."
"I will speak to my father. Perhaps Elves can stand with men once more," she offered and he smiled wanly in her direction.
"That age is ending, Vanimelda," he said, shaking his head. "Though I would not begrudge your request, I expect little will come of it."
Arwen nodded and slipped away, leaving Aragorn alone, gazing at the map and the cut marking the possible end of his son. He shook his head again.
He had thought once before that Faramir had fallen in battle, but the Steward was of the strongest Numenorian stock and had proved many times to be quite difficult to kill.
He bowed his head to Eru, and lifted his hopes to the Valar.
Behind him, the door opened, and several people entered. There was Imrahil, Elrond, Arwen, and Eomer, all wearing grim expressions as they moved to sit around the war table.
"Peace was all too short," Eomer said respectfully, bowing his head slightly as he moved to sit. "My sister tells me your Steward is in trouble. You have my sympathy."
"I thank you," Aragorn said distractedly, running a hand over his face. "I know it is asking much to bring this before you so soon after war."
"And yet," Eomer said understandingly. "Are we not sworn brothers in arms? Is Rohan not bound by oath to aid Gondor?"
Estel managed a grateful smile and felt that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "And what can Gondor do for Rohan for this kindness?"
"I have a request in mind, but we shall discuss that at a later time. The matter at hand is too urgent."
Usually Aragorn would have balked at such an open exchange. Leaving the terms of a royal debt undefined was almost universally a foolish idea, and by the look Elrond was giving him, he was not the only one who noticed it, but he trusted Eomer to act honorably. He nodded, and the look on Elrond's face darkened.
"I cannot offer such… generous aid," the Elven Lord said slowly, eyes turning momentarily toward Eomer. "The strength of the Eldar is broken. My people are too few, and of those who remain their scars too numerous. Imladris can do nothing for you." His tone was apologetic, but his face had shifted back to a practiced mask of neutrality.
Aragorn's heart sank further as he realized that before him sat not his father, but a king, a picture of the duty he himself carried, and an attitude he may have to present to his own loved ones at times, an eventuality he deeply dreaded. "I would be grateful for your council in this matter," he said, and Elrond nodded slightly.
"The Swan Knights are ever at your disposal," Imrahil said. "And have somewhat more experience in the southern climes than most, save perhaps the Rangers of Ithilien."
"The rangers have been ground down by misuse for twenty years and their ranks are little more than three battalions," Arwen said, cutting into the discussion.
"Indeed. The rangers must be carefully positioned and replenished. I think they will see little of the coming war," Aragorn agreed. "And not much beyond the border, the sands render cavalry ineffective."
Eomer did not look pleased.
"Then draw them out," Elrond suggested. "The Gondorian cavalry, reinforced by the brave Rohirim, can cripple their army on your terms, and your knights can take Harad nearly unopposed, if managed."
"I'm not going to count on that," Aragorn started. "We may only draw-"
A knock from the door cut him off, and he looked back to see two men at the door, one a Gondorian, and the other a member of Eomer's delegation.
The two kings looked back, wearing shared looks of mildly impatient expectation.
"Speak," Eomer barked, and the Gondorian looked nervously over at Aragorn, who held up a hand and nodded reassuringly.
The Rider bowed slightly/ "A rider from the delegation has left the city without leave."
"Who?" Eomer demanded, his short patience already thinning.
"We don't… know," the man had to admit, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he stood under his king's baleful gaze.
"We do, my lord," the Gondorian cut in. "It's the reason I'm here, sire," the guard said apologetically. "The rider identified himself as Dernhelm."
Eomer's expression was blank for a moment with a lack of recognition but Aragorn put his face in his hand.
"Of course she did," Estel muttered to himself. "I shouldn't even be surprised." He startled as a chair hit the ground and looked up again to see that Eomer had stood, worry and anger battling for a place over his features.
"Eowyn!" Eomer bellowed. "Dispatch a rider! Get her- him- Bring Dernhelm back here!"
Startled into action by the sudden shouting, the Rider managed a swift bow and took off at a run down the hall.
"Clear the center street," Aragorn ordered his own guard. "They'll need a clear way if they hope to catch up."
The guard clapped a hand over his heart and bowed before turning to follow the other down the hall, still hurrying, but not with the same desperate clip.
Aragorn stood silent for a moment before easing himself into his own chair.
Eomer stood a little longer, looking lost and distraught before wordlessly picking up his fallen chair and dropping into it with an air of defeat.
"What are the odds they bring her back?" Aragorn asked gently.
It was hard to imagine Eowyn would put up with anyone to bring her back, even if the riders sent had the order of both kings, and if she did refuse, there was not much either could do about it.
Eomer just shook his head. "Windfola is a better steed than even Firefoot, and my sister is a light burden. It is a fool's hope that they might bring her back."
The king of Gondor nodded gravely. "That is what I feared."
Imrahil cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I take it she does this often?" he asked, glancing between the kings.
Aragorn's eyes widened for just a second as he nodded grimly, and Eomer's only response was to drop his head into his hands and release a strangled noise of frustration.