“Sire!” a familiar voice calls. Sulon elbows through the line, then bows deeply. “I hope your journey was pleasant.” Faramir snorts, and Sulon’s wary gaze flicks to him. “Prince Faramir, it is an honor to have you among us.”
My brother fucking preens.
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes.
“Where’s my tent?” I ask.
Sulon gestures for us to follow him.
A large tent rises in the center of the camp, the canvas flaps fluttering in the chilly breeze. Inside, my belongings are arranged exactly as I last saw them—a small table toward the front of the tent and a simple cot at the back.
A deep sigh escapes me. “Bring in another cot for my brother.” I expect Faramir to argue, but he surprisingly remains silent.
Sulon nods, then gestures to the chairs. He unfurls a small map across the scratched surface of the table. “There’s been unusual movement here—” His meaty finger points to a thick tangle of trees about an hour’s ride away from our location. “—and here.”
“Send scouts tomorrow. Instruct them not to engage. Just survey the number of men and return.”
We pour over maps late into the night, discussing strategy and possible attack formations.
Halfway through, Faramir yawns, wide and obnoxious, and announces he’s going to sleep and hopes he has the “sweetest dreams.”
I resist the urge to smother him.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Fivedays.
Duck.
Five days since I left my wife.
Parry.
Five days of fighting the heaviness in my eyes until Faramir’s deep snores drift through the night air. He hasn’t tried to kill me in my sleep. Yet.
Swipe.
Five days that have so far proved pointless. Whatever men the Rebellion had ready to attack us seem to have dissipated overnight. Scouts search the area three times a day, each time venturing farther, always returning with no news.
Sweat drips into my eyes as I draw back, offering a hand to the soldier I knocked into the dirt.
“Well fought.” He nods his head, but his face reddens all the same as he returns to the circle of soldiers. Faramir sits on an overturned crate, watching closely.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and dismiss the soldiers—a large fire crackles nearby, and the men have planned a night off since the Rebellion threat seems to have vanished.
Soldiers teem around the fire, eating and drinking. Faramir attempts to engage in stiff, awkward conversation with two young soldiers before turning red and storming off.
A passing soldier offers me a mug of watered-down ale, and I accept it with a grateful nod, downing it in two swigs. I eye the path toward my tent.
I heave a resigned sigh. It’s tempting to remain at the bonfire, but I should probably check on Faramir. Spare whichever unfortunate soul he ensnares next from his narcissism.
The din of the bonfire ebbs away as I head toward our shared tent—though I despise the thought of sharing anything with him. It’s punishment enough that we share a pitiful excuse for a father. We—
A muffled cry echoes ahead.
It sounded like Faramir.
Fuck.
