Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of J. R. R. Tolkien, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof. No profit is being made from this work.

Greetings! Welcome to this story. It's a little different from the others I've written, as it is more a series of separate short stories rather than a unit tale. Each story is a look at an event in the life of the First Family of Gondor. Originally, this was going to be a story just about Faramir and Denethor, but Boromir, protective big brother that he is, would have none of that and demanded that his voice be heard as well.

As for Denethor, I believe that there are people in this world who are born to be parents and that Denethor is not one of them. I don't think he is an evil man; he has issues, certainly, but he's hardly a villain on a Dickensian scale. Professionally, he is a great leader of Men. In his personal life, he commits one of the greatest crimes a parent can commit by favoring one child over another. This is his tragedy, not proof of his utter moral turpitude. He is no more a villain than is King Lear. In fact, he does Lear one better by turning out two basically honorable and decent children.

That's all for now. I suspect I will have plenty more to say at the end. Enjoy the story!

"Good morning, Papa! There is porridge for breakfast today!"

Denethor smiled at his five-year-old son, sitting at the breakfast table in the nursery. "That is because the first frost came last night, Boromir," he said. "Winter is coming, and your Mama will want her big boy to have a good hot breakfast."

Boromir grinned proudly. His papa had been calling him a big boy for several months, ever since his mama's lap had grown too small to sit on. His mama had told him that he would have a new little brother or sister soon, and that he would have to share her lap. Boromir was not pleased by that announcement. His mama's lap had grown small enough as it was, and there was barely any room left for one, never mind a new baby. But then his papa had taken him aside and explained that the arrival of the new baby meant good news as well; Boromir would be a big brother. Boromir had given the matter some thought and had decided that he would enjoy being someone's big brother. He slurped happily at a big spoonful of porridge, dribbling a little down the front of his sleeping shirt.

Denethor reached for a napkin with one hand and wiped Boromir's face affectionately. "Do you know what else there is for your breakfast, big boy?" he asked.

"What?"

Denethor brought forth the glass he had been concealing behind his back with his other hand.

"Orange juice!" Boromir squealed as he reached for the treat. Denethor smiled. Oranges from Harad were expensive, but today Boromir would be given several such luxuries. The thought reminded him of the last thing he had to tell his son.

"You must finish your breakfast quickly today," he said. Boromir paused and looked at him quizzically over the rim of the half-finished glass of orange juice.

"Why?"

Denethor knelt down in front of him. "Your Uncle Imrahil is coming to visit," he said. "He is riding all the way from Dol Amroth, and you will be spending the day with him."

Boromir's eyes grew round with excitement. He liked his Uncle Imrahil, who always brought him seashells when he visited. He sucked down the rest of the orange juice and took another big spoonful of porridge. "I finished breakfast!" he announced.

Denethor eyed the considerable amount of porridge still remaining in the bowl. "I think not," he said. "You must eat . . . let me see . . . five more bites. Today is an important day, and my big boy must have a good breakfast inside of him."

Boromir obediently ate another spoonful of porridge. "Why is it an important day?"

"Because," Denethor said, "today the new baby will come."

"My little brother or sister?"

"Yes. And if you wish to be a big, strong brother, you must eat your porridge. Four more bites to help the baby come."

Boromir ate two spoonfuls very quickly. "Will it be a baby brother or a sister?" he asked.

"I do not know," Denethor said. "Two more bites. Which do you want, a brother or a sister?"

"I want a baby brother," Boromir said happily. "We can play swords together." He waved a spoonful of porridge around alarmingly, causing Denethor a slight moment of panic before the spoon landed in the little mouth.

"It will be some time before the baby is big enough to play with," Denethor cautioned.

"What do you want?" Boromir asked. "A boy or a girl?"

Denethor gave the matter a moment's thought. "Well," he said, "Now that I have my big boy, I think that I would like to have a little girl."

"Silly," Boromir said. "Girls have cooties."

Denethor smiled. Boromir had recently learned about cooties, having acquired a case of head lice from the children of Ecthelion's personal secretary. It had taken two washes with strong vinegar and many combings to rid him of the vermin. "Not all girls have cooties," Denethor told him.

"Girls are no fun anyway," Boromir declared stubbornly.

"Wait ten years," Denethor chuckled. "One more bite, big boy."

Boromir sighed, and jammed an enormous scoop of porridge into his mouth. Denethor winced as the porridge dribbled and smeared around Boromir's face and into his lap, but it seemed that some had actually gotten inside. Boromir grinned at him, and Denethor began to mop at his face with the napkin.

"Five bites," Boromir pointed out.

"Indeed. Now you may go wash and dress yourself. I am going to stay with your Mama for a while. Uncle Imrahil will arrive soon, and there will be a new family member tonight."

Boromir wiggled and threw his arms around his father. Denethor decided it was a promising, if messy, start to the day.

When Denethor looked in on Finduilas, she was walking in circles around the Heir's Suite, aided by Dirnilas the midwife and her young assistant Ioreth. She greeted him happily, and the midwives assured him that her labor was progressing swiftly. "Indeed," said Ioreth, "though the travail is often lessened for the second child, this babe is making a remarkably easy entrance into the world."

"Thus far," Dirnilas cautioned her. "The lady's labor is still in its early stages, and there will yet be time enough for groans and curses. And do not forget that labor always seems easier to those who are not themselves giving birth!"

Ioreth blushed, but Finduilas laughed. "You see that I am in good hands, my love," she told Denethor. "Do not fear for me."

Denethor smiled and stopped Finduilas in her walking long enough to plant a kiss on her lips. "You appear to have things well under control, my wife," he said. "I will not fear; rather, I will wait happily and dream of our daughter."

"Are you so sure that the child will be a girl?" Finduilas asked.

"I'll wager it is a girl," Ioreth put in. "None but a lovely girl-babe would make so polite an entrance as this one seems to be making."

"Do you especially wish for a daughter, my lord?" Dirnilas asked.

"I do," Denethor answered, moving to the window seat. Watching Finduilas circulate around the room was beginning to make him dizzy. "I have a bright little son and heir who has just eaten a very good breakfast and is out with his Uncle Imrahil. He will grow strong and inherit the chair from me when I am old. Now I wish for a daughter whose beauty will echo that of her mother."

"And what will your beautiful daughter do for you?" Finduilas challenged.

"She will make a royal marriage, of course."

Finduilas laughed again. "She is not yet born and already you have chosen her husband!" Her face contorted for a minute as a contraction rippled across her belly. When it was over, she looked again at her husband. "Who is the lucky bridegroom, then?"

"Théoden of Rohan has a boy about Boromir's age," Denethor said. "I believe his name is Théodred. I saw him once last year. He seemed a sturdy lad, and a marriage between the ruling houses of Gondor and Rohan would be a great joy."

"You are husband to a Princess, and you wish to be father to a Queen," Finduilas shot back. "That is indeed the mind of Denethor at work. It is good to see that no bogey monster has carried you off and sent a changeling in your stead."

"There is no bogey monster that could defeat me," Denethor said. "And if you do not believe me, you may ask Boromir, and he will tell you all about my epic battles with the monsters which dwell beneath his bed."

Finduilas laughed. "I shall be sure to do just that. But now, I must turn my attention to this second child, or it will never be born, whether future Queen or no."

With that, Dirnilas moved to shoo Denethor out of the room. He left with a promise to check in on Finduilas at a later moment and set off for the Steward's office, whistling tunelessly. Ecthelion had granted him a full day's release from his administrative duties on the day of Boromir's birth, but for the arrival of his second child, Denethor planned to request only half a day. Ecthelion had aged rapidly in the five years since Boromir's arrival and would need the extra assistance. Even in the late middle years of his life, Denethor still felt himself to be the Steward's dutiful son. He would perform his tasks as long as he was able. The new child would not be born until the evening, and there was plenty of time until then to do his work. In addition, Denethor told himself, the distraction from the waiting would be most welcome.

Imrahil forced himself to keep his long strides steady as his little nephew tugged at his hand and tried to skip ahead through the courtyards of the Citadel. In spite of all the exciting things they had done that day -- visiting the market, the army training fields and going for a long ride out on the Pelennor -- Boromir was still jumpy and full of energy. "Are we going to see the new baby now, Uncle Imrahil?" he asked.

"Not yet," Imrahil said. "The sun is still in the sky, do you see?" He pointed at the glorious red and gold sunset. "The baby will not be here before the sun sets completely. There is still time for you to eat your dinner and have your bath."

"Babies take a long time," Boromir said.

"That they do," Imrahil replied, remembering the long hours he and Denethor had spent pacing the halls during Finduilas's first labor, husband and brother each trying to calm the other's frayed nerves and failing miserably. But Boromir had been born in the end, and this second child would arrive in its own time as well.

"Do you want it to be a boy or a girl?" Boromir asked.

"I will be happy with either a boy or a girl," Imrahil assured him. "What do you want?"

"I want a boy," Boromir said, "but Papa wants a girl, and he mostly always gets his way. I'm going to be a big brother, but I want a little brother, not a little sister."

"Sisters are not such bad things," Imrahil said. "Your mama is my sister, after all."

That was true. Boromir had not considered it before. He scowled up at Imrahil. "But you couldn't play swords with her," he said.

"No," Imrahil said, kneeling down conspiratorially. He leaned in close to Boromir and said, "But I could pull her ribbons and muss her curls."

Boromir giggled, amused that his grown-up, responsible uncle could ever have been so naughty. "Did that make Mama mad?" he asked.

"Very mad," Imrahil said seriously. "So mad that she used to chase me all around our chambers, and we would have the most glorious pillow fights. So you see, sisters can be lots of fun if you know how to play with them right."

"I still want a little brother," Boromir insisted.

"The choice is not yours," Imrahil reminded him. "Let us go back inside now. I am sure your nurse has a nice dinner waiting for you, and then you will have a bath."

"Can I play with my seashells in the bath?"

"Of course. What else are seashells for?"

It was late in the evening when the second child of Denethor and Finduilas was finally born. Denethor, Imrahil and Ecthelion had been waiting outside his bedchamber for several hours when the door opened, and Ioreth emerged. She dropped a low curtsey before him. "My lords," she said formally, "the Lady Finduilas has just now been delivered of a fine, healthy son."

The three men sat back and looked at each other. Denethor saw the joy shining in the eyes of his father and brother-in-law and tried to swallow his disappointment.

"Thank you, Ioreth," Ecthelion said. "We will be in momentarily." Ioreth nodded and disappeared back inside the bedchamber.

"Congratulations, Denethor," Imrahil said. "Two fine little boys to your credit."

"And I have lived to see another grandson," Ecthelion said happily.

"A son?" Denethor said. "What will I do with a second son?"

Ecthelion looked him straight in the eye. "Love him," he said.

Denethor nodded slowly. He turned to a page and asked that Boromir be woken up and brought to see his new brother. Then the three Lords rose and went in to see Finduilas and the second son.

"Is the new baby here? Can I see it?" The door to the bedchamber swung open a second time, and Boromir's nurse led the sleepy, newly minted big brother inside.

"Speak softly, Boromir," she said. "Your mama is still very tired, and so is the baby."

"Is it a little brother?" Boromir asked.

Denethor, sitting on the bed beside Finduilas and the baby, could not bring himself to speak. But Ecthelion held his arms out to Boromir.

"It is indeed," he said. "Do not be shy, Boromir. Come and give your mama a kiss and meet your new baby brother."

Boromir needed no second invitation. He hurried over, and Denethor lifted him up onto the high bed. Remembering his nurse's warnings, Boromir gave Finduilas a very gentle hug and kiss, and then turned his attention to the bundle she held in her arms.

"Is that my brother?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, pulling the blankets aside to reveal a little red face. "This is Faramir."

"Oooh," Boromir said, peering at Faramir. "He's so little. Was I ever that little?"

Denethor opened his mouth, but Finduilas shot him a warning glance. "Yes you were," she said. "You were just that little once."

"But now you are a big boy," Denethor reminded him. In truth, he thought that Boromir had been a larger, more robust baby than this little wrinkled mite, but he did not mention it to the child. It would not have made any impression. Boromir was utterly entranced, reaching into the blankets until he found Faramir's hand and pulled it out to examine it. The tiny fingers promptly curled around his own, and Boromir laughed.

"Faramir likes me!" he cried. "Can I hold him?"

"No," Dirnilas said. "He is much too little for you to hold."

"I think not," his nurse said. She lifted Boromir into a chair and piled pillows under his elbows until he was firmly wedged in, his arms raised and supported. Then she picked Faramir up with her experienced hands and laid him gently in Boromir's lap.

"Hello, little baby brother," Boromir said. "I am Boromir, and I am your big brother. I want you to hurry up and grow big and strong like me so that we can play swords together." Faramir yawned, eliciting another giggle from Boromir.

"He is a beautiful baby," Ecthelion said to Finduilas. "Congratulations, my dear. You have done yourself proud."

"And how happy Boromir looks," Imrahil added.

Finduilas smiled wearily at her husband. "They will be perfect playmates for each other," she said. "There is still time to have a little girl as well, and then she will have not one, but two big brothers to dote on her."

Denethor smiled at his wife. A man could do worse than to have two big, healthy sons, he decided. They could try for a daughter later. And his big boy's eyes were shining with love for the baby brother he had so eagerly awaited.

Ecthelion’s mouth opened slowly. His lower jaw waggled for a moment, and he let loose a long, ragged breath. When he shut his mouth, a thin rivulet of drool flowed out the side. Denethor patiently dabbed at it with a soft cloth. It had become a routine in the past few hours. Open mouth, breathe out, close mouth, drool, and Denethor would clean his father’s face. It was not an easy or a pleasant thing to do, but Denethor bore his task dutifully. Ecthelion was dying, and it was the task of his son to ease his passing. The knowledge that it was his duty to attend his father comforted Denethor, or at least allowed him to put some distance between the act and the impending loss it implied.

Ecthelion had declined markedly in the year following Faramir’s birth, but he had been alert enough to recognize the decline for what it was and to prepare accordingly. Denethor’s time had been divided between performing his administrative duties as Heir and, increasingly, assuming the functions of the Steward of Gondor. He would soon have to make some provision for a replacement to perform the duties of the Heir until Boromir came of age. For ten or twelve years, one of the senior Lords from his staff would suffice.

Carefully, Denethor dabbed at Ecthelion’s mouth again. The old man coughed and spluttered suddenly, and Denethor reached for the mug of water that sat on the small table near the bed, half afraid that this was the end. Ecthelion opened his watery eyes and peered at his son in the dim light. He made strange grinding noises, and it took Denethor a minute before he realized that his father was trying to speak. He slipped an arm under Ecthelion’s shoulders and raised him a little, tucking an extra pillow behind him.

"Do you want water, my Lord?" he asked. Ecthelion nodded, and Denethor held the mug to his lips. The old man took a sip, barely enough to moisten his mouth, then turned his head slightly. Denethor set the mug down again.

"Not ‘my Lord,’ Denethor," Ecthelion croaked. "I am an old man, and I am dying. Allow me to be your father."

"Father," Denethor amended softly.

A pause. "I have had a good life."

"Yes," Denethor said. "You have indeed, Father. Your reign has been long and fruitful."

"Stewardship."

"What was that, Father?"

Ecthelion fixed his dimming gaze on his son. "Stewardship," he said, with some effort. "Not reign. A Steward does not reign. Only the King reigns. Stewardship."

"Stewardship, then. Yours has been an eventful one."

"Indeed." Ecthelion grimaced. "It was fair and fine, though marred by Shadow."

"But you did not succumb to the Shadow. Ever you fought against it."

"Aye, that I did. But not alone." Ecthelion turned toward Denethor and grasped weakly at his hand. Denethor suppressed a shudder at the coolness of the dry, papery skin of his father's hand. Gently, he tried to chafe some warmth back into it. Ecthelion watched him, and it seemed already that he had removed himself from the scene. "Leave that," he rasped. "It will not be warm again." He paused. "Where is Thorongil?"

A muscle in Denethor's jaw twitched, but he did not let go of Ecthelion's hand. "He is not here, Father," he said evenly.

"I know that. Fool. He should be here. I am dying. Why is my finest captain not here to bid me farewell?"

It was an effort to be polite, but Denethor made it. "Perhaps he does not know you are dying, Father. He has not been seen in Gondor for some years now."

"He should know. Thorongil always knew things. He had the eyes of an eagle, that boy, and a bearing as proud and stern as any King of Númenor. He should come."

Denethor desperately wanted to be somewhere else, but he could not find it in his heart to abandon his father now. Instead, he forced a smile. "Perhaps Thorongil has heard, Father," he suggested. "Perhaps he is even now traveling to your side."

"That will be well," Ecthelion murmured. "That will be well indeed. My brave captain, and my own clever boy, together with me again." The trembling hand reached up to pat at Denethor's unshaven cheek, and he suddenly found his resentment melting away.

"Father --" he began. Ecthelion's murmuring continued, as if he had not noticed.

"My boy will be Steward, and Thorongil will return for him," he said. "That will be a day . . ." The old man drifted off. Denethor set down his hand and tucked the blankets around him.

"Sleep well, Father," he said. "I will see you when you wake." Then he stood and left the room.

He went first to the training yards in hope of shaking off his dark mood by watching Boromir and the other six-year-olds at their wrestling lessons, but he found that his visit with Ecthelion had taken longer than he had thought. The wrestling lesson was over, and the training ground was empty.

In the nursery, Boromir and Finduilas were sitting on the floor with Faramir, who had pulled himself to a standing position and was clutching the nursery table for support. He grinned and giggled at his mother and his brother.

"Are you going to walk?" Finduilas said. "Are you going to take a step? Is my Faramir going to take his first step?"

"Come on, Faramir," Boromir urged, bouncing up and down impatiently. "Come on and walk. Is he going to walk today, Mama?"

"He might. Come, Faramir. Come to Mama."

Faramir let go of the table and stood teetering on unsteady legs. Pleased with his daring, he squealed and waved wildly. Boromir laughed and waved back. At that instant, the door to the nursery opened.

"Boromir, what are you doing with the baby?" Denethor asked sharply. Startled, Faramir lost his precarious balance and sat down hard. He began to cry, and Finduilas swiftly drew him into her arms. Boromir spun around and stared up at his father.

"Faramir almost walked, Papa," he said reproachfully.

Denethor sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead. Nothing was happening as it ought. His dying father praised his rival, and his older son scolded him for spoiling his younger son's first steps. He looked down at Boromir's confused expression and forced a smile as he squatted down next to him.

"I am sorry," he said.

Boromir shrugged. "He was just surprised." He turned to Finduilas, who had managed to quiet Faramir's wails. "Might he do it again, Mama?"

"Perhaps." Finduilas set Faramir on his feet near the table. "Will you try again, precious?" she asked. "Will you walk for your Mama and your Papa and your brother?" But Faramir, frightened by the disastrous results of his first efforts, clung to the table and refused to move. After a moment, Finduilas took him back on her lap. "I suppose he will not walk today," she said. "We will have to wait until later."

Denethor managed a jovial smile that he did not feel. "There will be time," he said reassuringly.

At that moment, the trumpets blew. Boromir was on his feet in an instant. "Someone is coming, Papa!" he cried and ran off toward the gates. Denethor scrambled to his own feet and followed Boromir out of the nursery. For an instant, wild hope flared in his heart. Perhaps his lie to his dying father had come true. Perhaps it really was Thorongil at the gate, come to bid Ecthelion farewell. In that moment, Denethor knew that he would welcome his rival home if it meant that Ecthelion would die happy.

But when he arrived at the gate, just in time to grab Boromir by the collar and prevent him from rushing outside and getting trampled, he discovered that the mysterious guest was not Thorongil. Instead, the wizard Mithrandir had arrived on a sturdy little bay horse.

"Greetings, Mithrandir," Denethor said. "I did not expect your arrival."

"I come in haste," Mithrandir said, dismounting in a swirl of gray robes and handing his reins to a groom. "Does the Steward yet live?"

"He does," Denethor answered. "Or, he lived an hour ago."

"I must speak with him immediately." Before Denethor could even summon a page to discover if Ecthelion was in any state to receive guests, Mithrandir strode off into the Citadel.

"Certainly, Mithrandir," Denethor told the air. "He will be pleased to see you."

Boromir stared off down the corridor after the wizard. "He was very rude, Papa," he observed.

"Yes, he was. But that is the way wizards are, Boromir. They have little thought for courtesy when they are on business."

Mithrandir stayed closeted with Ecthelion for several hours. Denethor busied himself tidying his father's study. As the shadows lengthened, a page tapped hesitantly at the door.

"Enter."

The page slipped inside and bowed. "Your presence is requested at Lord Ecthelion's bed," he said. "It is urgent. His death is upon him."

With a quick nod of thanks, Denethor strode out of the study and into his father's chamber. Mithrandir sat by the bed, but rose when Denethor entered. "Your son has arrived, my Lord," he said gently. Denethor approached his father, his heart in his throat.

"I have arrived, Father," he said. "What is your will?"

Ecthelion's watery eyes slid over to the wall, where his staff of office rested. Mithrandir retrieved it and placed it in his hands. Ecthelion looked at Denethor, who knelt down by the bed. With a visible effort, he placed the staff in Denethor's hands.

"From father to son," he said, and his voice was almost inaudible. "Keep thou the Stewardship of Gondor until such time as the King doth return." Having said the ritual words, he coughed, and wheezed, then spoke once more. "I love you, boy," he said, and then he was gone. Denethor stared at his father's body, clutching the staff and leaning on it for support. After a long moment, he reached out and drew Ecthelion's eyes shut.

"Farewell, Father," he said.

Mithrandir bowed low. "What does my Lord Denethor command?" he asked.

Denethor stood tall and straight, as befitted the new Steward of Gondor. "Tell me, what news did you bring that was so important as to consume my father's last moments?"

Mithrandir raised his bushy eyebrows. "A greeting," he said evenly. "A final greeting, as it turned out, from an old friend."

"Thorongil."

"Yes. I came upon him some time ago, and he bade me send his greetings to his former lord on my next visit to these parts. When I heard that Ecthelion was dying, I rode as fast as I could to reach his bedside. It was not my intent to rob a son of his father's last words, which indeed I did not."

Denethor had to admit that this was true. "The funeral will be tomorrow," he said. "You may watch as my father is laid to rest in Rath Dínen, Mithrandir, but then I shall be preoccupied with business, and I will not have the wherewithal to entertain a guest in proper fashion."

Mithrandir seemed to take the hint and nodded. "I will pay my last respects, and then I must depart," he said. "I have business elsewhere."

Denethor summoned the Citadel's staff and bade them make the preparations for the funeral. They bowed low before the new Steward and withdrew. Denethor's next visit was to the new Lady of Gondor. He informed her of her new rank, and she held him while he wept for his father.

Boromir played quietly with Faramir in the next room. He stacked wooden blocks into a tower and watched as Faramir knocked the tower down with a swipe of his hand. Slowly, he built the tower up again. Faramir grew impatient waiting for him and started to crawl toward the door. Boromir caught him by the waist and settled him on his lap.

"Grandfather is dead," he told his brother. "Papa is sad about that, and Mama is comforting him. I think they will not want to see us right now." Faramir squirmed, and Boromir gave him a block, which Faramir chewed on contentedly. "Mama will come to see us in a while," Boromir went on. "She will come and tell us about Grandfather. I think I will be sad then. But we must be brave, for Papa." He took the block out of Faramir's hands to attract his attention. "Can you be brave, Faramir?" he asked.

"Brrrrmmmm," Faramir said.

"I suppose that means 'yes' in baby speech," Boromir said. "If you will agree to be brave with me, then you may have your block back." He returned the block to his brother, who resumed chewing. Boromir hugged Faramir and thought sadly about his grandfather.

The funeral took place at noon the next day. All the people of Minas Tirith lined the streets as Ecthelion's bier proceeded slowly through the city. Denethor, wearing a dark cloak trimmed with sable, marched behind the bier. Finduilas followed him, carrying Faramir. Boromir walked at her side. The citizens wept and tossed flowers in the path of the funeral procession. When all the people had had a chance to make their farewells, the procession began to climb again, until it reached the door of Fen Hollen. Mithrandir awaited them there, along with the caretaker of the tombs.

The pallbearers set the bier down gently as the caretaker unlocked the door. Denethor nudged Boromir. As solemnly as any soldier, the little boy stepped forward and placed a small posy on Ecthelion's breast.

"Farewell, Grandfather," he said.

The pallbearers took up the bier once more and marched through the dark door to Rath Dínen. A sharp wind blew. In his mother's arms, Faramir began to cry, a loud, piercing wail that shattered the silence all around. Finduilas wrapped an edge of her blue cloak around Faramir and bounced him, but he only cried louder. Denethor was seized by an irrational surge of jealousy. His father was going away forever, and Denethor wanted to scream as loudly as did his younger son, but he was the Steward now, and he must uphold the dignity of the office.

He moved to stand behind Boromir, his little Heir, and folded his dark cloak around them both. Silently, they watched until Ecthelion's bier rounded the curve in the road and they could no longer see it. Ecthelion was well and truly gone now, and Denethor was the Lord Steward of Gondor.

Denethor's first act as Steward was to obtain the keys to all of the various storage chambers in the Citadel and conduct a thorough inventory of all its holdings. He sorted through Ecthelion's papers, although he did not learn much that he had not already known. The financial report pleased him; there was sufficient gold in the treasury to keep Gondor afloat and independent even if the army must increase in size. Denethor was sorting through an old, locked chamber full of antique odds and ends from the time of the Kings when he first stumbled upon something that truly surprised him.

It appeared to be a globe of dark glass, only slightly smaller than Boromir's little head. It bore no markings nor any sign that it was at all important or valuable, but there was something about it that drew Denethor back for a closer look. The depths of the glass were compelling, and Denethor carefully withdrew the globe from its wooden box and carried it over to a corner that was relatively free of detritus. He sat down on the floor and settled the globe on his lap to examine it more closely.

He found that he could not tear himself away. Colors and shapes swirled crazily within the glass. He knew that the globe held some ancient magic, and that it was probably not good to stare too long at it without knowing its properties, but there seemed to be a pattern in the chaos within. If he just watched it a little longer, he was sure that he could decipher the secrets of this little glass globe. As he peered ever closer, the whirl of color resolved itself, and Denethor saw.

Denethor heard a great cry of anguish and came back to reality with a jerk. Slowly, he realized that he himself had cried aloud. He had been so interested in the fate of the mysterious soldier that he had lost track of his surroundings. He eyed the globe with new curiosity. It was certainly magic. Mithrandir could most likely tell him what it was, but Denethor did not wish to endure the wizard's grating presence any longer than absolutely necessary and had sent him away immediately after the funeral. It was no matter; there were plenty of texts full of lore in the Archives, and one of them would certainly hold the answers he sought. In the meantime, though, Denethor found himself wondering about the fate of the strange soldier. He peered again into the globe, wondering if he would see anything more.

Once again, Denethor tore himself away from the strange vision and found himself alone in the storage chamber. What had he just seen? Had he seen the future? He thought that he must have seen one of his sons wounded in a great battle, but what of the second vision? Whoever had healed the sick man had come from far away; his clothing testified to that. He was clearly a great man, as he had seemed able to heal a sickness that the official Healers would not touch. Who was the sick man? Was he one of Denethor's sons? Was he the soldier who had fought so bravely?

Denethor carefully put the glass globe away in its box. This was a treasure that deserved more observation. He would take it to his private study and examine it there for several more nights. He was confident that, if he learned how to use it, it would be of great aid to him during the dark days ahead.

"Ah!" Denethor sighed contentedly, stretching until his spine crackled. "Now, that was a Yule feast to remember."

Finduilas stretched out on the bed and kicked her shoes off. "The cooks outdid themselves," she purred. "The orange-glazed capon was delightful, and those spiced nuts! I shall have to send a special note of thanks to the kitchen. Why, I feel as well-stuffed as one of those roast chickens."

Denethor waggled his eyebrows at her. "I hope you do not feel too stuffed," he said with a pointed smile. "For this evening lacks but one thing to make it perfect."

Finduilas rolled onto her side and favored him with a saucy smirk. "And what would that be?" she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"If we made a daughter tonight, she would be born in the last great flush of summer."

"And I would be at my roundest and heaviest during the hottest months of the year."

"For one year only. And then we would have our little girl, conceived on a perfect Yule, and born just at the harvest, when all things are ripe." Denethor ran his hand down his wife's side, gently caressing her flank. She luxuriated in his touch.

"You do have a particularly . . . convincing way with words."

"Not at all. I am merely observant, and like any good Steward, I respond to the fortunes of the land. We have spent the past week in rituals of fertility and rebirth. I hardly think it proper to ignore the message they send us."

Finduilas traced her finger delicately around Denethor's jaw. "Do you wish to be swaddled like an apple tree, then?" she asked.

"My branch must be kept warm," Denethor said wickedly. Finduilas laughed and rolled herself on top of her husband.

"Wes hael," she whispered, and leaned in for a kiss. Denethor reached up to embrace her, enjoying the way her body shifted under his touch. He thought he heard a tap at the door, but he ignored it, surrendering himself to the intoxicating scent of his wife.

The tap came again, too loud to be ignored this time. With a sigh, Finduilas slid down next to Denethor. "What is it?" he called irritably. The door opened, and Boromir sidled sleepily into the bedchamber. "I thought you and your brother went to bed hours ago," Denethor said.

The nine-year-old dipped his head shyly, aware that he had interrupted something important. "Faramir threw up," he reported.

Denethor fell back on the pillow with a groan, silently lamenting the ruin of the evening. Finduilas rose and went to the door. Boromir looked up at her gratefully. "I am sorry to wake you, Mama, but he was crying for you."

"Then I will go to him." She turned back to Denethor. "I will return when he is asleep again." Quickly, she slipped out the door. Boromir stayed, leaning awkwardly against the doorframe.

"What about you, big boy?" Denethor asked. "Will you not go to your brother?"

Boromir shrugged. "It smells nasty in there," he said. "If you do not mind, I think I will wait here with you until Mama comes back."

"I do not mind." Boromir scampered over to the fireplace and curled up next to the glowing embers. Denethor hauled himself out of bed and came to sit with his son. Boromir laughed at the creaking of his father's joints as he lowered himself to the floor. "Laugh now," Denethor grumbled good-naturedly. "When you are my age, it will not seem so funny."

Father and son sat companionably for a while, enjoying the hypnotic glow of the fireplace. "Was it a good Yule feast, Papa?" Boromir asked.

"It was. The best we have had in a long while."

"Can Faramir and I sit up for it next year?"

Denethor chuckled. "You may sit up, for you will be a great big boy of ten. Faramir will have to wait until he is ten as well."

"I will save him a treat from the feast."

"You are a good big brother."

Boromir smiled and cuddled close to his father. Denethor held him close, regretting that such moments were becoming rarer with his older child.

Finduilas returned two hours later with a night nurse, who bore sleeping Boromir back to the nursery. Wearily, Finduilas climbed into bed with Denethor. "It is as I feared," she said. "Faramir has once again caught this year's influenza."

Denethor groaned. Every time a cold or influenza swept through the Citadel, four-year-old Faramir caught it without fail. He was amazed that the child had not died yet; he seemed to be constantly coughing, his nose perpetually runny. Boromir was, on the whole, a much healthier child. He was very rarely sick, and was usually back on his feet after only a day or so of sniffles. Denethor wondered why, if he must bear the burden of an extra, unnecessary son, he must be saddled with such a sickly child. "Faramir is always ill," he grumbled.

"He has not yet learned how to be healthy," Finduilas murmured. "Give him time. Boromir learned his letters late, but he learned them in the end. Faramir will learn to be healthy."

Denethor sometimes wondered if that was in fact the case, but there was no denying that Faramir at least had some skills at being sick. He weathered his latest influenza well, and after the first few days it was clear that he would recover fully in a week or so. Boromir proved to be a great source of aid. He was constantly running in and out of the nursery, inventing little games and toys to amuse Faramir during his convalescence.

A week after Faramir had first fallen sick, Denethor and Finduilas sat together in their chambers sipping slowly at mugs of hot mulled wine. "I am glad that Faramir is improving," Finduilas said. "He was a very unhappy child for a few days."

"You took good care of him," Denethor said. "It has worn you out, I think."

"Caring for a sick child is not easy," Finduilas said, and there was something of a bite in her tone.

"You do it well," Denethor said soothingly. "You should have a reward." He set his mug down on the floor and moved to stand behind his wife's chair. Slowly, he massaged her shoulders, kneading muscles knotted up with care and tension. Finduilas began to relax into his touch.

"Mmm," she murmured. "That feels good." Denethor strengthened his massage, enjoying his ability to give his wife such simple yet profound pleasure. Finduilas took another sip of her wine. Denethor began to imagine the means by which to change this pleasure into another, more active, kind of pleasure. Both the Steward and the Lady were engrossed in their peaceful world and did not hear the pounding little footsteps outside their door. The thump of a body flinging the door open startled them, and they whirled around to see Faramir standing there, clutching his favorite blue pillow.

"Boromir threw up," he said.

Denethor sat by his older son's sickbed, his face drawn and pale with worry. His tough, active, blooming big boy had finally succumbed to the season's influenza, and he had fallen hard. Even Denethor, who knew next to nothing about children's illnesses, could see that Boromir was much sicker than Faramir had been. He lay half-asleep, burning with fever. Finduilas and the nurses kept him packed in cold towels, which they changed every hour in an effort to lower his temperature. Sometimes Boromir would cry for water, and he would wake briefly when given a drink.

Denethor presided over his council meetings and official duties with grim efficiency. He no longer spent any leisure hours in the company of his lords cracking nuts and telling stories. Whenever duty did not immediately call, he hurried to the nursery to resume his vigil over his beloved firstborn.

"I am thirsty," Boromir cried weakly. Denethor reached for a cup of cool water and held it to his son's lips. Boromir drank greedily, then squinted up at his father. "Where is Faramir?" he asked.

"I do not know. Presumably, he is playing in another room."

"Is he well?"

Denethor frowned. "He is as well as can be expected," he said. "He has just recovered from the illness that you have, and he is still weak." Boromir shivered, and Denethor tucked the quilt closer around him.

"I had a dream, Papa," Boromir murmured. "I dreamed that Faramir was attacked by a great big flying black shadow. It frightened me."

"You have a high fever. It is natural that you should have strange visions. But they are only fever dreams, Boromir. They are not real."

"They are still frightening." Boromir dozed off again. Denethor caught the arm of the nurse who was collecting the discarded towels.

"Why is he so sick?" he asked her. "He is stronger than his brother. He has never been so ill before. What is wrong with him?"

"Sometimes it is this way," the nurse said. "There are children who are bursting with health, who never suffer illness. When illness finally does strike them, they fall faster and harder than the children who are ill more often."

"Will he recover?"

"Only the One knows for sure. He is young, strong, and was quite healthy before this. It is as good a chance as any."

Denethor found no comfort in the nurse's appraisal. He dabbed grimly at Boromir's brow with a damp cloth, when the whining cry of a smaller child intruded upon his grief. He turned around and glared at the door. Faramir stood there, his blue pillow in one hand and a little wooden sword in the other.

"Play with Boromir!" he demanded.

"He is asleep," Denethor said shortly. Another nurse appeared and took Faramir by the sword hand.

"You must not disturb your brother now," she said. "Boromir is sick, and he must sleep so that he will become well again and able to play with you." She led Faramir away as Denethor turned his attention back to Boromir.

Slowly, Boromir began to recover. His fever finally broke, and he stayed awake longer at a stretch. When he was able to sit up in bed, Finduilas finally decreed that he was well enough to receive short visits from his brother. Faramir squealed with delight whenever he was allowed into Boromir's room. He would hop up on the bed and sit enraptured as Boromir told him stories.

Now that Boromir was out of danger, Denethor encouraged Finduilas to relax, insisting that the nurses could care for Boromir while Finduilas recovered her strength. Finduilas readily agreed, and decided to devote an entire day to the art of relaxation. She woke at an indecently late hour, and Denethor brought her breakfast on a tray. While she ate, Denethor arranged for a bathing tub to be prepared with huge copper kettles full of steaming, lavender-scented water. Finduilas sank into the water with a long sigh.

"Ah," she said. "This smells beautiful. I love my children a great deal, as any mother ought, but I think I have had my fill of the smells of their sickrooms." She took a little of the slimy soft soap and began to wash herself. Denethor came to sit beside her. He took some of the soap in his own hands and began to wash his wife's hair. He made sure to rub the soap deeply into her scalp, and he was rewarded by her purrs of happiness.

When the Lady was clean, she dressed herself in a loose house gown and sat down with her quilting basket. She enjoyed making intricate geometrical shapes with bright scraps of fabric, and at the moment was hard at work on a pair of nine-patch pillow shams. Though winter was still chill outside, she opened a window. It had been a long time since she had had the luxury of a full, hot bath, and she felt that she had stayed in the water longer than was good for her. She had grown accustomed to quick, lukewarm sponge baths while caring for her sick children, and the long soak in hot water had overheated her.

The cold winter air did feel good, and as Finduilas sat next to the window, she felt a strange desire to sit still forever, never moving again. It seemed that she could feel the weight of the air pressing down upon her body; every small movement was a trial. She noticed that her head hurt, probably from the cold air, but she could not find it within herself to reach up and close the window again.

She must have dozed off, for the next she knew, Denethor was standing over her, shaking her shoulders. "You must have been weary," he said. "You fell asleep over your sewing. Come, we shall take tea and cakes and talk about nothing in particular." Denethor offered his arm, and Finduilas took it. When she rose from her chair, the world spun about her, and she staggered. Vaguely, she felt Denethor's arm around her, and then a wave of nausea boiled up inside of her. She tore herself free of her husband's arm and just managed to pull the chamber pot out from under the bed in time. Denethor dropped to his knees beside her and held her hair as she was wretchedly sick.

" . . . and then the fair lady turned around and pushed the evil knight into the lake," Boromir said. Faramir listened, wide-eyed, to his brother's bedtime story. "And the knight screamed and screamed for help, but the lady laughed at him. 'You have killed six ladies, but the seventh has killed you!' she cried. And then she got on her horse and rode home to her Mama and her Papa, safe and sound."

Faramir smiled. "I am glad the pretty lady was safe," he said. He hugged his blue pillow and smiled. Boromir tucked the quilt under his brother's chin and ruffled his hair. Faramir wrinkled his nose. "Will Mama come and give me a kiss goodnight?" he asked.

"I told you already," Boromir said. "Mama is sick. She has our influenza, and she cannot come to you. You will just have to make do with me putting you to bed for a while."

"Want Papa."

Boromir sighed. He, too, wished that his father would come and help him take care of Faramir while their mother was ill. But in the week since Finduilas had fallen sick, Denethor had shown little interest in anything other than working and caring for her. He would play chess with Boromir if Boromir approached him, but he never offered a game, and he did not speak to Faramir at all. Boromir felt that this was not right, but he could not say why he felt that way. Adults had their reasons, after all, and it was not the place of little boys to question their father's behavior, especially when their father was the Steward.

"Papa is busy," Boromir told his brother. "But if you give me a goodnight kiss, I will pass it on to him with your compliments." Faramir giggled at the big words and kissed Boromir goodnight. Boromir took up the bedside candle and went out into the corridor to deliver the kiss to Denethor.

As soon as he left the nursery, he heard a commotion. Curious, he walked toward the sound. Adult voices cried "Way! Way for the Lady!" and Boromir flattened himself against the wall.

The Warden of the Houses of Healing swept past, leading two footmen of the Citadel who bore a litter between them. Finduilas lay on the litter, covered in quilts, silent and still. Denethor strode at her side. Suddenly, Boromir jumped forward and grasped at his father's sleeve. Denethor looked down but did not stop. Boromir trotted along, suddenly fearful.

"Papa, where is Mama going?" he asked.

"Your Mama is going to the Houses of Healing," Denethor said. "You should go to bed. I will come see you in the morning." He detached Boromir's hand from his sleeve, and the little procession continued down the corridor. Boromir watched them go, stunned and confused. He did not understand why his mama was being taken away in the night, but he felt that something very bad was about to happen.

The fortnight that followed surpassed even Boromir's worst imaginings. Daily life in the Citadel nearly ground to a halt as the Steward sat by his Lady's side in the Houses of Healing. Boromir and Faramir rarely saw their father, and when he did manage to tear himself away from Finduilas long enough to visit them, he was irritable and distracted. The nurses cared for the boys, but they, too, seemed distant, and they refused to answer any questions about what had become of Finduilas.

Boromir tried to concentrate on his lessons, but found that numbers and letters danced around in his head, taunting him, devoid of meaning. His tutor was patient but relentless, insisting that Boromir read the lays and do the sums, no matter how long it took to concentrate. His military lessons were easier, and Boromir threw himself into the sparring, wrestling and riding with an intensity that alarmed his masters. After he clumsily bloodied another boy's nose with a blunted training sword, the weapons master drew him aside.

"Do not let your personal grief cloud your thinking," he said. "I know that you grieve for your mother, but you must concentrate. In a real battle, there will be no time for sorrow. Put it aside and feel it later." He gave Boromir a friendly pat on the shoulder and went back to the training field. Boromir stared after him, even more confused. He had not known that he was supposed to be grieving, and the knowledge worried him even more. He wondered what was happening to his mother that he would need to grieve.

Even Faramir was a source of worry for Boromir. He clung to his big brother whenever they were together, and he began to suck his thumb again, even though Boromir had teased him out of that behavior when he had learned to talk. Boromir considered trying again to break Faramir of the habit, and then decided that it was not worth the effort. If Faramir had his thumb in his mouth, he could not ask Boromir questions about their mother. Boromir never knew the answers, and the questions all settled into a cold lump in his stomach.

One night, Boromir awoke to find Denethor shaking him gently. "Wake up, big boy," his father said. "Put on trousers and shoes and a warm cloak. I will rouse your brother."

"Where are we going?" Boromir asked sleepily, following Denethor into Faramir's room as he pulled on trousers underneath his sleep shirt. Denethor lifted Faramir out of bed and searched around for the smaller boy's clothes.

"We are going to the Houses of Healing," he said.

"In the middle of the night?"

"Your Mama has asked to see you."

It felt strange to be walking through the streets of the City at midnight. Boromir's breath was cloudy, and the stars glittered in the cold night air. Denethor walked silently and grimly beside him, carrying Faramir. There were no guards with them; none were needed. The streets were deserted, cold and still. Boromir wondered if perhaps he was dreaming.

Inside the Houses of Healing, it was warm and quiet. Denethor took the boys to a small room where oil lamps glowed softly and the sharp smell of breath-easing herbs filled the air. There was a bed in the room, and someone was lying on it. Denethor set Faramir down and nudged the boys to the bed. Faramir held Boromir's hand as they approached it.

The figure in the bed had their mother's face, but she had grown small and shrunken, as if she had withered away. She wore a nightgown of white linen, which blended with the bedclothes, and for a moment, Boromir wondered if she had become part of the bed. At the sound of her children's footsteps, Finduilas opened her dark, shadowed eyes and smiled at them.

"Here they are," she said, her voice thin and raspy. "Here are my two big boys, my two babies. Come see me." She held out one impossibly thin arm, and Faramir climbed up on the bed. Boromir knelt beside it, and she stroked his hair with a claw-like hand. "I think that I will not see you again," she said. "You must be brave, good boys, and I will watch over you if I may. Remember that I love you always, with all my heart."

Utterly baffled, but conscious of the importance of the moment, Boromir leaned in and kissed his mother. "I love you, too, Mama," he said.

"Love you Mama," Faramir echoed. Finduilas gave another weak smile, and then a healer led the boys away to cots in another room where they were to spend the rest of the night.

When Boromir woke the next morning, he knew immediately that something was wrong. Faramir's cot was empty. Boromir got up, wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, and walked through the unfamiliar rooms looking for his brother. He found Faramir sitting huddled by a doorway, and he heard strange, rough noises coming from the room beyond. Faramir scrambled to his feet when Boromir approached and slipped his hand into his brother's. Hand in hand, the two boys ventured into the room.

Boromir recognized it as the room where they had seen their mother the night before. But this morning, the bed was stripped bare of linen, and their mother was gone. Denethor sat in a chair by the bed, his shoulders shaking as he wept. Neither child could remember having seen their father weeping before, and they stared silently for a while.

It was Faramir who broke the spell. "Where is Mama?" he asked. Denethor lifted his tear-stained face and looked at his sons, his eyes red and swollen.

"Your Mama is dead," he said to Faramir. "You will not see her again."

"I want Mama!" Faramir insisted.

"Why is Mama dead?" Boromir asked stupidly. Part of his mind insisted that it could not be true, that his mama could not have been that ill. Had he and Faramir not survived the same illness? Denethor continued to gaze blearily at Faramir.

"She nursed you when you were ill," he said tonelessly. "She caught your influenza, and it has killed her. You will never see her again."

"I want Mama!" Faramir repeated, and the demand turned into a long, wailing cry. Denethor sat stunned, unable to move to comfort the child. Boromir began to shake all over. The strange, empty look on his father's face as he stared at Faramir frightened him almost as much as the news that his mother had taken sick and died. Quickly, he threw his arms around Faramir and buried his face in his little brother's hair. He turned away from his father, and safe from the awful gaze, he began to weep both for his mother and for his father.

Faramir squinted across the clearing, judging the distance and testing the strength of the wind. The boys who had made it to the other side yelled encouragingly, and the boys behind him watched with nervous expectation. Reaching out, Faramir grasped the higher of the two ropes strung between two enormous beech trees. He set his foot cautiously on the lower rope and took the first tentative steps out into space.

The obstacle course was legendary among the boys in junior squires' training. At ten, the boys were judged sufficiently strong and agile to move from the small, safe climbing courses on the training grounds to the larger and more varied courses like those where the cadets practiced their maneuvers. Faramir's class had spent the spring and summer swinging on ropes, scaling walls, and slithering through tunnels of brush. They had learned which obstacles required individual skill to surmount, and which demanded teamwork. Some exercises were tests of strength, while others were puzzles of ingenuity. The boys had worked hard at the wild courses since the beginning of spring, and now at the middle of autumn, their master had declared them ready to be tested against the final obstacle course.

They had all heard of it. It contained traps and puzzles that were as big and as daunting as those faced by the cadets and the soldiers, as well as a final puzzle whose nature was a carefully guarded secret. Faramir had asked Boromir about it, but Boromir had simply smiled knowingly at him.

"It would not be fair if I told you, little brother," he said. "The surprise is part of the fun. But I will tell you that the final obstacle was my favorite." Boromir had become very mysterious since he had turned sixteen and had begun to train with the senior cadets in the late spring. Boromir was very strong and good with weapons, and Faramir wanted more than anything to be as good at training as Boromir was. Denethor seemed as though he would burst with pride whenever he was given the opportunity to talk about his elder son's prowess. Faramir was sure that if he worked hard, he would be just as good, and then Denethor would swell with the same pride when Faramir's name was mentioned.

Carefully, step by step, Faramir crossed the clearing on the rope bridge. He did not shuffle his feet, nor did he look down. He kept his gaze fixed on the far tree, and made the crossing with little incident. When he stepped off the rope onto the platform, the other squires cheered and patted him on the back. Faramir had always been one of the best in the class at the rope bridge; he was one of the youngest in the class, being not quite eleven, and was still small enough to negotiate the rope easily. He had never crossed such a high rope bridge before, however, and he was proud of himself for not looking down and losing either his balance or his nerve.

The rest of the squires crossed without serious incident, although the last boy looked down halfway through and became so dizzy that he refused to move for several minutes. Eventually, with much encouragement, he, too, crossed the clearing, and the class scrambled down the tall tree.

"Well done," the course master said. "Your path now leads you over this fence, and then you will arrive at the final obstacle." He indicated a tall fence of wooden boards, much higher than any of the boys' heads. "There is to be no talking. Think like a patrol company," the master hinted, then disappeared into the underbrush surrounding the path.

That meant that they were allowed to help each other over the fence. Although they were mildly surprised by the easy nature of the obstacle, no one was willing to question it. Giving silent thanks for small favors, the larger boys boosted the smaller boys up and then accepted their aid in pulling themselves up after. Once they were all over the fence, they dusted themselves off and headed down the path towards the mysterious final obstacle of the course.

The path ended in a clearing, and the squires blinked in surprise. In addition to their own masters, the cadet masters were waiting for them, along with the Steward and some of the Citadel guardsmen. At the far end of the clearing, propped at an easy angle against two pine trees, was a large ladder. The sides and rungs were of rough logs. It was as wide as an eleven-year-old boy was tall, and the rungs looked to be as far apart as their legs were long. A net of tough rope hung underneath the ladder. Faramir's first impression was of mild disappointment. For a mysterious and legendary training obstacle, the ladder was not at all impressive.

The boys dutifully formed a line in front of the ladder. The course master smiled at them. "This is the final obstacle," he said. "You must climb to the top rung of the ladder, or as high as you can. When you can climb no further, you may drop into the net and slide to the ground. Good luck!"

The master's instructions puzzled Faramir. He could see no reason that anyone would not make it to the top of the ladder. The rungs were inconveniently far apart, but not impossibly so. Nevertheless, as the boys tackled the ladder one by one, he noticed that they all seemed to encounter some difficulty near the middle. Something that began there made the climb more difficult, but Faramir could not make out just what that something was. Several boys did not reach the top of the ladder, falling through the rungs and into the net to shouts of good-natured disappointment. Faramir noticed the cadet masters watching the squires and talking together in low voices. He was fairly sure that they were commenting and making informal wagers on each boy's prospects against the ladder. He squinted hard at the ladder, determined to discover its secret before he had to climb it.

A hand on his shoulder broke his concentration. He looked up to see his father standing beside him. "Still watching everything, I see," Denethor said, with a twinkle in his eye. "What do you think of the ladder?"

"There is something wrong with it," Faramir said. "They should be able to climb it, but some of them fall. The taller boys climb higher," he added, with a worried frown. Denethor did not see; he was watching the boys on the ladder.

"Boromir climbed all the way to the top," he said. "He sat on the topmost rung and waved. He was so pleased with himself."

Faramir sighed. He knew what he had to do. He would climb that strange ladder all the way to the top and sit on it. Denethor would be proud of him then. All he had to do was discover the ladder's secret.

It was too late. All of the other boys had taken their turn at the ladder, and he was the last one left. The master of the squires pointed at him. "It is your turn, Faramir," he said. "Climb the ladder, and this class will be over." Faramir nodded, set his jaw and strode toward the giant ladder.

As he had expected, the first few rungs did not pose much of a problem. They were far enough apart to require some effort on his part, but apart from the angle of the ladder, they were no more difficult than climbing over a fence. Faramir looked up towards the top rung. He could almost taste his conquest already. He took hold of the rung in front of him and kicked up his leg. Oddly enough, he missed the rung. He kicked again, harder, and missed. For a moment, he stood on his rung, puzzled. Then it began to dawn on him what the secret of the ladder really was.

The rungs near the bottom were an easy, if inconvenient, distance apart, but the higher up the ladder one went, the farther apart the rungs were placed. Faramir looked up again and realized with a sinking feeling that by the time he reached the top, the rungs would be farther apart than he was tall. The ladder was clearly designed to test ingenuity in response to a change in circumstance.

There was nothing for it. He had to climb to the top, no matter how difficult it was. Denethor was watching. Faramir thought for a moment, then kicked his leg a third time, adding a little spring from his supporting leg. He just managed to hook his ankle around the rung and scrambled up. The next rung was level with his collarbones. He grasped the rough wood and pulled as he jumped. For a moment, his legs swung wildly in the air, and then he managed to drape his body over the rung and haul his legs up. He sat on it for a moment, catching his breath. There were still two more rungs left to climb.

They were all watching him from the ground. All of his comrades, some victorious and some not, were comparing his performance against their own, waiting to determine who would end up with final bragging rights. The squire master watched with interest to see the effect of his teachings on his smallest pupil. The cadet masters whispered amongst themselves. Faramir could not tell what they thought of him. Denethor's eyes were fixed directly on him. His face betrayed no emotion, but Faramir knew exactly what was in his father's thoughts. Denethor was expecting Faramir to conquer the giant ladder, and he would wait impassively until Faramir did so, even if it took all night. Faramir took a deep breath and studied the next rung, as high as his head.

He might be able to pull himself up, as he had done with the previous rung. He grasped the bar with both hands and heaved. Immediately, he knew that he had misjudged. His elbows hooked around the bar, leaving his feet dangling once more in mid-air. This time, however, he did not have the leverage to haul his body up. Frustrated, he searched with his feet for his perch and let himself down again. This rung would require thought as well as brute force.

Faramir considered what had gone wrong with his first attempt. In the few seconds he had dangled from the rung, he had wanted nothing so much as purchase for his feet. If he could find something solid to boost him up . . . His eyes darted to the right and the left, searching for aid. Suddenly, it came to him, and he nearly laughed out loud. The sides of the ladder were of the same rough-hewn logs as the rungs. The squire master had not said he might not make use of them. Holding onto the head-high rung for balance, Faramir sidled over to the edge of the ladder. He planted one foot solidly against the side bar, grasped the rung and kicked as he pulled.

It was a near thing. His grip on the rung had not been as solid as he had thought, and he almost smashed his nose against it, but the kick had given him just enough extra force to get his body onto the rung. First one leg followed, then the other, and Faramir was up. He sat on this rung, shaking a little from the effort. From below, he could hear murmuring voices, but he could not make out any words. Denethor still watched him. He had one more rung left to conquer.

Pulling himself to his feet and holding onto the side log for support, Faramir examined his final obstacle. The last rung was well over his head, so high that he was not certain he could even grasp it, much less use it to swing himself up. He wondered how Boromir had ever made it so far. Of course, Boromir was a big, strong lad who had passed his eleventh birthday before encountering this horrible ladder.

Faramir scowled at the thought. He had always been small for his age, which had irritated him no end. Boromir had laughed it off and pointed out that Faramir's feet were large. "You will have to grow into your feet," he had said. "Everyone does, you know. And your feet are nearly as large as mine, so you will be as tall as me one day." When Faramir had demanded to know why he was not tall already, Boromir had been quick with an answer to that as well. "One day it will happen," he had said. "Someday, your body will realize that it is just the right time, and you will shoot up so fast that you will lose your balance entirely." Boromir had lurched around like a stilt-walker when he said that, which had been so funny that Faramir nearly fell over himself laughing.

As he stood on the ladder, he wished most heartily that his body would think that now was the perfect time for such a growth spurt. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he wished, he still remained short, and the final rung of the ladder still awaited him. There was nothing for it. Faramir would have to make his final assault on the ladder just as he was. He took a deep breath and, holding on to the side of the ladder for balance, swung his arms around one by one, hoping to loosen his shoulder joints and gain just a little more reach. When he thought he had prepared as much as he possibly could, he placed one foot on the side of the ladder, stretched up his hands as far as he could reach, fixed his eye on the last rung, and launched himself upwards.

For a moment, he thought he had made it. He felt the wood of the final rung underneath his hands and tried desperately to maintain his purchase on it. But he had not been able to hook his hands completely around the log, and his sweat-slick palms did not even give him enough of a grip to hang from the rung and pull himself up onto it. With a cry of despair, Faramir fell from the highest rung into the net below, and slithered to the ground.

Immediately, the squires and their master clustered around him, slapping him on the back and praising his efforts. "Never have I seen such a leap from one so small," the squire master said. "I was sure you would miss that last rung entirely, but you were able to touch it with both hands. For one of your size, that is no mean feat."

"You were clever to use the sides of the ladder for support," the cadet master observed. "A good soldier must know how to think sideways as well as forwards and back."

Buoyed by this praise, Faramir smiled. He had touched the rung, after all, and that was more than some of the larger boys had done. He had gotten nearly to the top, using both his strength and his ingenuity. And best of all, the ordeal of the ladder was over. As the boys and masters dispersed, Faramir looked around for his father.

Denethor was standing near the edge of the clearing, gazing at the ladder with an odd half-smile on his face. As his younger son approached him, he looked down at the boy, his expression never changing.

"Papa, did you see?" Faramir asked excitedly. "I touched the top rung, papa, and it was so high that the master thought I would never make it, but I jumped better than he'd ever seen before, and I touched it!"

"You were sufficient," Denethor said evenly. "I suppose one cannot expect you to equal Boromir in all tests of your prowess. I will see you at dinner tonight. I have much to attend to now." With that, he ruffled Faramir's hair and walked away. Faramir stared after him, feeling his cheeks start to burn as all his pride in his accomplishment turned to shame. He was angrily reminding himself that he was almost eleven years old and far too old to cry, when a rustle in the forest caught his attention. He turned toward the sound, wondering what was hiding in the underbrush.

To Faramir's amazement, an old man in a gray cloak stepped out into the clearing. He was taller than any old man Faramir had ever met, and his large pointed hat and bushy eyebrows only made him look more imposing. Faramir would have been frightened of him if his eyes had not twinkled so merrily beneath those brows. The old man leaned on his staff and examined Faramir.

"Well now, what have we here?" he said with a chuckle that sounded surprisingly friendly. "I suppose you must be one of the Steward's sons, but which one are you? Are you Boromir?"

Belatedly, Faramir remembered his manners. He forced himself to stop staring and bowed to the strange old man. "I am Faramir, sir," he said. "Boromir is my older brother."

"Ah," the old man said. "It has been longer than I thought since I was last in Gondor. Yes, Faramir. Now I remember. You have grown much since last I saw you."

"If you please, sir," Faramir said, burning with curiosity but trying to be polite, "Have we met before? Only I think I would remember someone like you if we had."

"We have met before," the old man assured him, "but I think that you would not remember it. We met briefly on the occasion of your grandfather's death, and you were but a year old at the time. I am called Mithrandir in these parts, though my welcome here has not been what it once was."

"You are Mithrandir?" Faramir asked, astonished. "Papa has talked about a Mithrandir, but it was not very nice. Are you really a wizard?"

"I am indeed," Mithrandir assured him. "And it does not surprise me in the least that your father does not speak of me kindly, though it does trouble me. We did not part on the best of terms, and I stayed away from Gondor for a time to give old slights a chance to heal. But now there is much news that I would share with your father, and so I have returned."

"You have just missed him," Faramir said. "He went back to the Citadel. He said he had important business."

"I know. I have been waiting here for some time."

Faramir wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. "Why do you not go after him, then?"

Mithrandir's eyes twinkled down at him. "Because," the wizard said, "I have found something much more interesting to investigate than the Steward of Gondor."

"What is that?"

"His second son."

Faramir promptly forgot every single one of his manners and stared at the wizard open-mouthed. "Me?" he asked, astonished. "What is so interesting about me?"

Mithrandir made a noise that could have been either a harrumph or a laugh. "You seem uncommonly intelligent for such a young age," he said. "As I told you, I have been watching this clearing for some time, quite long enough to see all of your companions test their skills against that foolish ladder. Whatever they are teaching the young squires of Gondor, it is certainly not common sense. You were the only one to display even a trace of that most inaptly named virtue."

Faramir tried to work out the complexities of the wizard's speech, but came up short yet again. "I do not understand, sir," he said politely.

"It is quite simple," Mithrandir told him. "All the other boys spent their time admiring each other or boasting or watching the masters. You were the only one who thought to study the ladder's construction before you attempted to climb it. Proper study of any problem is the most vital part of solving it."

Faramir shook his head. "I do not see how that can be so," he objected. "I did not learn anything from the ladder, at least not until I was already on it. And I still failed to reach the top."

Mithrandir put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "That is because you did not know what to look for," he said. "You may be excused for not knowing that, since you had the foresight to look for something at all. Come. I will show you the true secret of the giant's ladder."

The wizard beckoned Faramir close to the apparatus and stood him in front of it. "Observe," he said. "When you stand in front of the ladder, you cannot see that the distance between the rungs increases. But if you were to look at it from the side -- " and he steered Faramir around the ladder, " -- you would see quite clearly how far apart the rungs really are."

Faramir looked at the side of the ladder, then ran around to the front again. The illusion was perfect. From the front, the space between the rungs seemed to vanish, as if by magic. "That is amazing. How does it do that?" he asked Mithrandir. "The distance cannot really change, can it? The ladder is just logs, and logs are solid. They do not move unless someone moves them."

"Clever lad. You are correct, of course. The distance does not change. What changes is your perception of it. The ladder is set against the tree at such an angle that it confuses your sense of distance. Were it set upright, you would see the changing distance between the rungs immediately. I will show you another example. Look at me now. Do I seem tall to you?"

Faramir smiled. "You are the tallest person I have ever seen," he said. "I think you are even taller than Papa."

"That is likely. Now, climb up the ladder a little bit. Only as far as you are comfortable. This is an exercise in sight, not ladder-climbing."

Faramir grimaced at the thought of touching the awful ladder again, but his curiosity overcame him, and he scrambled up the first few rungs. When he was about halfway up the ladder, he stopped and turned around. Mithrandir looked up at him from under his enormous hat.

"Do I look as tall to you now?" he asked.

Faramir studied the wizard. From this height, he did not look as tall. His head seemed large, but the bulk of his gray robes seemed to have shrunk. He looked narrower as well as shorter. "Now you are not so tall," Faramir said. "Or, at least, you do not look tall," he added.

"Well said," Mithrandir replied. "As you will see, though I may not look it from down on the ground, I am indeed as tall as I ever was." Here he did something quite unexpected. Hitching his robes up awkwardly, he began to climb up the ladder after Faramir. Faramir watched the old man climb and, to his amazement, noticed that he seemed to grow as he came closer. Finally, Mithrandir pulled himself up onto the rung where Faramir stood, and he was just as tall as he had been on the ground. He smiled his merry smile at Faramir.

"As you see, I am as tall as I ever was," he said. "If you know how to observe, there is much in the world that you can see, and you may learn a great deal by observation. Already you display a certain aptitude for perception. You did not notice, but while you were climbing the ladder, your ability to recognize and think through the problems you encountered made rather an impression on your masters."

Faramir beamed at the praise. "Will learning how to observe make me a better soldier?" he asked.

"It will," Mithrandir said. "Especially if it is your wish to command men one day."

"Papa says that I will have to do that, as I am his son," Faramir explained. "I think that I would like to learn to observe. Will you teach me? After you have given Papa your news, I mean?"

Mithrandir laughed. "Your Papa has waited ten years to see me, and I do not think he will especially mind waiting a little longer. Let us return to the Citadel, and I will show you some tricks you can draw."

"I would like that," Faramir said as he jumped into the net and slid to the ground. Mithrandir followed him a moment later, and they walked off toward the Citadel together. As they approached the place where his father dwelled, Faramir's steps slowed.

"Shall I tell you something about your father that you do not know?" Mithrandir asked. Faramir nodded. Mithrandir stopped and bent down so that he was looking Faramir straight in the face. "When he trained as a squire, Denethor also missed the top rung of the ladder," Mithrandir said. "He fell without ever touching it even with one hand. Ecthelion did not speak to him for two days afterwards."

"Oh." Faramir was silent after that. He slipped his hand into Mithrandir's, and they continued on. Faramir tried to digest what he had just heard about Denethor and wondered if it could possibly be proper for a little boy to feel sorry for his father.

High in his tower, Denethor gazed into his dark glass globe. In the years since he had discovered it, he had learned that its proper name was palantír, and that it could show him many things if he willed it to do so. His greatest discovery was that he could use it to see things happening all over Gondor. The extra bit of knowledge that he gained from these observations gave him a useful edge in governing his realm, and so he had come to use the globe more and more over the years. Now, he stared at the image within, and he did not like what he saw.

Denethor watched the wizard and the child walking together like old friends and knew that the damage was done. His little boy had found a mentor he could love and learn from, and Denethor did not approve of that particular match at all.

"The soldiers are coming from the Pelennor," Faramir announced from the window. "I can see them. They will be here very soon. We should go down to the hall and wait for them now."

Denethor looked up from the agricultural reports he was studying and smiled indulgently at the twelve-year-old. "We still have some time," he said. "They will not come straight here in any event. They will have to stop off at the barracks and rub their horses down. Then, it is conceivable that they will wish to rub themselves down before going home. They have been on a long, hard mission, and most will want to make themselves at least somewhat presentable before going to their homes."

"I hope they do not take too long about it," Faramir said. "Boromir has been away for a long time, and I want to see him whether he is presentable or not."

"I, too, wish to see Boromir," Denethor said. "But we must not deprive his horse of proper care."

"He may care for his horse," Faramir allowed. "But then he must come straight home and see his little brother. And his father," he added generously.

Denethor gave a snort that sounded half like a laugh and turned back to his reports. Ever since Boromir had ridden out on his first training mission with his company, Faramir had been burning with questions. What was life in the army like? How did the old soldiers teach the younger ones? Where did they sleep, and what did they eat? What was Boromir doing at that very moment? While Denethor was pleased to see that Faramir was finally taking some interest in military matters, he found himself wearied and befuddled by the constant onslaught of questions. Faramir approached his military studies in the same way that he approached any other subject that caught his interest, wishing to know every last detail. Denethor was unable to keep up with all the questions and had finally told Faramir that the best source of information would be Boromir himself.

"When he comes back, you can pester him all you wish," he had told Faramir. "He will no doubt be more than happy to tell you so many tales about his adventures that even your ears will grow weary." Ever since then, Faramir had waited impatiently for his brother's return. Now he shifted from foot to foot as he stared out the window at the small dark clot that was the training company riding across the wide Pelennor. He looked like a cat, Denethor thought, all eyes and ears.

Denethor tried to keep his attention on the agricultural reports, but found his gaze too often wandering to this strange, intent child of his. "Faramir," he said at last. "I cannot concentrate on my work if you continue to stand there. Boromir will not be home for some time. I believe the archery fields are free at this hour. Go and take your practice now so that you do not waste the light. Then you will have an accomplishment to tell Boromir about when he does arrive."

"Very well," Faramir said. "But you must be sure to call me when he starts coming to the gates. I do not want to miss my brother coming home."

"I will send for you. Now go away and let me work in peace."

True to his word, Denethor had sent a page to collect Faramir from the archery field in time to greet Boromir as he entered the great throne room. Denethor sat solemnly in his chair, waiting to welcome his son with the dignity he felt the occasion deserved. Faramir stood beside him. At last, the door opened, and Boromir made his entrance. He looked tall and handsome in his bright uniform with the Great Horn slung on its baldric at his hip, and somehow he seemed both older and younger than his eighteen years. He smiled broadly as he crossed the hall. Denethor rose, keeping one hand firmly on Faramir's collar to maintain the family dignity. Boromir bowed. "Father."

Denethor returned his elder son's smile. "Welcome home, my son," he said warmly. Then he released Faramir. Immediately, the boy ran and jumped into his brother's arms.

"Boromir!" he cried. "You came home!" Boromir laughed and swung Faramir around in a circle.

"You have grown since I left," he said. "Soon you will be too tall to swing."

"Will you be eating with us tonight?" Faramir asked. "You must tell me all about being a soldier. And you must tell me all about the adventures you had on your mission and all about the other soldiers you were with and what they are like and what it is like to live in a camp and --"

"Faramir, please," Denethor broke in. "You will drown Boromir with your questions."

"I will be eating with you tonight," Boromir promised Faramir. "I have been looking forward to eating with you and Father for two months now, and I am not about to miss my first chance. I will tell you all about my mission at dinner." He draped an arm around Faramir's shoulders and tweaked his nose with his other hand.

Faramir giggled, but he could not take his eyes off the Great Horn. Boromir had received it upon swearing fealty to Gondor, just before he went off with his unit. It looked heavy and official, and Faramir could not quite reconcile its presence with the jolly, fun-loving older brother who wrestled with him after his lessons. Faramir looked up at Boromir again, but this time, he saw his brother as if through new eyes. The formal greeting, the Great Horn, and the easy way Boromir wore this unfamiliar uniform all combined in Faramir's mind, and for the first time, he saw clearly the high destiny laid out for Boromir. The brother who had returned was not the same one who had left.

Boromir noticed Faramir's discomfort and tightened his arm around his brother's shoulders. "I have missed you," he said. "I have been saving up stories for two months, just for you. I will ensure that, while I am home on leave, we will have plenty of time to spend together, and I will tell you all two months' worth of those stories."

"But first you must wash yourself and dress for dinner," Denethor said. "I have ordered that our meal be ready one hour from now. Boromir, a bath and fresh clothing await you in your chamber. Faramir, you should also make productive use of this hour. I would suggest that you practice either your music or your geography."

"I shall go and play my viol," Faramir said, cheerful again at the thought of the music he loved.

"And I will sing in my bath loud enough to drown your viol completely," Boromir laughed. Denethor laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder, and Boromir bowed. Both brothers left the throne room to go their separate ways.

At dinner, Boromir told story after amazing story about life in an army camp. Faramir listened with wide eyes, not even paying attention to the food that he was eating. He drank in all of the details -- the new friends, the troop commanders, the tales of everything from elaborate war drills to the preparation of food in the wilderness. He asked question after question, and each of Boromir's answers was more fascinating than the last.

Finally, Denethor broke in with an amused smile. "Faramir," he said, "you should let Boromir alone for a few minutes so that he might eat his dinner as well. You have barely given him a chance to touch his meat, yet you have eaten an entire scoop of boiled carrots." Faramir looked down at his plate in horror. Sure enough, a half-bitten orange carrot remained in evidence. He hated boiled carrots, but it seemed that he had been so distracted by Boromir's stories that he had eaten almost all of them without noticing.

"Would you like some more?" Denethor asked sweetly, nudging the bowl towards Faramir.

"No, thank you!" Faramir said fervently. "Not even with butter on them." Boromir laughed at him in a friendly way as he started on a thick slab of beef.

"If you do not want carrots, then what do you want?" he asked.

"I want to meet all of your friends from the army," Faramir said.

Denethor shook his head. "No, Faramir," he said. "That is no company for you yet. Your time will come, but at present I do not deem you old enough to keep such company as the soldiers in the army. Have some more carrots." He placed a second, smaller scoop on Faramir's plate. Faramir wrinkled his nose at the offending vegetables and took a chunk of fresh white bread. As he reached for the butter dish that sat between him and Boromir, he caught a glimpse of mischief in Boromir's eyes. Boromir smiled, winked at Faramir, and suddenly became very interested in his food.

The rest of the meal passed in light conversation between the Steward and his older son. Afterwards, as the waitstaff cleared the dishes away, Boromir asked if he might hear Faramir play something upon his viol. Faramir agreed, and Denethor excused them both from the table. As they walked to Faramir's quarters together, Boromir gave a conspiratorial smile. "Do not worry," he said. "As much as I have spoken to you of my friends in the army, I have spoken to them even more of you. I think they are as eager to meet my little brother as you are to meet them. I will arrange for you to spend an evening in their company."

"How?" Faramir asked excitedly. "Papa will never agree to let me go with you."

"Leave that to me," Boromir said. "I learned more than sword tricks on this mission. But now I wish to hear your music." Faramir skipped ahead, eager to show off his own skills to his brother.

The next day, Faramir's normal routine of lessons and weapons practice seemed somehow special. Boromir was home, and Faramir never knew when he would catch a glimpse of his brother. Even though he didn't see much of Boromir, just knowing that he was home brightened Faramir's day. The two brothers met again as they washed before dinner. Boromir scrubbed a cloth over his face and grinned at Faramir. "I believe I have thought of a way that you might meet my comrades," he said. "I will speak of it to Father over dinner, but you must trust me. Do not breathe a word, and let me do what talking is needed."

"I will," Faramir said.

True to his word, Faramir stayed quiet through much of the meal, concentrating on avoiding eating his boiled carrots and listening to Boromir and Denethor's conversation. That was another thing that had changed, he thought. Boromir and Denethor now spoke of adult matters in an easy tone, almost as if they were friends rather than father and son. Faramir gloomily mushed a carrot and took a tiny bite, wondering when Boromir would stop talking about troop movement and bring up the subject of an excursion.

At last, Boromir laid down his fork and glanced from Faramir to Denethor. "Father," he began, "Of all the joys of home I have missed, I have missed most keenly spending time with my brother. With your permission, I would have him pass the evening in my company."

Denethor nodded. "It is not an unreasonable request," he said. "Faramir, have you finished your lessons for the day?"

"I have," Faramir said.

Denethor looked back at Boromir. "Shall I have the cooks prepare a selection of dainties to be brought to your quarters later this evening? I know well the hunger of growing boys."

Boromir's gaze never wavered. "In fact, Father, I had a mind to take Faramir out on an excursion tonight." Faramir held his breath. Denethor raised an eyebrow.

"What manner of excursion had you in mind?"

"A band of skilled musicians perform in the city tonight." Boromir said calmly. "When I heard Faramir perform on his viol last night, I thought that he might appreciate their work."

"A musical performance?" Denethor asked. Boromir nodded.

"They are among the finer musicians I have heard," he said. "Although Faramir might be a better judge of such things than I."

Denethor gave the matter some thought. "I believe a musical performance would be an appropriate excursion," he said at last. "But remember that, though you are home on leave, Faramir still has his lessons tomorrow. I would have you both back in the Citadel by midnight at the latest."

"We will return by midnight, Father," Boromir assured him. He nudged Faramir's foot under the table.

"Thank you, Father," Faramir said.

Denethor smiled. "It is good that you are friends as well as brothers," he said. "It will make your working relationship easier when Boromir becomes Steward."

An hour later, Boromir and Faramir walked through the streets of Minas Tirith, enjoying the cool evening breeze in their hair. Faramir had been very good and had kept quiet throughout dinner, but once they were outside the Citadel, he could no longer hold his questions back. "Where are we going, Boromir?" he asked. "You told me that we would be meeting your friends, but you told Papa that we were going to a musical performance. Which is true?"

Boromir laughed. "They are both true, little brother," he said. "It is a most excellent joke. We are going to an inn where many of the younger soldiers gather. There, you will meet my friends."

"You lied to Papa?" Faramir asked, aghast.

"I did not lie," Boromir said. "Not exactly. There is a band of musicians who play at the inn most nights, and they are quite skilled, for all that their music is somewhat rougher than the sort you played for me. You will indeed hear a musical performance. Father did not ask what music would be performed, nor where the performance would be held, and I saw no need to inform him."

Faramir gaped, filled with new admiration for his clever, daring older brother. It was indeed a splendid joke, and he was proud of Boromir for thinking of it.

The smell of beer assaulted his nose as soon as they stepped inside the inn. Faramir stopped just inside the entryway and blinked his eyes rapidly, breathing through his mouth a little until he became accustomed to the strong smell of beer, cabbage and unwashed bodies. As his eyes adjusted to the firelight, he took in the long tables and benches full of sturdy working men and soldiers. Here and there, large, friendly-looking women nearly spilled out of their bodices as they carried mugs of beer around the room. Faramir stared, amazed both by the strength of their clothing and of their hands, which were full of more beer mugs than he had thought one person could carry. In one corner of the room, the benches had been shoved back, and two tables had been pushed together to make a rough dais. Nearby was a table full of young men around Boromir's age. They waved, and Boromir led him over to them.

"This must be Faramir," one of them said. "You finally managed to sneak him out of the Citadel, did you?"

Boromir grinned. "Father gave permission for Faramir to attend a musical performance," he explained. The young soldiers roared with laughter and invited Faramir to sit down in their midst.

"Now we must get him a mug of beer and complete his corruption," the soldier said. Faramir's eyes widened. At home, he drank wine much diluted with water. The prospect of drinking strong beer was at once exciting and a little frightening. Boromir waved to one of the large women.

"A mug of your finest for me," he said. "And one for my brother as well, but let it be diluted with apple juice." The woman nodded, smiled indulgently at Faramir and continued on her way. The soldiers laughed again, and Boromir shrugged. "I took a risk in bringing him here. I will not set him drunk immediately and compound the problem," he explained.

Turning to Faramir, he draped his arm around the boy's shoulders. "Do not let these louts trouble you, little brother," he said. "They mean well. This fellow here, Mablung, has just begun to drink his beer at full strength since he became a soldier, and he is eager that others enjoy this pleasure with him." The young soldier who had greeted them at first smiled and touched his forehead at them.

Their drinks appeared, and Faramir joined in the general toasting, settling down happily to sip at his mug. It was slightly bitter, even through the sweetness of the apple juice, and Faramir felt very grown-up to be sitting drinking beer in an inn with his brother and the rest of the soldiers. The lads accepted him cheerfully and regaled him with stories of their lives, both in the army camp and in their fathers' homes. Once, when Boromir's attention was on one of the serving ladies, Mablung let Faramir have a sip of undiluted beer from his mug, then laughed as Faramir made a face at the bitterness.

Suddenly, Faramir spied a group of men armed with fiddles, a gittern and a frame drum climbing up on the dais. He tugged at Boromir's sleeve. "Is that our musical performance?"

"Indeed it is. A song, a song!" Boromir called. The other patrons in the inn took up the cry.

The men on the dais bowed and began to play a lively dancing tune. It was similar to one that Faramir's music master had taught him, but it was faster and less decorous, and the frame drum added an infectious rhythm that soon had Faramir's feet tapping. Then the man with the gittern began to sing. He had a fine, clear baritone voice and sang loudly about the pleasures to be had at the bottom of a barrel of beer. Faramir remembered the bitterness of Mablung's beer and was not sure he believed the song, but the soldiers seemed to enjoy it, joining in on the chorus.

The singer bowed and launched into another song about a lady and her maid who held a farting contest. Faramir pictured some of the daintier ladies he had seen in the Citadel and laughed so hard that he choked, and Boromir had to slap him on the back. The singer winked at them and let out an enormous belch to begin the next song.

Soon the singer changed his theme to love, in its earthier manifestations. Faramir did not find these songs nearly as amusing as the ones involving belches, but the soldiers listened with rapt attention and chortled appreciatively at jokes which sailed over Faramir's head. He still enjoyed listening to the singer's voice even if he did not understand the jokes. The tunes were pretty, and the words sounded deliciously light and merry, even if they made no sense. The singer winked again at Faramir, and, as if understanding the boy's problem, announced that his next song would tell the story of a maid who had broken the handle of her broom and the manservant who found a new shaft with which to repair it.

This was a story that Faramir felt he understood perfectly, and he quickly picked up the tune, happily joining the soldiers in singing along. When the song ended, the singer bowed to general applause and called for a mug of beer to wet his whistle. The soldiers turned back to their own mugs. Boromir drained his and rose to his feet, a little unsteadily. "I am sorry, lads, but we must leave you," he said. "I must have Faramir back in his bed by midnight."

"Bring him back to us soon," Mablung said. "He is a most charming little fellow."

Faramir grinned and felt that he would burst with happiness at such a compliment from a soldier. "Thank you for having me," he said, remembering his manners. "I did enjoy myself."

"And you learned something, too," Boromir said. "Musical performances are good education." Dropping some coins on the table to pay for their drinks, the two brothers left to make the walk back to the Citadel.

The next morning, Boromir slept very late. Faramir woke at his usual early hour, washed his face and hands and skipped downstairs to breakfast. Denethor smiled at him when he appeared in the dining hall.

"Did you enjoy your musical performance?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, very much," Faramir said. Then it occurred to him that it might not be wise to go into any more detail, and he became very interested in his bread and butter.

Try as he might, he could not get the funny songs out of his head all morning. Faramir had always had a sharp ear for music, and he found that he remembered several of the songs nearly perfectly. As he sat in his schoolroom, reading his history text, he could not seem to focus on the long list of Stewards past. The song about the maid with the broken broom still sparkled in his mind. Without realizing it at first, Faramir began to sing, softly at first, then louder, until his clear boyish treble drifted out into the hall.

As luck would have it, one case on Denethor's court schedule had been canceled, and he had decided to take the opportunity to observe his younger son's schooling, as he did from time to time. He walked into the schoolroom to find Faramir paging idly through a history of the Stewardship, singing a tavern song of the lewdest kind. "Faramir!" Denethor snapped.

Faramir looked up, startled into silence, then blushed bright red. "Papa," he said. "Forgive me. I was thinking -- I was remembering the musical performance of last night. I know I should have been studying, but --"

"Faramir," Denethor said tightly, "did you learn that song at this 'musical performance' that you and Boromir attended?"

Faramir nodded miserably, unable to lie.

"And just where did this performance take place?"

Faramir did not wish to lie to his father, but he sensed that telling the truth would mean trouble for himself and Boromir. He compromised by remaining silent and not meeting Denethor's eyes. Denethor sighed.

"Boromir took you to an inn, did he not?"

Faramir nodded again. "But, Papa, Boromir did not lie. There was a musical performance at the inn. And I did enjoy it a great deal."

Denethor snorted. "Clearly. Faramir, do you even know what that song you were singing is about?"

Faramir sat up straighter. "Of course I do," he said indignantly. "The singer explained it quite well before he started. The maid breaks the handle of her broom, and the manservant finds a long shaft to fix it. He pushes his long thing into her hairy thing, and --"

"Enough," Denethor said. He went into the corridor and located a page. "Find my older son and fetch him here at once," he said. "Roust him out of his bed if you must, but produce him here."

In short order, Boromir stumbled into the schoolroom, muzzy, confused and distinctly hung over. Denethor regarded him with a look of disdain. Finally, he gave an odd smile. "So," he said, rather louder than was strictly necessary, "you took Faramir to an inn last night, against my express wishes."

Boromir winced. "How did you know, Father? Did Faramir --"

"Faramir did not betray your secret. At least credit your old father with the ability to discern the thoughts of his son."

"I did not mean to tell, Boromir," Faramir put in. Boromir waved his apology aside with one hand, pressing the other against his eyes. Denethor smiled, almost as though he were enjoying the scene.

"Perhaps you have not noticed, but your brother is bright, observant, and imitative," Denethor said. "He admires you greatly, and would love to learn whatever you choose to teach him. This is not a responsibility to take lightly. In this case, he has learned to sing, quite nicely, a song I find most inappropriate for a lad of his age and station. Fortunately, he does not appear to have grasped the fullest extent of its meaning. Therefore, Boromir, your punishment for your disobedience will be to finish the task you began. While you are home on leave, you will take it upon yourself to teach Faramir all about the true functions of long things and hairy things. And mind that you teach him correctly. This means that you must make sure to learn anything that you yourself do not know as well as you think you know it." Denethor smiled in satisfaction at the look of horrified comprehension that spread across Boromir's face.

Boromir glanced from his father to his brother and back again. "By your leave, Father," he mumbled, "I think that I will find some willow and ginger tea, and then I will visit the Archives for the rest of the morning. Perhaps a visit there might . . . clear my head."

"And refresh your memory on certain subjects, no doubt," Denethor said dryly. "You may go." Boromir gave a short bow and stumbled out of the schoolroom. Denethor turned back to Faramir, who had watched his brother's dressing-down with a mixture of horror and glee.

"Do not ever think you can fool me," Denethor said, not unkindly. "I learned that very song in a tavern when I was no older than Boromir. I know exactly where such songs come from. Now, return to your history. Boromir will be along shortly to educate you on other subjects."

Faramir bent his head obediently over his books. Denethor left the schoolroom, satisfied that he had disciplined both of his sons correctly, softly humming the song about the maid with the broken broom.

The Citadel was abuzz with activity when Boromir arrived home with his company. Faramir wove his way deftly through the bustle, stopping to snatch up towels from the rack where they had been warming by the fire. Late autumn had brought gray days and chilly rain, and Faramir wanted to welcome his brother home with a warm towel for his hair. He arrived in the entrance hall just seconds before the doors opened and Boromir entered. The guards at the door snapped to attention as Boromir squelched inside. The attendant of the cloakroom hurried forward to relieve Boromir of his sodden cloak, and Faramir wrapped his brother's head in a heated towel.

"Faramir! Oh, that feels good, little brother!" Boromir rubbed at his head, then draped the towel over his shoulders to pull Faramir into a loving, if damp, embrace.

"I am not so little, Boromir," Faramir pointed out happily. "Indeed, I do believe my eyes are level with yours now."

"You will always be 'little brother' to me, no matter how tall you grow," Boromir laughed. "What is all the bustle for? Is there a chance of a hot drink amidst this chaos?"

Faramir pulled Boromir toward the kitchen. "For you, there will be whatever you want. Indeed, you are the cause of all the fuss. Father intends to throw you a grand festival."

"For me?" Boromir asked. "You are the one who is newly eighteen and entering service to Gondor. Should this festival not be in your honor?"

Faramir shrugged delicately. "I suspect that Father thinks that anyone may turn eighteen and pledge service," he said, "but it is not every day that someone is promoted to Captain at twenty-three. The youngest Captain in all of Gondor. Father has not stopped talking about it since he signed the commission. He is so proud that his feet barely touch the ground when he walks."

"And what about you?"

"I am even prouder of you than Father is, though he will never admit that."

Boromir snorted. "I thank you for the compliment, though you know full well that I did not mean the question that way."

"Then you ought to be more precise when you ask." The young men stepped into the barely controlled chaos of the kitchens. Amid the bustle of chopping, stirring, plucking and basting, Faramir managed to catch the eye of one of the assistant cooks. "My brother has just returned home from a long journey in the rain. Will you make him something hot to drink?"

The assistant cook turned to the door and surveyed the Steward's sons, one of whom was dripping mud all over the floor. "Not in this kitchen," she said. "The footmen have prepared a bath in Lord Boromir's chambers. If he would be so kind as to avail himself of it, a hot drink will be brought to him there."

Boromir thanked her and hustled Faramir out of the kitchen. "The first thing you will have to learn as a soldier is how not to go recklessly into danger," he said.

"And from whom shall I learn this?" Faramir laughed. "From you, the daring young Captain of Gondor?"

Boromir bowed and conceded the point. "You were very brave, little brother. Now, let us go find that bath."

Some time later, after Boromir had bathed, Faramir arrived at the Heir's Suite bringing two mugs of hot mulled wine. Boromir accepted one and drew two chairs near to the fire. Now that the brothers were finally alone and at peace, the question which had been simmering in Boromir's mind rose to the surface. "Faramir, where is Father? Always before, he has been at the door to welcome me whenever I returned home. Yet this time, only you were there."

"I apologize for your paltry welcome. I suppose that I am a poor substitute for Father."

Boromir looked up sharply. There had been an edge in that statement, as though Faramir's own joke had hit too close to home for his comfort. "You are a poor substitute for no one. Indeed, I was so pleased to see you again that at first I did not notice that Father was not at your side. I have only now remembered that. But you did not answer my question. Where is Father?"

Faramir dropped his gaze and studied the embroidery on the hem of his surcoat. "Father is occupied," he said at last.

"Occupied? With what? I would think that, even were he in Council, someone would remind him that I had returned. What occupies him to the extent that he cannot even welcome his own son?"

Faramir looked up again, and all the lightheartedness had gone out of his eyes. "You have not been home in some time, Boromir," he said softly. "Things are different here now. Do not feel slighted that you have not seen Father, for I myself have not seen him this day. The shadow that is ever present upon our borders now looms over the White City, and Lord Denethor takes to his study alone for hours on end. What he does there, he will not say."

Boromir harrumphed. "Then I will have to go and find out," he said. "But not quite yet. Let us finish our drinks and speak of more pleasant matters. Have you found someone to sponsor you when you pledge service?"

Faramir brightened. "Uncle Imrahil is to be my sponsor."

"That is good."

"He said that he would give me a sword made in the same workshop as the one he gave you."

"Then you are lucky. That is the finest workshop in the city. Uncle has always spoiled us." Boromir contemplated the fire for a moment. "What gift shall I give you, I wonder?"

Faramir felt himself turning red. "There is no need for that. It will be enough just to have you there."

"Nonsense. If nothing else, I must find some way to repay you for usurping your celebration." Boromir thought for a minute, then sat up straighter. "Ha," he said. "I have it. Just the thing." He downed the rest of the wine and stood up. "I am going in search of Father now," he said, "and then I shall arrange for your gift."

Faramir stood as well. "Tonight?" he asked. "It is dark, it is pouring rain, and Uncle Imrahil is to arrive later this evening."

"Then perhaps your gift must wait until tomorrow. But I will not wait to see Father."

As Boromir climbed the stairs that led to Denethor's study, he began to feel a strange sense of dread, as though his body felt that it was climbing to its doom. Unwittingly, his feet began to drag, and he climbed slower and slower. It seemed that the last three steps took all the courage and fortitude Boromir possessed to climb. Finally, he stood before the door, trying to pluck up the nerve to knock. It seemed such a simple thing, but Boromir could not bring himself to raise his hand. There was something unwholesome behind that door, and its presence made itself known even through a slab of good Lebennin oak.

This was ridiculous. Here he was, newly promoted, the bravest, youngest captain in Gondor's army, afraid to knock on a door. His Lord and father might well be in mortal danger while he cowered out in the anteroom. Boromir took a deep breath, stiffened his spine, and raised his hand against the overpowering sense of fear that radiated from the door of Denethor's study. Before he could knock, however, the door swung open and Denethor appeared. Boromir blanched as a wave of terror knotted in his gut. Quickly, Denethor shut the study door and swept his first-born into an embrace.

"Welcome home, big boy," he said. The use of his childhood nickname broke the awful spell that had frozen Boromir in his tracks, and he returned his father's embrace. Denethor smiled at him. "I apologize that I was not at the gates to welcome you home. I had pressing business I wished to complete so that I might spend the evening with you. You are home so rarely." He led Boromir down the stairs, away from the study and whatever awful thing was inside.

Now that he had his senses back, Boromir noticed that Denethor looked drawn and weary, as if he had been in a great battle. "You look pale, Father," he said. "Are you well?"

"I am perfectly well," Denethor replied. "I have not been taking much sun of late. The Shadow spreads over our land, and I must spend ever longer hours planning our people's defense."

It was not the full truth, and Boromir knew it. But he also knew that it was all that Denethor would tell him about the nameless terror that lurked in his study.

By the time Imrahil arrived with his entourage that evening, Boromir had already dismissed his strange experience at his father's door from his mind. Imrahil joined the family for dinner, regaling them with the latest news and gossip from the Swan Court. As he had done ever since Boromir and Faramir were little, he had brought them each a beautiful seashell. Boromir's was a delicately fluted scallop, while Faramir had an intricate speckled nautilus.

As soon as dinner was over, Denethor excused Faramir from the table so that he might begin his vigil. He was to remain alone, awake and fasting for a night and a day, contemplating the new responsibilities he was about to assume. "May your thoughts this night be productive, Faramir," Imrahil said. "I will come for you tomorrow afternoon to help you prepare for the ceremony." Faramir bowed and left the dining hall.

After he had left, the conversation turned to business matters. The lord who represented Dol Amroth in Denethor's Council was in failing health, and Imrahil had brought with him a young lord whom his father, old Prince Adrahil, wished to train as a replacement. "I do not believe that Lord Bardanor will drop dead in the Council chambers immediately," he said. "However, the time will soon be at hand when my father will recall him home to Dol Amroth, that he might spend his remaining years in the land of his birth. Between now and then, he will instruct young Lord Peredur in the ways of your Council, so that when Peredur must assume Bardanor's seat, the transition will be seamless."

"That is wise," Denethor said. "Is the young man here in Minas Tirith?"

"He is. He accompanied me on my journey expressly for the purpose of meeting you and being introduced to his new surroundings."

"Good. I will meet with this Peredur on the morrow. Should I find him acceptable, he may join Faramir in observation at the foot of the Council table."

Boromir chuckled at his father. "Already, Faramir has begun his service to Gondor," he said. "I see that you have not wasted a minute of his time."

"I am fully aware of the love and respect you bear for each other," Denethor said coolly. "I have no doubt that when you are Steward, Faramir will be your most trusted counselor. Therefore, it is only fitting that he should be thoroughly prepared for this duty. At present, he is an occasional observer only, but in time, I expect him to become a full and trustworthy member of the Council."

"I am sure Faramir will fulfill your every expectation in his own time," Imrahil said. "Now, by your leave, I will seek out Peredur and inform him that he is to meet with you tomorrow, and then I will take my rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day for all in the Citadel, and we would all do well to be fully prepared."

"Indeed, you are correct, Imrahil," Denethor said. "I will bid you a pleasant night's rest, and I will see you at tomorrow's festivities."

Boromir rose early the next morning to find that the rain had stopped. The morning was clear and crisp, and the White City shone in the sunlight. It was a perfect day for a festival, and an even more perfect day to go to the market in search of a gift for Faramir. After gulping a quick breakfast, Boromir hurried to the market, where he encountered his friend Mablung. Upon seeing him, Mablung drew himself to attention and saluted.

"Good morning, Captain," he said. "It is a fine day, is it not?"

"Indeed it is, Mablung," Boromir said. "But do not ruin it by saluting me now. There will be plenty of saluting after the formal announcement tonight, and I am sure I will be sick of saluting by then. We are on leave; let us spend these hours in pleasure. I am on my way to choose a gift for Faramir. Will you accompany me?"

Mablung nodded. "Ah, yes. Little brother is to become a soldier this year. Will he still accompany you to taverns, do you think, or will the thrill vanish now that he is an adult?"

"I do not know. Perhaps we should invite him after the ceremony and find out."

"A fine idea, Boromir. That is why you have been promoted so soon -- ever you come up with the finest plans."

Laughing, the two friends headed off into the bustle of the marketplace.

As the late afternoon sun gilded the White City, the great throne room in the Citadel began to fill with people. The guests wore their finest robes, richly dyed in brilliant colors, adorned with sparkling jewels and gleaming feathers. Officers of the army mingled with the crowd, their mail freshly polished and shining in the torchlight. On the benches nearest to the Steward's chair sat the families of the nine young lords who would be pledging their service to Gondor that night along with Faramir. Boromir took his place among them, eager for the ceremonies to begin.

At last, the trumpets of the heralds blared, the doors of the hall opened, and the people of Gondor stood to welcome their lord. Denethor swept down the aisle in the full regalia of a ruling Steward. His mantle of dark wool edged with sable just swept the ground, and the insignia of the White Tree gleamed in silver embroidery upon his tunic. In his hand he held the white rod of his office. When he reached the stone chair, he paused for a moment, turning to the West. Then he turned back to the crowd and, with a gesture, bade them be seated.

"Good people of Gondor," he began. "Ours is a proud nation, of long and mighty heritage, but it is not by books and records alone that this heritage is sustained. It is by the continuing service of the youth of this land that our nation endures. Today, we gather to celebrate that youth in all its pride and hope for the future.

"Even as the Shadow spreads across the lands of the South, still our country is kept secure. Ever does the challenge come: more and better captains are needed to lead our soldiers in their continuing defiance of the Dark Lord whose name we do not say. And ever does the noble blood of Gondor respond to such a challenge. Our officers strive to outdo each other in deeds of valor and glory. And this day, one among them stands above the rest. It is my great honor to make formal announcement of the promotion of Lord Boromir, in recognition of his feats of bravery and prowess at arms, to the rank of Captain of Gondor. Stand forth, Lord Boromir, and receive the honors due you."

Boromir rose and went to kneel before his father. A page stepped up bearing a box of wood. Denethor opened it and drew forth a great carcanet of gold and jewels, which he draped about Boromir's shoulders. "Bear this," he said, "as a symbol of both the glory and the weight of your new rank. For, while you are now elevated to the privilege of command, remember always that this privilege is dearly bought with great responsibilities. The decisions are yours to make, and the consequences of those decisions are yours to live with. Rise, Captain Boromir."

Boromir stood and faced the assembled crowd. When they burst into applause, he could not stop the proud smile that spread over his face. At Denethor's bidding, he remained by his father's side, ready to assist him in the next part of the ceremony.

The trumpets blared again, and the doors swung open. Ten fair young lords, all dressed in plain white tunics, marched down the aisle, accompanied by the relatives or family friends who were their sponsors. Boromir knew them all vaguely by sight, but he had eyes for only one; Faramir walked tall and proud next to Imrahil, his eyes shining with excitement. As they approached the dais, the double line of lords and sponsors stopped.

One by one, each young lord was presented to Denethor by his sponsor. As each lord knelt before the Steward, the sponsor handed a sword to Denethor, who offered the hilt to the lord. Denethor administered the oath of loyalty and raised the new soldier to his feet. Boromir then draped a black tabard over the white tunic. The emblem of the White Tree was embroidered in silver on the front of the tabard, and each young lord stood a little straighter wearing it.

When Faramir's turn to pledge loyalty came, Boromir thought he would burst with pride. He tried to remain as calm as he had while watching the other young lords take the oath, but he could not stop his smile from broadening as he looked at his brother's serious face. Denethor administered the oath to Faramir as calmly as if he were simply another high-born lad of noble lineage, and Faramir swore fealty to Gondor gazing hungrily into his father's impassive face. There was something about it that made Boromir feel sad inside.

When Faramir received his sword and came to stand before his brother, Boromir gave his shoulder an extra squeeze as he put the black tabard on Faramir. And finally, Faramir gave a smile that lit up the entire throne room.

There was a grand feast after the ceremony. Denethor made a speech about the new soldiers of Gondor and another long speech about Boromir. Boromir wished his father would stop talking, for he could see the ten young knights looking increasingly desperate. They had been fasting for a night and a day, and Boromir hated to see them being deprived of food any longer simply to listen to Denethor sing his praises. At last, Denethor finished his speeches, and the ten knights wasted no time tucking into plates heaped high with roasted meats and vegetables. Boromir waited until Faramir had eaten two plates full before daring to approach him.

"Now that you have taken the edge off your hunger, will you accompany me outside? I have something to show you."

Faramir nodded, took a last bite of roast chicken and followed Boromir out of the dining hall, pausing to grab a pear and an apple from a fruit tray on the way out. Without a word, the brothers crossed several courtyards, accompanied only by the sounds of their footsteps and of Faramir softly crunching his pear. When they had made their way to the stable yard, Boromir turned to Faramir.

"Uncle has furnished you with a fine sword," he said, "but there is something else you will need as a knight of Gondor." He turned towards the stable and waved. Faramir's eyes grew round as Mablung appeared out of the darkness leading a fine, tall chestnut mare. "There were horse traders from Rohan in the market today," Boromir explained. "She is of the finest lineage -- a proper gift for a son of the Steward of Gondor."

Mablung placed the mare's lead rope in Faramir's hands. The younger man approached the horse slowly and offered her his hand to sniff. She lipped delicately at his salty palm, and he offered her the apple, entranced. Mablung smiled at Boromir.

"Little brother has fallen in love, I think," he said. "I will return to the party now and leave the two of them to their private moment." And he headed off back to the Citadel.

Faramir ran a hand along the mare's neck underneath her mane, then turned and threw his arms around Boromir. "Oh, thank you, Boromir," he said. "She is beautiful."

"You deserve nothing but the best in all things," Boromir said.

"I have received such fine gifts today," Faramir said. "I have a new sword from Uncle, I have this beauty here from you . . . "

"What about Father? Has he found something suitable for you?" When Boromir had pledged his service, Denethor had bestowed the Great Horn on him. He wondered if there was an heirloom for a second son tucked away in a storage chamber somewhere in the Citadel.

"Oh yes," Faramir said happily. "At the feast, Father told me that he would have me attend as many of the Council meetings as I may, and he even said that I might offer my counsel to be heard. Is that not a grand gift?"

Boromir blinked in surprise. "He has increased your attendance at Council? I am sorry; I can only hope you are not too often lulled to sleep by its dullness."

Faramir put his head to one side. "I do not find the Council meetings so especially dull," he said. "And now that I am allowed to participate, I think they will be more interesting. And the best part is that if I have aught to add to the discussion, Father will listen to it. He will listen to me, Boromir."

Boromir looked into his brother's joyously shining eyes, and for an instant, he wanted nothing more than to throw something at his father. But he pushed such thoughts aside, smiled at Faramir, and put an arm around his shoulder. "That is indeed a wonderful gift," he said. "I think that in time, you will have much to add to the discussions, and when I am Steward, you will be my most valuable counselor."

"I will try my best," Faramir said seriously. The horse snorted, and Faramir brightened again. "I think I am still hungry. I will put Beauty here into her stall and then return to the feast. Will you go riding with me tomorrow? I would discover if Beauty is as swift as she looks."

"I will. I would not let my leave go to waste. I will meet you back at the feast." Boromir took advantage of his position as older brother to tousle Faramir's hair, then turned to walk back to the Citadel, allowing Faramir some private time with his new love.

"Message call!"

The announcement caused a flurry of activity in the garrison at Pelargir. Any soldier who could walk, hobble or hop converged upon the messenger, and the excited cries of the bedridden ones filled the air. The arrival of dispatches from Minas Tirith was always welcome, but after their hard-fought victory in the latest skirmish with the increasingly restive Haradrim, the Fifth Company of Gondor's army considered message call to be the best reward of all.

"Faramir, will you pick up my letters, too?" Beregond asked. He had broken his leg rather badly during the fight, and the camp healer had ordered him to remain on his cot for at least a week. He would most likely be sent back to Minas Tirith with the next supply transport. Faramir squeezed his friend's shoulder.

"Of course I will," he said. "And I will even refrain from reading them before I give them to you!"

Beregond grimaced happily. "Always a true friend. Now, go fetch those letters!"

Faramir joined the crowd milling around the pile of fruit crates on which the messenger stood reading off names. The soldiers passed the letters back through the crowd, and soon Faramir had collected three letters, two for himself and one for Beregond. One of his letters was from Boromir, while the other bore the official seal of the Steward. Burning with curiosity about what his father might have to say to him that required such formality, Faramir nearly opened that message on the spot. But then he remembered that Beregond would be waiting for his own news, and he jogged off toward the healers' building.

"We are both lucky, you and I," he said, dropping Beregond's letter on his chest. Beregond examined the seal.

"This is from a public scribe's office," he said. "I think it is from my wife. I wonder what could have driven her to such expense."

"True love?" Faramir smirked. Beregond had been married just six months before the Fifth Company had been deployed to Pelargir, and his wife regularly sent him boxes of treats with the supply wagons.

"That, or a death in the family," Beregond said. "It will be something important, at any rate, to warrant the expense of a public scribe." He broke the seal and began to read the letter. Suddenly, he choked. Faramir was by his side in an instant.

"What is it?" he asked. "Who has died? Should I summon the healer?" When Beregond made no answer, Faramir gave him a slap on the back. It seemed to rouse Beregond from his stupor, and he lay back on his cot with a dazed, silly grin spreading over his face.

"No one has died," he said. "I am to be a father this winter."

"Already?" Faramir asked. "Why, Beregond, that is wonderful news. Congratulations!"

Beregond was counting on his fingers. "It must have been just before we were deployed," he said. "We have been here just over two months, and I remember --"

"Wine," Faramir said. "There must be some good wine left from the last supply transport. Such news must be celebrated." Beregond nodded and turned his attention back to his letter as Faramir went to raid the supply tent.

It was only after the entire Fifth Company had gathered to drink a health to Beregond, his wife, and their future child that Faramir had a chance to sneak outside and open his letters. He opened the official one first. In his father's firm script, he read:

For a moment, Faramir stared at the notice in shock. He could not remember doing anything recently that he considered especially noteworthy, but evidently his captain had thought otherwise. A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his reverie, and he looked up to see that his captain was standing before him.

"So you got the notice, I see," he said. "Well, Lieutenant Faramir, it is a promotion that is long overdue. We in the Fifth Company will miss your presence sorely, for I doubt that you will be re-assigned here. But you have earned this promotion, and more, by your service here."

"Thank you, sir," Faramir said, a little dazedly. The captain nodded to him.

"I will go now and leave you some privacy for your other letter," he said. "Is it from your sweetheart?"

"From my brother."

"That is just as good. Congratulations, Lieutenant." The captain walked away, and Faramir broke the seal on Boromir's letter.

Faramir looked from one letter to the other and felt a slow grin spread itself across his face. He ran back to the healers' building to share his own news with Beregond.

Two days later, the empty supply transport trundled through the streets of Minas Tirith. Faramir and Beregond sat together in the back of one of the wagons. "We are nearly at the supply depot," Beregond said. "I suppose this is good-bye. I will be staying here until this leg of mine is healed, but you will be going off to a new Company entirely."

"It is strange to think about," Faramir admitted. "I will not be there to hear the news of your child's birth."

"Do not fear," Beregond said. "Likely I will be so overjoyed when that event actually happens that I will throw caution to the winds. I will send letters to everyone I know, and hang the expense."

"Good," said Faramir. "You will be the first of my friends to become a father, and I will want to know everything about it."

The wagon had reached the depot, and two supply clerks came running to help Beregond out and onto a stretcher. "Take care of yourself at your new posting, Faramir," he called as he was manhandled out of the wagon. "Remember, one of the joys of being a Lieutenant is that you may delegate responsibility on occasion."

"I will remember," Faramir laughed, and he climbed out of the wagon and headed for the Citadel.

Boromir, flanked by two adjutants, met him at the door and drew him into a great, bear-like embrace. "Welcome home, Lieutenant Little Brother," he said. Releasing Faramir, he held him at arm's length and surveyed him critically. "You look well," he decided. "The sun of Pelargir has given you some color. What happened to your arm?"

Faramir glanced at the bandage around his bicep. "A Southron soldier with a scimitar happened to it," he said. "Fortunately, I happened to him immediately afterwards, and that particular soldier will never happen to anyone ever again."

Boromir frowned. "A battle? With the Haradrim? Doubtless I will be receiving many dispatches on the subject shortly."

With an apologetic smile, Faramir fished a letter out of one of the pockets of his traveling cloak. "From my captain."

"Ah well," Boromir sighed. "I had hoped to cease my work early tonight to spend the evening with you. I see that it is not to be. I will have to work through the dinner hour. If you will be content to dine alone, I will come to your suite later in the evening, and we may have a real visit then." One of the adjutants coughed discreetly. Boromir nodded to him and signaled to a valet. "I must return to my duties, Faramir," he said. "Go to your chambers, rest, bathe, and have the rest of the afternoon for liberty. I will see you later this evening."

Faramir did as requested, luxuriating in his bath and then curling up, still damp, for a nap in his own sun-warmed bed. When he woke, he spent some time playing his favorite melodies on his old viol, gradually working the stiffness out of his fingers. He became so absorbed in his music that he did not notice as the sky gradually darkened. A knock at his door attracted his attention, and he looked up to see a kitchen runner bearing a laden tray.

"Lord Boromir ordered that this be sent to you," the kitchen runner explained. "He regrets that he is not able to join you, and the Lord Denethor . . . "

"Yes?" Faramir prompted. "What about the Lord Denethor?"

The runner's face was studiously blank. "The Lord Denethor is in his study and does not wish to be disturbed. He will not come down to dine tonight."

Faramir sighed. "Very well. Thank you for telling me. You may go now." The kitchen runner bowed and departed, and Faramir ate his meat and vegetables alone in his chamber.

He did not remain alone for long. Shortly after he had finished his meal, another knock came at his door, and Boromir entered bearing a bottle of wine and two mugs. He held Faramir long in an embrace. "It is good to look upon your face once more, Faramir," he said thickly, then dropped into a chair and gazed pensively at the fire. Faramir poured the wine and handed one mug to his brother.

"It is good to be home," he said. "Let us now relax and enjoy each other's company." Boromir gave a small, half-hearted smile, and Faramir moved to kneel at his feet. "Something is troubling you, Boromir. You seem . . . subdued."

"It is nothing."

"And I am the High King of the North Kingdom," Faramir snorted. "All day, you have been the Captain of the White Tower, and I have been a Lieutenant in your command. But now, at this hour, you are my older brother, and you are troubled. Will you not confide in me?"

Boromir dropped his head into his hands. After a moment, he looked up at the ceiling, then at Faramir. "Did you know," he said, "that Gondor is the lone power that stands between the world and eternal crushing darkness? At least, that appears to be what Father would have us believe. According to the Steward, Gondor stands alone as the last bastion of Light against Shadow, and must stem the tide all by her lonesome. And I, as Captain General of the army, must direct this exercise."

"But surely we must have allies in this fight!" Faramir said. "Rohan, at least, will come to our aid if we call. And there are other people in the world apart from ourselves. Surely this matter concerns us all."

"You know this," Boromir said. "But Father either cannot or will not look beyond our own borders for aid. Already the darkness threatens us a little more each day. Your captain wrote to me that the Haradrim have recently formed an alliance with the Corsairs of Umbar, which is how they were able to sail up the river to attack you in Pelargir. That is another garrison which will need strengthening. I do not know how much longer Osgiliath and Cair Andros will hold, but I must send more troops to each. And these troops do not spring fully formed from the earth. That is one reason that I called you home, Faramir. I must distribute my officers with care, so that each man's skill may be used to its fullest extent. Tomorrow I will have one of my adjutants evaluate your skills so that I may best determine where you should be posted."

"If you know all this to be true, can you not at least talk to Father?" Faramir suggested. "He would listen to you in military matters, I know that. He respects you and respects your judgement."

"However, at the end of the day, he is the Ruling Steward, and he will decide the course that Gondor will take," Boromir said. "We have discussed the matter, and Father will not ally himself with any other nation, for to do so would be to show weakness to the Enemy."

"Are those Father's words or your own?"

Boromir closed his eyes as if he were in pain. "I am no longer certain, little brother," he said, and his voice was raw and thick with weariness. Faramir reached up and clasped his brother's hands. Boromir bent over in his chair, and Faramir found himself massaging Boromir's tensely knotted shoulders and whispering the same encouragements that Boromir had whispered to him when they were both younger.

The next day, Faramir ran, rode, shot at targets, and climbed through obstacle courses all under the watchful eyes of one of Boromir's most trusted adjutants. When he was not concentrating on a tricky exercise, he wondered where his father was. He had not seen Denethor at all since he had come home. It was not unusual for Boromir to be the only one to meet him at the door, but Denethor usually made an appearance at some point during his visits, if only to debrief him. After Faramir had completed yet another round at the archery butts, he turned to the adjutant. "Where does my father keep himself today?" he asked. "I had hoped to see him upon my return home."

The adjutant did not look up from the notes he was writing about Faramir's performance. "The Lord Denethor is engaged with matters of state, and will not be disturbed for a junior officer," he said.

Faramir stared at the man. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it away. "Lord Denethor could not have said that. You jest."

The adjutant's calm expression never wavered. "I do not jest, Lieutenant Faramir. Captain Boromir visited Lord Denethor in his chambers the night before your arrival, and those were his words to me upon his return."

"I see." Something salty stung in his eyes, and Faramir blinked it away. It was sweat, he told himself. It was only sweat from the exertions of the day.

Boromir deliberated over the notes that evening, and did not come to visit Faramir. Faramir spent the early part of the evening visiting with his friend Beregond in the Houses of Healing, where Beregond's broken leg had been set and his other battle wounds tended. He did not see Boromir again until the middle of the afternoon, when he was summoned to his brother's office.

"It was a hard decision," Boromir said without preamble. "You have a wide and varied set of skills, and there are many units which could make use of them. After some thought, I have decided to post you to the Rangers of Ithilien." Faramir blinked in surprise, but he remained silent. Boromir caught the expression and smiled. "It is a dangerous assignment, but one in which I think you will do well. Your skills with the bow will be best used there, as will your extraordinary talent for stealth. The current captain is wise and learned in the ways of the Wild, and you will learn much from him. Indeed, I hope that you do; he has been captain of the Rangers for many years, but age is slowly overtaking him. I am posting you to Ithilien with the thought to groom you to take his place when you are ready."

"I am honored. I am barely made a lieutenant, and already you plan for my captaincy."

Boromir gave the first real smile Faramir had seen on him since he arrived in Minas Tirith. "Foresight is a great military tactic. That is why I am Captain of the White Tower at the tender age of thirty. The next transport to Ithilien is in a week. Will you be ready then, or would you prefer some extra leave to prepare yourself?"

"A week will be sufficient. That is," Faramir added quickly, "if we might spend some of that week together."

"As much time as I can spare," Boromir promised. "You are a great comfort to me, and as my adjutant took pains to point out this morning, that is as great a skill as your archery, and as needful."

Faramir spent his leave reading and playing music, two things he loved to do, but which were difficult for a soldier in the field. Boromir visited with him most evenings, and he made sure to visit Beregond twice more. "You will write to me when your child arrives?"

"I promise," Beregond said. "But you must promise to visit on your first leave after he is born."

"I would not miss it for all the oranges in Harad."

When Boromir came by his chambers on the eve of his departure for Ithilien, Faramir steeled himself. "Boromir," he said. "Will you come with me to Father's chambers? I will depart before sunrise tomorrow, and I would bid him farewell tonight."

Boromir looked at Faramir sharply. "Have you seen Father at all during this visit?" he asked. Faramir shook his head.

"He is always busy, too busy to see a junior officer. But I do not wish to leave without bidding my father farewell."

Boromir nodded but did not speak. He led the way through the corridors and up the stairs of the tower to Denethor's private office. The door was shut, but Boromir gave a grimace that was almost a smile. "We may have a chance," he said. "There is nothing evil emanating from that office today." Faramir wondered at that statement, but Boromir had already knocked at the door.

"Who is it?" came Denethor's voice.

"It is Boromir."

There was a scraping noise, and then the door opened. Denethor stood in the doorway and regarded his two sons. Faramir was struck by how much Denethor had aged since he had last been home. There was more gray in his father's hair, and several more lines had appeared in his already careworn face. "What is this about?" he asked. Faramir took a deep breath.

"I am leaving for Ithilien tomorrow, Father," he said. "I will be assuming the lieutenancy of that company, and I will not be home again for several months. I wished to bid you farewell now, as I must leave before dawn tomorrow."

"You have been reassigned and you felt the need to see me personally about it?" Denethor said. There was an edge in his voice that Faramir could not identify. "I do not see that this was necessary. I do not give personal farewells to every officer in my army who is going on an assignment, much less to newly promoted junior officers. I expect that you will do your job and that you will do it with a reasonable degree of competence."

"But, Father --"

"Good night." And Denethor shut the door in Faramir's face.

Faramir felt numb all over, as if he had been punched in the stomach. His legs wobbled like jelly, and he could do nothing more than stare stupidly at the door. After a shocked silence, Boromir put his arm around Faramir's shoulders and steered him down the stairs and back to his suite. He settled Faramir in a chair, then stood staring at the fire. Finally, Faramir began to feel again. He looked up to see Boromir's sad eyes upon him. "I am sorry," he said.

"No," Boromir said. "There is nothing for you to be sorry for. You merely did what any son would do for a father. It is I who feel sorry, for both you and Father. I do not know what to do any more, Faramir. I cannot heal this rift that has grown up between you and Father. I regret it deeply. I have always regretted it. But there is nothing I can do. I cannot force him to acknowledge you; no one can do that. All I can do is what I have ever done, and that is to love you both."

"Oh, Boromir, I am glad that you are my brother." Faramir rose from his chair, and Boromir folded him into a great, warm embrace. Faramir swallowed hard and managed not to cry.

"You should go to bed now," Boromir said at last. "You will have to leave early in the morning."

Faramir saddled Beauty and left for Ithilien in the gray light just before dawn. Two other soldiers, Damrod and Anborn, had also been assigned to the Rangers, and the three were to travel together. As he left Minas Tirith, Faramir twisted around in the saddle for one last look. Boromir stood alone on the wall. He blew a great blast on his horn. Faramir waved, and felt warm all over, even in the chill of the morning.

"Look who has arrived!" a voice cried. "It is Lieutenant Faramir!" Rangers melted out of the forest, and one moved to take Beauty's reins. Faramir's face lit up as he recognized the man.

"Mablung! Do you know, I had almost forgotten that you were with this unit!"

Mablung grinned at him. "And you are to be my lieutenant. What a strange world we live in. I think Boromir assigned you to us so that I might look after you for him. Come! I will show you our current camp. I think you will enjoy this." Faramir sat back and looked at the lush woods around him as Mablung led Beauty along the hidden trail. "Consider this your initiation into our company, Lieutenant," Mablung said cheerfully. "No outsider may know of this route, but you may look upon it with open eyes."

The beauty of the fortress behind the waterfall nearly took Faramir's breath away. The Rangers made him welcome and showed him around the cavern, giving him a dry, half-hidden nook in which to stash his bedroll. He and Damrod and Anborn were subjected to a rapid recitation of all the names of the Rangers, with a joking threat that they would be expected to recite the names back after dinner.

The last surprise of the day came when the old captain emerged from his quarters. "Men," he said, "we have a special guest dining with us tonight. He has traveled far on an errand of great urgency, searching for one of the servants of the Enemy. Tonight he will dine with us." The curtain over the back portion of the cave parted, and there was someone Faramir had not seen in many years.

"Mithrandir!" he cried. The old wizard smiled at him, and for a moment, Faramir was ten years old again, learning the most fascinating things about the world.

"Welcome to your new home, Lieutenant," Mithrandir said. "Come, let us dine."

The dinner was surprisingly good for field rations, but when it was over, all of Faramir's energy seemed to vanish. The day had been long and full, but now the excitement of Henneth Annûn and meeting the Rangers had faded. Faramir excused himself from the table and went outside, where he sat swinging his legs over a rock ledge and thought miserably about his father.

He did not know how long he sat there, but at last he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Mithrandir settling down beside him. "You are troubled," the wizard observed.

Faramir found that he could no longer hold himself in check. In a flood of angry tears, he poured out the story of his disastrous farewell to Denethor. "And then he shut the door. My own father shut the door in my face! He has never done that before. I do not know what I shall do, Mithrandir. I no longer have a home. He has shut me out of the Citadel; it is Boromir's home now, and I know he will always welcome me, but I will always be a guest there where I grew up. Ithilien is lovely, but I have only just arrived, and I do not know the place. I have no home, Mithrandir! I have no home any more!"

Mithrandir let Faramir weep for a while. At last, Faramir sat up, flushed and embarrassed. "Do not regret your tears," Mithrandir said. "You have lost something that was dear to you, and you are right to grieve. You may mourn for the loss of your home and for the insult that was given you, but do not hold onto your anger forever. I know something of the hearts of Men, Faramir, and I will tell you that your father still loves you, though he cannot see that now. For the present, there is little you can do. You cannot force your father to give you his affection, and I do not think you would want his regard if you could force it from him.

"You cannot storm Denethor's fortress and take his heart by force. However, you may wait for him at the gates. Even the most guarded heart must emerge at last, and he will come, if you wait. Never stop loving your father, Faramir. Eventually, he will come back to you, but you must keep your faith. In the meantime, enjoy the love you do have. For you are indeed loved, Faramir of Gondor. You are the world to your brother. And he in his wisdom has assigned you here. This company will accept you into their brotherhood, and they will make a home for you here, if only you will allow them time to do so. You will never be without a home."

Mithrandir put an arm around Faramir's shoulders. And even though Faramir was twenty-four years old and an officer, he relaxed and let himself be comforted by the embrace. He leaned his head against Mithrandir's shoulder and looked around, trying to see these woods as his home.

"Faramir! Wake up!"

A hand shook Faramir's shoulder roughly, and he opened his eyes. It was still mostly dark outside, but chilly morning twilight filtered through the open flap of the tent. He was curled on his camp cot, the blanket twisted and wound around his body. Boromir knelt by the bed.

"You were dreaming," he said. "And you woke me with your cries."

"I am sorry," Faramir murmured.

"Is something troubling you? You were writhing as if in torment, and you have gotten yourself completely tangled in your blanket."

"Mmm." Faramir pulled at the blanket. "It was a strange dream. It was frightening, and I was alone, save only for a voice. I think I shall never forget that voice. It sang to me, but I can only remember a little of what it sang. There was a broken sword, and I was to seek for it."

"Dreams are strange things," Boromir said. He rose and peered out of the tent flap. "It will be dawn soon, or as near as I can tell through the Shadow that haunts this garrison. I see no sense in trying to sleep further."

Faramir groaned as he sat up. "That is because you have not been in the field as much lately. Then you would know that every minute of sleep is precious." He yawned, and finished disentangling himself from his blanket. "However, I suppose now is as good a time as any to finish the talk we began last night when you arrived here. I have been very generous and shared my tent with you, and now I would know why it is that you and the First Company have ridden all the way to Osgiliath. Surely the First Company has better things to do than to visit with the Rangers."

Boromir dipped a cloth in the bucket of water in the corner of the tent and scrubbed it across his face. "Father gave the order that sent us here," he said. "I have his orders in my pack if you would care to inspect them. They say that the First Company -- Gondor's best and brightest -- is to assemble with the Rangers of Ithilien at Osgiliath, and that we are to prove the merit of our blood." He caught Faramir's dubious expression and shrugged. "I confess that I do not entirely understand the order, either," he said. "However, the Osgiliath garrison is of vital importance, and now that I am here, the situation seems most grim. The Shadow spreads quickly in these later days, and your men are on edge."

Faramir nodded. "I confess that we are glad of the relief, and the First Company is most welcome. I will be rotating the deployment shifts tomorrow; the Rangers here will return to Henneth Annûn, and fresh replacements will be coming from there. I do not like splitting my company, but men cannot remain overlong in this accursed garrison. The First Company will be useful in strengthening the place while the Rangers switch out."

"Who did you leave in command of your second shift?"

Faramir grinned. "Why, my lieutenant, your old comrade Mablung, of course," he said. "Who else could I leave? He will be eager to see you when he arrives."

"It will be a surprise for him," Boromir said happily. Faramir rose and shook out his blanket, and then the two captains set off for the mess tent.

Denethor had finished his bread and butter, and he sipped at a cup of tea while he looked over the morning's dispatches. The news was almost uniformly grim these days. The commanders of every garrison reported that the Shadow was fast encroaching, and that it was all that their soldiers to do to hold it off. They begged for reinforcements, but Gondor's army was finite in size. Soon there would be no more troops to send. Denethor's hand shook at that thought, and he sternly suppressed it. He suspected that the Enemy had begun to discern his thoughts even without the use of the palantír, and so he concentrated on thinking of the First Company.

The Shadow was overwhelming, but Denethor was not about to go down without a fight. He had deemed it best to offer full resistance sooner rather than later, for the chances of success were growing slimmer by the day. And so he had gambled his best Company against the darkest Shadow. Osgiliath was the key, the straight road that connected Gondor through Ithilien to the Dark Land. He had set his best defense there; his two strongest captains, joined by blood and duty, would make a formidable presence with which to defy the Enemy.

Time seemed to crawl in Osgiliath. The very air seemed tense; horses were skittish and men snapped irritably. The Shadow dimmed the sunlight, but failed to block it entirely. The resulting half-light resembled the atmosphere just before a storm, which improved no one's mood. The soldiers attempted to keep to their normal routine of chores, drills and guard duty, but the daily activity seemed forced and sluggish. Boromir led some of his soldiers in an infighting drill, but every so often, his eyes turned to the eastern edge of the garrison, where Faramir stood, gazing steadily towards the source of the Shadow.

Denethor took three deep breaths to clear his mind, as he always did before engaging in these battles. He made sure the study was prepared, the doors and windows locked and the curtains shut, and then he sat down before a low stone table. He rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles and joints, then carefully removed the heavy dust cover to reveal the palantír. The dark thing seemed to stir inside as he settled his gaze upon it. With a practiced ease that would have disturbed him had he given the matter any thought, he turned his mind towards the light that grew from within the globe, and there met the mind of his Enemy.

It was some time after noon when the Rangers stationed in the easternmost guard tower raised the alarm. All activity in the garrison came to a halt as Captain Faramir scrambled up the tower, with Captain Boromir close behind him. The men stared in horror for an eternal moment at the enormous horde of Orcs charging across the valley from Minas Morgul. Boromir recovered first.

"Hurry!" he cried. "We must organize a defense. I deem we have little more than an hour to do so. Faramir, divide your men and station them along the north and the south edges of Osgiliath. Concentrate them in the east. I will arrange the First Company in the center of the city. We will form a bowl-shaped trap. When the Orcs reach the city, have the Rangers shoot down as many as they can, and then the First Company will deal with what is left."

Faramir saluted quickly. He was already shouting orders as he climbed down from the guard tower. The garrison swarmed to life as men cleared away the everyday detritus, reached for weapons, and mustered themselves in the face of the oncoming assault.

"Release at will!" Faramir cried, and the Rangers abandoned their precise volleys. A seemingly endless stream of Orcs swarmed over the bodies of the fallen, and the Rangers cut down as many as they could. Faramir stood among them, shooting arrow after arrow, cursing the ones that fought through the gamut of Rangers unscathed. Dimly, he heard the shouting and the dull thud of metal against flesh as the Orcs encountered Boromir and the First Company. But there was no time to think about that, or to worry for his brother's life. The world narrowed down to his bow, the next arrow, and the next Orc charging at him.

His last arrow had pierced an Orc's eyeball some time ago. Now Faramir wielded his sword, thrusting and cutting madly as the foes came at him from all sides. He had just pulled the blade from the chest of one Orc when a shout alerted him. He spun around, bringing the weighted pommel of his sword up to connect with the chin of a second Orc looming up behind him. As the Orc staggered back, stunned, Faramir swung the blade in a tight arc and sliced the enemy's head cleanly off his shoulders. Black blood sprayed from the dead Orc's neck. Faramir swiped his hand across his face and thrust forward at a third Orc.

As he pulled the blade from this one's falling body, he heard a high, piercing scream, and suddenly he was seized with terror. His gut contracted, and his throat closed so that he could not even cry out. Something horrible moved to block out the sun. All around him, men were staggering, and horses reared screaming and were cut down mercilessly. Faramir felt his knees begin to give way, and then something came crashing down upon his off shoulder, shocking him from his stupor. He rolled with the blow and desperately thrust his sword up to protect himself. An Orc holding a cudgel fell on the blade, gurgled, and was still. Through the pounding in his ears, Faramir heard the Great Horn blowing the signal to retreat. Rolling the Orc's body off of himself, he staggered to his feet and began to cut his way one-handed through the press of bodies to his brother's side.

Quickly, he seized the dust cover and threw it over the palantír. The study was utterly still. A cloud had moved over the sun, and the room had grown dim. Denethor retreated to a chair in the corner and sat still, breathing shallowly, until his heart stopped pounding and the cold sweat dried on his brow.

The journey back to Minas Tirith was one of the most agonizing things Faramir had ever experienced. With one arm rendered useless, he had barely been able to keep his head above water, and he was chilled to the core when he was finally pulled from the river. Boromir, wet and shivering himself, had taken command then, ordering Anborn to ride to Cair Andros and intercept Mablung. He had organized makeshift litters for those of the wounded who could not walk and had loaded Faramir onto one over his murmured protests. Then he led the remaining soldiers in the long, slow trek back to Minas Tirith.

What should have taken a day took two at the hobbling pace of the walking wounded. As they stopped to camp overnight, Faramir slipped into feverish dreams, and he heard again the beautiful, haunting voice singing its song of broken swords and Halflings. At first light, they resumed their journey. The day was half gone before Faramir's head finally stopped spinning. Damrod bound his captain's arm to his chest to immobilize the shoulder, and Faramir walked.

With each step his heart broke for the blow that the Rangers had taken. Seven of the First Company had been lost when the bridge had been taken down, but the Rangers had lost nearly a quarter of their total numbers. Most of those had died in the collapse; of the soldiers who had still been on the bridge when it went down, only four had been pulled alive from the water.

When the survivors of Osgiliath finally staggered into Minas Tirith, the Steward met them personally at the city gates. He commended the soldiers for their bravery and dispersed them. The two captains followed him back to the Citadel to make their report on the disaster. Denethor seemed more preoccupied than angry at their failure to hold Osgiliath, which puzzled Faramir. Boromir gave the report, but Denethor did not appear to be especially interested in it. He dismissed them from his presence with little comment, and Faramir hobbled out, grateful that the audience was short.

He dreamed again that night, and when he woke, he reached for pen and parchment to write down the words of the song. But even as he wrote, the words faded from his memory. Boromir had relieved him of duty until his shoulder healed, and he could do little with one arm bound. He wished he could play his viol, for he thought he could play the melody of the song, but the viol demanded two arms to play. So he contented himself with haunting the Archives to learn everything he could about broken swords, and later, after the dream had come to him yet again, about Isildur and his mysterious Bane.

One evening, Halandir the Archivist placed a gentle hand on Faramir's good shoulder. "You may lay your books aside for the moment, Lord Faramir," he said. "Someone is here to see you." Faramir looked up to see Boromir standing looking around awkwardly.

"What brings you to the Archives, Boromir?" he asked. "It is not your usual haunt."

Boromir shifted his weight nervously. "I -- something has happened. Something has happened to me, and I do not fully understand it. I was hoping that you might be able to help. It struck me as something you would understand."

"What happened?"

Boromir sighed, then moved off a few steps to examine the crumbling edge of a scroll. He was silent for a long time, and Faramir feared he would not speak at all. But then he turned around. "I had a dream," he said.

Faramir felt his insides begin to churn. He forced his voice to stay calm. "Tell me of your dream."

"There was a desert," Boromir said. "It was gray and lifeless, and a shadow rose in the eastern sky. And it seemed to me that I heard a voice singing to me. It was a strange song."

"Seek for the Sword that was broken," Faramir said. Boromir stared at him, amazed.

"Yes, that was the first line. How do you know of this?"

Faramir looked at his brother wide-eyed. "You are not the only one to have that dream," he said. "I first dreamed it the night before the attack on Osgiliath, and it has come to me several times since then. I have written down a part of the song, but I do not remember it all. I have spent much time here as of late, trying to decipher the riddle."

Boromir sat down at the reading table. "Let me see what you have written of the rhyme," he said. Faramir pushed the parchment across the table to him. Boromir studied it, then picked up Faramir's pen. "I think that I remember some lines that you do not," he said. Swiftly, he filled them in and pushed the parchment back to Faramir.

"This is the rhyme," Faramir said. "Now that I see them, I remember these lines. We seem to have dreamed the same dream. It must be important, if it was sent to two people."

"The line about 'counsels taken' intrigues me," Boromir said. "We are drowning in Morgul-spells, and any counsel would help Gondor now."

"I wonder why a broken sword is so important," Faramir replied. "From what I have read recently, I guess that this line refers to the Sword of Isildur, but I do not see how it could be important, nor where it could be."

"It is in Imladris, just as the rhyme says."

"But where is Imladris? There is no place by that name in Gondor or Rohan." Faramir thought about other lands. "I hope it is not in Mordor."

"I do not think it is there. Look, the counsels are also connected to Imladris, and they are 'stronger than Morgul-spells.' It is not logical that something stronger than a Morgul-spell would come from Mordor."

They spent the rest of the day rooting among the shelves, baskets and heaps of old writings, but they found nothing that would help. There were many references to Isildur, but none mentioned his Bane. They could find no reference to Imladris at all. Halandir gave them what aid he could, but even he was forced to admit defeat in the end.

"There is a section of ancient writings from the time of the first Kings," he said. "Few are permitted there, to preserve the scrolls. I would show them to you, but the language is strange, and there are few left in Gondor who can read them."

"I ought to find a way to learn the ancient languages," Faramir said, brushing cobwebs out of his hair. "Such secrets ought not to be lost. Were Gondor at peace, I would devote myself to that project."

"But Gondor is no longer at peace," Boromir muttered darkly. "And I would wager that our answer lies in those very scrolls which we cannot read. It would be our luck, considering what has befallen us recently."

"Alas, I am an Archivist and not a lore-master," Halandir sighed. "But there are some lore-masters left in this city, even in these later days. Perhaps your father, the Lord Denethor, might be of some aid."

"Father will not enjoy being disturbed for this," Boromir said. "We are chasing dreams, and he thinks of nothing now but that which can preserve our lives against darkness."

"But perhaps this dream is that which can aid us," Faramir countered. "And in any event, I cannot rest until some questions are answered. What counsels are there to be had in Imladris? And what are Halflings?"

"Halflings are imaginary creatures in children's stories," Denethor said. "I was certain you had outgrown such tales, Faramir. Halflings are not important." He turned away from his sons for a moment, and Faramir rolled his eyes at the insult, earning a wink from Boromir. They straightened their faces as Denethor turned back to them.

"Now, Imladris," Denethor said. "That is a name I have not thought of in many years."

"But you know what it is," Boromir said.

"Oh, yes. It is a very old name, almost one of legend. The Elves spoke of it, so it is likely to be at least partially true. Imladris was their name for the place where their great lore-master and counselor dwelled. He was said to have answers to any question one could ask."

"Who was he?" Faramir asked. "Or, who is he? For the Elves endure forever, it is said."

"Elves endure forever," Denethor said. "But this lore-master was Elrond the Half-elven. I do not know if one of his kind would endure forever. Perhaps he is no more. It is a very old tale."

"But it may be our only hope," Boromir said. "Where is Imladris? If Elrond still lives, he might give us his counsel."

"Imladris is 'in the North,' and that is all I know," Denethor answered. "The North is a very large place, and the dwellings of the Elves are well protected. One could search for years and never find such a place."

Faramir took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Let me search, Father," he said. "Gondor stands now upon the brink of destruction, and it would be folly not to seek after even the most slender hope. I will bring back what aid I can to my country, or die in the attempt. Let me ride out."

Both Boromir and Denethor turned disapproving glares on him. "Faramir," Boromir said gently, "you are hurt. Your arm is bound, and you cannot move it. You cannot even mount a horse, much less ride off into the far North alone to chase after a mythical Elf home."

"But it may be our only chance of salvation," Faramir protested. "My shoulder is healing quickly."

Denethor snorted. "Are we now so desperate that we must send injured soldiers on desperate journeys for aid?"

Boromir jumped at his chance. "You admit then that there might be a shred of hope in such an undertaking, Father? That it is not pure legend only that we might seek?"

"I do. I believe that Imladris is, or was, real. Whether or not it could be found by Men is another matter."

"Then let me go to seek it, Father," Boromir said. "I am healthy, and as Captain General, it is my duty to provide all aid within my power to Gondor. I would be remiss in my duties if I did not make the attempt."

Faramir gasped. Denethor's face darkened. "As Captain General, your role is to command the army. What will they think if you abandon them for this quest? Their morale would vanish."

"Appoint Faramir to act in my stead. He is a well-loved captain. The men would follow him."

"Faramir will return to the Rangers when he is healed. You will return to your duties as well."

"And let Gondor fall to the Shadow because we did not have the courage to reach for what might be our best hope?" Boromir said. The color drained from Denethor's face; Boromir had struck some nerve inside.

Denethor stalked to his chair, sat down and scowled at both of his sons. "Go, then," he said. "Seek out Imladris. If you return with aid, I will see that the name of Boromir will be remembered forever in song as one of the greatest heroes of Gondor."

Boromir nodded. "And what of Faramir?"

"He will return to the Rangers when he is healthy. Go now, before I lose my resolution in this matter."

Four days later, Boromir tightened the last strap on his horse and gazed into the dawn sky. Faramir approached and handed him his bedroll, which he fastened to the back of the saddle.

"Are you sure you have everything?" Faramir asked. "Food, extra clothes, hunting gear? It will be a long journey."

"I have everything I need, mother."

Faramir managed a very small smile. "I am sorry. It is just that I do not wish to see you going off on such a perilous errand simply on account of my dream."

"Our dream, Faramir. It came to me as well, and whatever may befall me, you are not responsible." He made one last check of his gear, then looked up. Although the sun had not yet risen, the First Company had assembled in the courtyard in full dress uniform to bid their captain farewell. As one, they saluted. Boromir swallowed the lump in his throat and returned the salute.

Faramir watched this performance and was suddenly overcome by a nameless dread. He approached Boromir hesitantly. "Please, change your mind," he said. "I fear that I shall never see you again."

In front of the entire First Company, Boromir pulled Faramir into his arms and held him long. "You will see me again, little brother," he said. "I will return to Gondor, and you will see me again. You must keep Gondor safe against my return. I love you, Faramir, little brother. Never forget that."

He released Faramir and swung up onto his horse. He let forth a blast from the Great Horn, and the First Company cheered. Then Boromir of Gondor trotted off into the North to chase a dream. The First Company dispersed after a while, but Faramir remained at the gates of Minas Tirith, watching Boromir ride across the Pelennor until he was lost from sight.

Faramir's condition had not changed. Ioreth had wiped his brow and packed him in cold, damp towels, and had even gone so far as to open a window, but his fever still raged. At least she had been able to clean the oil off of him. Ioreth's grief at the death of the old Steward had been nearly matched by her fury at what he had attempted to do to his son. "He is very sick, and will likely die of the Black Breath upon him," she had grumbled to one of the other women in the Houses of Healing, "but that does not confer on anyone the right to kill him. If he is to die, at least let him die his own death in his own time."

Privately, Ioreth did not hold out much hope for this child she had helped to catch thirty-five years earlier. Even if he managed the impossible and woke from the influence of the Black Breath, she feared that the shock of learning of his father's last actions and his final doom would kill him. Perhaps it was better that he slept.

Faramir breathed raggedly, each breath rattling in his chest. Ioreth wiped the sweat from his brow. Faramir murmured something that she could not make out, and she ran her hand gently through his damp hair. He stilled under her caress, and the rattling in his chest eased. Ioreth bent down enough to assure herself that Faramir's breathing had not stopped entirely, and then an idea came to her.

When she was a little girl, her grandmother had taught her how to make a sweet-smelling poultice that eased breathing when placed on a sick person's chest. She was almost certain that there was still some store of the particular herbs she needed, and she rose from Faramir's bed and went into the storage room to collect her ingredients. She was in the middle of measuring them out when strange voices called to her. She hurried from the storage room to see Prince Imrahil and the wizard Mithrandir standing near Faramir's bed along with the Halfling, one of the Guards of the Citadel, the new young King of the Rohirrim and the strange, grim-faced chieftain of the Dúnedain.

He opened his eyes and beheld a man's face. For a moment, he thought it was his father gazing upon him with warm, kindly eyes. Then, as his vision cleared, he realized that it was not his father, but one who looked very much like him. This man's face was lined with weariness, but there was great love in his eyes, and he seemed happy to see Faramir. With the last of his fading dream, Faramir perceived an aura about this man such as he had only seen on the cold stone statues in the throne room. He knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that this man was a King, and that he had returned to Gondor. Faramir looked into the King's loving eyes and managed a smile as he greeted his new lord.

Faramir stared at the ceiling as the great lords filed out of his chamber. The world tilted, and he clutched at his blanket, hoping that this was not merely another level of dream. Something thumped against his bed, and he turned his head to see his friend Beregond's little boy Bergil grinning at him.

"Lord Faramir, you are alive!" Bergil crowed. "When Pippin and my father brought you in, everyone said you were half dead and that the other half was not far behind, and I was very sad that you would die. But then Father said that he had not fought off the murderers for nothing and that he would find someone to heal you if he had to search the entire city."

"Bergil, enough," came Beregond's voice. "Such news ought to be broken gently." He knelt down beside Faramir's bed and clasped one of Faramir's hands between his own. "Your flesh is cooler now, my Lord," he said. "Your fever has broken. My Lord and friend has returned, and I am glad."

Something about Beregond's speech did not seem quite right. Faramir tried to speak but found his throat already sore from greeting the King. Beregond heard his croaks and reached for his water skin. He supported Faramir's head as he dribbled a little of the water into Faramir's mouth. The water was warm and tasted of leather and smoke, but Faramir did not mind. It was wet and soothed his throat. After he had swallowed, he could speak a little.

"When have I ever been 'my Lord' to you, Beregond?" he asked. "On the field, I am a captain, and I am not your captain in any event. I had thought we were beyond titles."

Beregond was silent and would not meet Faramir's eyes. Bergil sat down in a corner, and Faramir noticed for the first time the haunted look of the boy's face. Something was wrong; he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. At last, Beregond seemed to come to a decision. He raised his head and fixed his gaze firmly on Faramir.

"My Lo -- Faramir," he said. "What is the last thing you remember?"

Faramir wrinkled his forehead in thought. He could feel that he had slept long, and it was difficult to separate memory from dream. "There was a battle. Something hit me. Then all was dark. I wandered for a long time on strange paths. I think that I heard my father's voice, but I am not certain of that. There was fire -- no, that is but the memory of a dream. I dreamed that I floated . . . " Faramir's voice trailed off, and Beregond offered him another sip of warm, smoky water.

"There was a fire," he said gently. "Though I did my best to prevent it. The House of the Stewards in Rath Dínen has burned, and Lord Denethor perished in the flames. By rights, you are now the Steward of Gondor." Faramir found that his hands were shaking. He scrabbled blindly at the bedclothes, searching for something to anchor him in this horribly changed world. Beregond offered his hand, and Faramir clutched it tightly.

"Father cannot be dead," he protested. "I have waited for him for so long. Mithrandir -- Mithrandir told me -- I did not even have a chance to bid him farewell. I would have done that, Beregond, you know that I would have."

Yes," Beregond said, and his face darkened. "You would have. I have always admired your strength in loving him. I only wish -- I only wish that he . . ."

"There is more to your tale yet, is there not?" Faramir asked. Beregond's face took on a pained expression, and he nodded. He tightened his hand around Faramir's.

"Your father loved you, my friend," he said. "In his final madness, his last thoughts were of you. He thought you dead, and he did not wish to live without the son he loved. He resolved to die along with you and to let your bodies be consumed by fire."

"But I am not dead." Comprehension began to dawn in Faramir. "Bergil said that you fought off murderers. Beregond, my father . . . what did he do?"

"He built a pyre for himself and for you, and he ordered that you and he should both burn upon it. I held off the torchbearers while the Halfling Peregrin ran for aid, for we knew that you still lived. I did things -- I did things that I am ashamed of, and I will not speak of them now. But Mithrandir arrived in time, and you were spared, though we could not save the Lord Denethor."

With that, everything that Faramir had thought was true about the world vanished. He gave a wordless cry, and then he was falling into a dark, welcoming world where there was no pain or grief or horror.

When he woke for the second time, sunshine was filtering in through the curtains over the window. Beregond and Bergil were both gone, and Faramir was alone. He thought about that, and a sudden jolt of terror shook his body. With his father's death, he really was alone. His mother had been dead thirty years, and now Boromir and Denethor were dead as well. There was no one left to console him over the destruction of his family. Faramir had always been very physically affectionate ever since he was small, and this realization that there was no one left who would hold him was even more terrifying than the idea that he was now the Steward of Gondor. It was matched only by the horrible thought that he had nearly died at his father's hands.

In his panic, he could think of only one thing he wanted. Somewhere, back in the Citadel, was his old blue pillow that he had loved as a child. He was sure that if he could hold it again, it would ease his grief and loneliness. Spurred on by this desire, he rolled over and crawled out of the bed, intending to walk back to the Citadel and find it.

He had not gone three steps before his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor. Ioreth must have heard him fall, for as he knelt dazed on the floor, she rushed into the room and helped him back into the bed. "My Lord, you should not be out of bed until tomorrow," she chided gently. "Especially after that shock you received. That Guardsman should not have told you anything; the wizard Mithrandir left special instructions about that. But he left them with the Warden, and by the time he returned to your chamber, that fool Guard had --"

"I had to get up. I wanted my blue pillow."

"What is the blue pillow, my Lord? Tell me and I will have it fetched here directly."

Faramir felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment at having to confide such a wish. "It is an old blue pillow. It must be quite ragged by now. I had it when I was a child. I do not know where it is now. It may be in my suite, or perhaps it is still in the old nursery."

Ioreth nodded understandingly. "I will find a footman," she said. "There are still a few loyal old servants left in the City. Surely one of them will be able to find the pillow my Lord seeks. But my Lord must promise not to get up again until the Warden allows it." Faramir nodded, and Ioreth stepped into the hall to summon a messenger.

In due time, someone located the blue pillow and delivered it to the Houses of Healing. It was smaller than Faramir remembered it, and it had faded, but it was still recognizable as his blue pillow. Faramir thanked the messenger who had brought it, then clasped it against the ache in his chest as he curled up in his sickbed.

"Do you think she will rouse him?" Ioreth asked the Warden as they watched Éowyn of Rohan converse with Faramir in the garden.

"I hope that she does," the Warden answered. " I hope for his sake, so that he may find something to distract him from the shadow over his heart. I hope for her sake, so that she may have someone to listen to her desires. And I hope for my sake, so that I do not have to endure her restlessness any longer."

"All three worthy goals," Ioreth chuckled. She, too, worried for the new Steward. Although Faramir had risen from his bed as soon as he was permitted to do so, his appetite had been poor, and he had become quiet and withdrawn, wandering aimlessly in the gardens and looking eastward. Much as she wished to help her Steward, Ioreth could coax no more than a few words from him at a time. When she watched over Faramir at night, she was frightened at the hollows under his eyes. She did not want the Steward to waste away from grief, and she hoped with all her heart that this cantankerous shieldmaiden of the North could rouse Faramir from his isolation.

She did not hear what Éowyn had to say to Faramir, nor he to her, but she could see the way Faramir's body straightened and his movement became more animated. When the conversation seemed to become more intimate, Ioreth slipped away to give them a measure of privacy, grateful to the White Lady for restoring some life to her charge's face.

Faramir found that he looked forward to walking in the garden now that Éowyn came regularly to walk with him. At first they did not speak much, but concentrated on adapting to their newfound companionship. Éowyn's broken arm was in a sling, and sometimes she would forget to adjust her balance and stumble. Faramir made sure he was there to steady her, and reveled in the thrill that ran through his body when he touched her. In turn, when a fresh bout of grief seized at Faramir's heart, Éowyn stayed near him and took his hand.

Slowly, they began to converse. Éowyn spoke of her grief for her uncle, killed on the field of battle and her worry for her brother who had ridden off to the Black Gates for the last desperate stand. Faramir spoke of Boromir, but he could not bring himself to tell Éowyn about his father. She never pressed the issue, trusting that he would speak of Denethor when the time was right for him to do so.

Sometimes, when Éowyn looked at him, the ghost of a smile would flit across her face, and then Faramir was sure that she was the loveliest lady he had ever seen. He longed to see her give a real smile, sure that she would melt his heart with her beauty. And there was something else about Éowyn that appealed to him as well. For the first time in his life, Faramir felt that he had found an equal. She was of noble rank, but always in second place. She, too, had an older brother that she loved. She was an orphan, as he had become. They had both passed under the Shadow and were recovering from its effects.

"It is as though we are two halves of the same wound," he told Lord Peredur, who was recovering from an arrow wound in his side. "It seems as though we are healing together."

"I am glad to hear it, my Lord," Peredur said. "In these days of Shadow, it is best that we take what joy we may, and you have long been in need of joy. Already there is more color in your face. Now, come along to the dining hall. Ioreth has asked Meriadoc the Halfling to join us at dinner once more. I think he does you good as well."

That was true. Even with his limited experience of Halflings, Faramir could see that they took mealtimes seriously, not merely eating what was set before them, but relishing and prolonging the meal until it was almost a social occasion in and of itself. Watching Merry eat had stimulated Faramir's own appetite, and once Ioreth had discovered this, she had ensured that Merry became a fixture at the Steward's table each night.

Merry also seemed to be a great friend of Éowyn, and he cheerfully recounted all that he knew of her. He told the tale of Dernhelm's battle with the Witch King, which Faramir had not yet heard in full. Faramir was amazed to hear it, for it seemed to him that the White Lady of Rohan had lived an adventure worthy of the legends he loved to read. The more he knew of her, the more he loved her, and he wished that she could stay by his side forever.

One night, Ioreth appeared at the table with Éowyn in tow. "She has been dining alone in her chambers," Ioreth said, "and that is hardly fitting for a lady of such charm and wit as this one. Tonight she asked once more that a tray be brought to her, and I refused. 'Not tonight, Lady,' I said. 'Tonight you will eat with your friends and take cheer even as you bring them joy.' Here now is the lady who will grace this table."

Faramir would have smiled at the blush that reddened Éowyn's face, but he could feel the heat creeping into his own. Merry laughed for both of them as he slid over to make room for Éowyn. The beginning of the meal was somewhat awkward, as Éowyn could not handle both knife and fork, but Peredur broke the tension.

"Behold," he said. "Here among us is a lady of such valor and renown that brave knights vie with each other for the honor of cutting her meat. Which will you choose, my Lady? Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, Holdwine of the Mark and esquire of the late King Théoden, or Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor, a soldier valiant and high-hearted?"

At that, Éowyn's blush deepened, and she tried unsuccessfully to smother a giggle with her good hand. "I choose Faramir," she said, winking at Merry. "For I have already seen Merry's prowess with a knife, and I would now judge how the Steward handles a blade." Merry and Peredur laughed. Faramir placed his hand over his heart and inclined his head.

"Gladly will I assist you," he said. "But to Merry I would award the second prize. Give him the honor to butter your bread, Lady."

"I will grant it," said Éowyn, "for you have proved yourself a spirit both kind and noble." Their gazes locked, and Faramir found himself so entranced that he did not notice Merry and Peredur nudging each other and winking.

The following day, all the bells of Minas Tirith rang out in celebration of victory. All the residents of the Houses of Healing, whether mobile or not, turned out for the celebration, for they now knew that their sacrifices had not been in vain. The Warden of the Houses of Healing declared Faramir well enough to return to the Citadel and take up his authority as Steward. He bade Éowyn farewell and escorted Merry to the great convoy that was heading for the Field of Cormallen. Finally, he could put it off no longer.

Filled with trepidation, Faramir approached what he still considered to be Denethor's chair. Lord Peredur and Húrin of the Keys stood at either side, waiting for him. For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at the chair. It had never been intended for him, and he felt foolish, as if at any moment, Boromir would reappear and claim what was rightfully his. But Boromir was dead, and the Stewardship of Gondor was now in Faramir's untrained hands. He could not let his brother down. Taking a deep breath, he seated himself. Húrin produced a white rod from behind his back.

"It is not the original Rod of the Stewardship," he said. "That burned with Denethor. But here is a replacement. May it stand you in better stead than did its predecessor." Húrin knelt down before Faramir and placed the rod in his hand. "Keep thou the Stewardship of Gondor until such time as the King doth return," he said formally. Then he smiled. "I do not think that will be very long at all. But until then, you are the Steward. What do you command?"

Faramir rose from his chair and circled around it to look up at the great dais where the throne sat empty as it had for centuries. "Let the throne be cleaned," he said. "I am sure it is dusty, and it wants polishing. It ought to be reupholstered as well. I cannot imagine that the cushions are in any shape to be used at the moment."

Peredur and Húrin nodded. "As you command, Lord Faramir," Húrin said. Faramir considered what else should be done that day.

"Clean my father's chambers as well," he said. "Find new bed linens and different furniture befitting a King. He will be returning to live among us now, and he should be made welcome."

"What of Lord Boromir's chambers?" Peredur asked delicately.

"Leave those as they are now. I will go through them myself once I can find the strength in my heart for such a task."

After he had set the first preparations for the King's arrival in motion, Faramir summoned Peredur to his side. "Please, walk with me," he said. "I have one more duty that I must perform this day, and I would have a friend at my side."

They walked together in silence through the sunny streets until they came to the door of Fen Hollen. Faramir drew forth the key that Beregond had left for him and unlocked the door. Slowly, they approached the ruins of the House of Stewards. Despite the warmth of the day, Faramir shivered. Followed by Peredur, he scrambled over the ruins until he came to the center.

"This is the spot," Peredur said. "It was at the center of the House. You can see that the blaze burned hottest here."

Faramir nodded and began to sort through the rubble. Something gleamed in the sunshine. Faramir dug around it with his hands and pulled out a black glass globe. "What is this?"

Peredur's breath caught in his throat. "That is a palantír," he said. "It is some sort of a seeing-stone. Your father held it as he died. I do not think you should handle it. Mithrandir said that it was the source of Denethor's madness."

"This is the answer to many riddles, I think," Faramir said. "Boromir and I knew that there was something evil in his study. I think this was that something. I do not think it is so dangerous now, though." He sat down on a chunk of rock and peered into the stone.

Faramir sat back. He did not speak for a few minutes. Finally, he handed the palantír to Peredur. "This will be given to the King," he said. "For I wish to have nothing further to do with it." Peredur nodded and wrapped it in his cloak. He began to pick his way back out of the ruins. Faramir lingered behind for a moment. He chose a spot as near to the center of the mess as he could find and placed his hand on it. "Farewell, Father," he said, choking a little on the words. "I hope you are at peace now with Boromir. I love you." Then he turned and followed Peredur out of the ruins and back to the city.

All things were ready for the arrival of the King, and Faramir sat at lunch with Peredur, Húrin and Bergil, considering what words ought to be spoken at the ceremony. There was some commotion, then the doors to the dining chamber opened, and a guard escorted the Warden of the Houses of Healing in. The Warden bowed low.

"I am sorry to interrupt your meal, my Lord," he said, "but the situation in the Houses of Healing grows ever more urgent. Perhaps my Lord could find it in his schedule to visit the Lady Éowyn today? She has lost much of her color and liveliness of late. I would not see her ailing now when all people are joyful."

"I will come today," Faramir promised. As soon as the meal was finished, he pulled a light spring cloak about his shoulders and headed out.

Bergil followed suit shortly afterwards to go play with his friends, who were all returning to the city. He had not been out very long when he ran back to the Citadel, bright red in the face. Storming out to the terrace where Húrin sat and discussed Gondor's prospects with Peredur, Bergil informed them, with all the horror appropriate to his ten years, that he had seen Lord Faramir kissing a girl high on the wall.

So it was that when Faramir and Éowyn returned hand in hand to the Citadel to break the news of their betrothal, the staff were already arrayed in the throne room to cheer their arrival. The Warden of the Houses of Healing bowed and kissed Éowyn's hand. "Thank you, Lady," he said. "You have brought joy into my Lord's eyes where I did not expect to see it again. For that, you have my everlasting gratitude. I wish you both well in your marriage."

"I must also thank you," Éowyn said. "For you have done your part as well, in ensuring that Lord Faramir lived so that I might become betrothed to him."

Lord Peredur clapped Faramir on the back. "You have done well," he said. "So far as I may, I approve this match, which will only strengthen the old ties between Gondor and Rohan. I dare say that Aragorn and Éomer King will approve as well, for the welfare of your Lady is of great concern to them."

"I am looking forward to meeting Éomer," Faramir said. "Éowyn assures me that I will like him."

"I think you will. I think that he will like you as well, for you have made the roses return to Éowyn's cheeks, where they have been absent for many years."

Faramir smiled and turned to Éowyn. Her fair cheeks were indeed flushed bright pink, and her eyes were clear and loving. Ignoring Bergil's mortified shrieks, Faramir took her in his arms and kissed her once more, reveling in the perfect fit they made with each other.

"Papa! Papa!" Faramir looked up to see four-year-old Elboron burst through the doors of his study. He pushed his chair back from the desk and caught up his little boy. Elboron began to cry.

"What is the matter, Elboron?" Faramir asked, rubbing his son's back soothingly. Elboron gave a loud hiccup.

"Mama's lap is gone!" Elboron wailed. "I wanted her to read me a story, and I wanted to sit on her lap, but the bump is so big that her lap is gone and I couldn't sit on it. Mama said you would know where her lap went."

"I see." Faramir studiously kept his face straight. "Mama's lap will be gone for a few months, Elboron. But when midsummer comes, you will not only have her lap back, but you will also have your new brother or sister."

Elboron peered at his father suspiciously. "Will I have to share Mama's lap?"

"Yes, you will."

"Then I do not want a new baby," Elboron huffed. "Tell Mama that we don't need one after all." Faramir could not suppress a chuckle.

"I am afraid it is far too late for that, Elboron," he said. "This baby will come whether you will or no. But I do not think it will be so bad. You will have the chance to be a big brother. Would you like that?"

Elboron considered the offer. "A big brother like Bergil is?" Bergil and his younger brother Borlas lived in Ithilien, as their father Beregond was captain of Faramir's Guard, and Elboron idolized both of them.

"Yes," Faramir said. "You will be a big brother just like Bergil."

"But I will still have to share Mama's lap."

"You will." Faramir tickled his son. "But perhaps, when Mama's lap is occupied, you might come and sit on mine. And if you promise to be gentle, we will let the baby sit on your lap sometimes."

"I get to hold the baby, too?"

"Of course."

"Then we can keep it. But only if I get to hold it." Elboron wiggled around as a new worry struck him. "Papa?"

"Yes?'"

"Who will you love better, the new baby or me?"

Something twisted in Faramir's stomach, and he hugged Elboron closer to him. When he did not answer, Elboron squirmed. "My friend Hamdir says that if you get a new baby, your Mama and Papa love the new baby better."

Faramir tucked Elboron's head underneath his chin so that Elboron would not see the tears springing to his eyes. "Hamdir said that?"

"Yes. He is wrong, isn't he?"

Faramir sighed. "No, he is not wrong. Sometimes, a Mama or a Papa will love one child more than another. But this is a very bad thing, Elboron, and it does not happen very often. Most Mamas and Papas love all their children just the same."

"Will you love the new baby better than me?"

Faramir shifted his son so that Elboron was straddling Faramir's knees and facing him. He looked seriously into the child's eyes. "Elboron, do you know what an oath is?" he asked.

Elboron nodded. "Yes. It is a big promise. Bergil told me. He is going to make an oath in the winter. He is going all the way to Minas Tirith for it, so it is a very important oath."

"Exactly," Faramir said. "An oath is a very solemn promise. It is so solemn that it may not be broken, ever, as long as you live. So you should not make an oath unless you are very sure that you can keep your promise. That is how serious an oath is. And now, I will make an oath to you. I promise you that no matter how many children your Mama and I have, we will love each one equally. We will not love you any more or any less than the new baby. Sometimes, we may have to pay attention to the baby and you will have to wait for us. But that will not mean that we love you any less. You will always be our first-born, and we will always love you."

Elboron nodded. "All right."

"Give your Papa a hug?" Elboron cuddled close, and Faramir smiled. After a while, Elboron looked up at his father again.

"Will I be a good big brother?"

"I think you will. I think you will be as good as your Uncle Boromir."

Elboron frowned. "Who is Uncle Boromir?" he asked. "Where does he live? Why do we not visit him like we visit Uncle Éomer and Aunt Lothíriel?"

Faramir was startled by the questions. He had not realized that he had not told Elboron about Boromir. It did not seem possible that he had failed to do so, as he himself still thought about Boromir often. But Elboron was only four, he remembered, and had just learned about his Grandfather Denethor last year. It seemed as good a time as any for Elboron to learn more about his family. Faramir cast a rueful glance at the paperwork still on his desk. It would not be finished today, but he found that he did not care.

"Come," he said. "It is a lovely day. We will walk in the garden, and I will tell you all about your Uncle Boromir."

"All right." Elboron climbed down from Faramir's lap and scampered out to the garden gate. Faramir followed him, and they found a spot near the creek under a young, shady tree. Faramir sat down on the grass, leaning his back against the tree, and sighed contentedly. Elboron plopped himself down against Faramir and imitated his father's sigh with a precision that made Faramir laugh.

"I think you learned to do that from your mother," he said. "She always makes me laugh. It is one of the reasons that I love her."

Elboron was not interested in his parents' romance. "What about Uncle Boromir, Papa?"

"Uncle Boromir was my big brother."

"I did not know you had a big brother. Where is he?"

Faramir gazed at the rippling creek. "He is dead, Elboron. He died in the War, before you were born."

"Just like Grandfather Denethor."

"Yes. They both died in the War."

"Oh," Elboron said. "Were you sad?"

Faramir nodded. "I was very sad when Uncle Boromir died, and then I was even sadder when Grandfather Denethor died. But then I met your Mama, and she made me feel better."

Elboron looked worried. "Are you still sad, Papa?"

"Sometimes I am. Sometimes I think about Uncle Boromir, and then I am sad. But then I look at you, and I am happy again."

"Good. Would Uncle Boromir like me?"

"Oh, yes," Faramir said. "He would like you very much. And you would like him. He was a big, strong soldier, and he loved to ride and fight with his sword, and I think he would have loved to play with you. He had a great horn that he used to blow whenever he went anywhere."

"Where is it?"

"I think it is in the Citadel. It is broken now. It broke when he died."

Elboron looked disappointed. "I want a horn like Uncle Boromir's."

Faramir smiled. "Perhaps I can find one for you soon. Perhaps as a big-brother present when the new baby is born."

Elboron sat up straight and giggled. "I will be a very good big brother, then," he announced. "Just like Uncle Boromir."

"Good. And since you are being so nice about it, I think that you and I will have our own day tomorrow, just to ourselves. It will be a special day, and I have something in mind for us to do."

That night, Faramir tossed and turned restlessly in the great bed he shared with Éowyn. No matter how still he lay nor how many breaths he counted, sleep would not come. Finally, after he accidentally rolled over on Éowyn's hair, she tugged it from beneath his shoulder and shoved her pillow at him. "The child is awake and kicking me," she said, "so I do not need my husband to add to that. What is troubling you, Faramir?"

He flopped over on his back and stared upwards into the gloom. "I am sorry," he said. "Elboron came to me today. He was worried that we would not love him once the baby was born."

"I see," said Éowyn, and the sharp edge was gone from her voice. "That must have been troubling for you. What did you tell him?"

"That we would love him and the new child equally, of course," Faramir said. "I do not wish to repeat my father's mistakes. But, Éowyn, I am terrified of doing just that. I fear that, in my urge to give the second child all the love it should have, I will give Elboron short shrift, and I do not want that to happen."

"I do not think it will happen," Éowyn said. "You are stern in your determination when you want to do something. You have enough love in your heart for ten children and me. Besides, Elboron will not let it happen."

"Certainly not after the oath I made him today," Faramir chuckled.

"There you have it, then," Éowyn said. "The Prince of Ithilien is renowned for keeping his oaths. You will love your children equally, you will not become the image of Denethor, and you and I may both go back to sleep."

Faramir spooned himself around Éowyn and laid one hand on her belly, where he thrilled to feel the baby moving within. He dropped a kiss on her shoulder and once again gave silent thanks that he had been blessed with such a wife. "I am going out with Elboron tomorrow for some special time," he said. "We will be gone most of the day, but we will return for dinner. Will you manage things here?"

"I will. Elboron will enjoy spending the day with you. I know you have been busy supervising the spring planting, but that ought not to stand between you and your son. I will make you a picnic lunch."

"Thank you, Éowyn."

"Now let us go back to sleep. It seems we will both have a full day tomorrow." Éowyn pulled Faramir's arms tighter around her body, and they were both soon asleep.

After breakfast the next day, Faramir placed the picnic lunch in a little pack, which he handed to Elboron. For himself, he had retrieved an old wooden box from the chest where he stored special treasures. He took Elboron's hand, and the two of them went to the stables, where the grooms had saddled up Brown Lightning, a gentle old mare who was a retired war-horse and one of the finest of Beauty's grandfoals. Faramir swung up into the saddle, and the groom lifted Elboron up and set him before his father. With a nudge of Faramir's knees, they set out.

"Where are we going, Papa?" Elboron asked.

"Not far. I have a particular spot in mind along the Anduin. We should arrive there just in time for our picnic lunch."

"Can we go fast, Papa?"

"I think old Brown Lightning might have a few canters left in her," Faramir said. "Shall we ask her?" He urged the horse forward, and Elboron squealed with laughter as the road flew by beneath them.

In due time they reached the banks of the Great River, and Faramir slowed Brown Lightning to a walk. They wandered back and forth along the riverbank, slowly narrowing in on a particular spot.

"I believe this is it," Faramir said. "Yes, here is the little hollow. I remember it now." He brought the horse to a stop, dismounted and lifted Elboron down. The child stood stiffly for a moment, then began to climb down the bank. "Be careful," Faramir said, hitching Brown Lightning to a tree. "The riverbank is treacherous. You are not to pass that tree root unless I am holding your hand."

Elboron obediently climbed back up, then looked around. "There is a little pool, Papa," he said, pointing. "Can I play there?"

Faramir examined the pool. "It seems safe enough," he said. "Shall we see if any minnows live there?"

Father and son played in the pool for a while, sprinkling water droplets over its surface to see the minnows rise and gulp at them. Elboron put his hand into the water and held it very still so that the minnows would come to investigate. "They tickle," he reported gleefully. Taking Elboron down to the river, Faramir found some stones of the correct size and shape and showed Elboron how to skip them over the water. Elboron dug deep holes in the black river mud and watched as the water seeped in to fill them. After a while, Faramir washed the mud off of his son's hands and they sat down to open their picnic lunch.

Éowyn had packed bread, cheese, apples and hard-boiled eggs as well as a flask of apple cider. Faramir and Elboron ate happily, enjoying the wind that blew through their hair. "Do you like this place, Elboron?" Faramir asked.

"Yes," Elboron said. "I like the minnow pool and the skipping stones."

"Good. I am glad you like it, for it is a very special place." Faramir wiped at Elboron's face just in time to catch a dribble of cider.

"Why is it special, Papa?"

Faramir sat up and hugged his knees to his chest. "It is special to me, because it is the very last place where I ever saw your Uncle Boromir." Elboron looked at the river with round eyes. Faramir gazed out and in his mind's eye, saw the river as it had looked eight years earlier. "It was very late at night, and I saw a boat floating down the river. It floated right past this spot, and Uncle Boromir was in the boat."

"Was he dead?" Elboron asked.

"Yes, he was dead."

"Did he look scary?"

Faramir gave a small half-smile. "No. All of the scary things had already happened, and they were over. He looked very peaceful, almost as though he was sleeping."

"But he wasn't sleeping," Elboron said in a hushed, awed voice. "He was dead. Were you sad then?"

Faramir nodded. "I was very sad."

"Are you sad now?"

"A little bit. But I am also happy, because you are here with me." Faramir ruffled Elboron's hair. "You look very much like him, and you make me happy." Elboron grinned. Faramir got up and retrieved the wooden box from his saddle bag. He set it down in front of Elboron.

"What is that?" Elboron asked.

"Open it and see."

Elboron opened the box and gave a cry of delight. "Seashells!" he said. "Look, Papa, seashells! They're so pretty."

"They were Boromir's," Faramir explained. "Our Uncle Imrahil brought us seashells when he visited, and we kept them in boxes. After Boromir died, I kept his seashells along with mine so that I could have something to remember him by."

Elboron stirred the seashells with his finger. "I like your seashells," he said. "I like to play with them."

"I know you do," Faramir replied. "Boromir liked to play with his seashells, too." He paused and took a deep breath. "Today is Boromir's birthday," he said.

"Can you have a birthday if you are dead?" Elboron asked.

"I think so. After all, just because he is dead does not change the fact that today is his birthday. I thought we might come here and give him a present."

Elboron frowned. "What sort of a present?" he asked. "How can you give a present to someone who is dead?"

"You can think about them and talk about them and remember what they were like," Faramir told him. "You can even leave a special thing that they liked behind for them, and maybe they can look at us from beyond this world and be happy because we remember them."

Elboron jumped up and looked straight up into the bright blue sky. "Hello, Uncle Boromir!" he cried. "I am Elboron, and your brother is my Papa. We are having a picnic lunch, and we are talking about you. I hope you are happy!" He grinned at Faramir. "Do you think he heard me?"

"I have no doubt that he did, and I think he is glad to hear your voice. Now, shall we give him his birthday present?" Faramir took the box of seashells and stood up. "I think that Uncle Boromir would like to have his seashells back. Perhaps if we put them into the river, they will be rolled down to the Sea, just as Uncle Boromir was. Shall we try it?"

"Yes!" Elboron grasped three fingers of Faramir's hand, and they carefully made their way down to the river. Faramir opened the box and took out a scallop shell.

"Happy birthday, Boromir," he said, and set the scallop shell floating on the river. Then he offered the box to Elboron. Elboron took a mussel shell and placed it on the water.

"Happy birthday, Uncle Boromir," he said. Faramir released a jingle shell, and then Elboron took a snail shell and tossed it. The snail shell landed with a splash and sank. "I threw it far," he said.

"I see that." Faramir thought for a moment, then found a razor shell and whipped it so that it skimmed across the surface of the water. Elboron laughed, and then they were both throwing the shells as far as they could into the water, crying "Happy birthday, Boromir!" at the tops of their voices. When they had thrown all the shells into the water, Faramir let Elboron dig a large hole by the riverbank and they buried the wooden box.

Elboron turned and waved at the river. "Good-bye, Uncle Boromir," he said. "Papa and I will come back and visit you again soon. I will be a big brother soon, and I promise to be a good big brother, just like you."

"You are a good boy, and I love you," Faramir said. "Go wash your hands and put the picnic box back in your pack." He boosted Elboron up the riverbank, then turned once more to the river. "He is a lovely little boy," he told the water. "I wish you could have met him. Give my love to Father, Boromir. I love you. Farewell for now."

Then Faramir turned and climbed up the riverbank. Elboron was waiting for him, packed and ready to go home. Faramir lifted Elboron up onto Brown Lightning's back, unhitched the horse, and swung up behind. He wrapped his arms around his son, and they cantered back towards the manor house, where Éowyn would be waiting for them.

END

Many thanks to all who read and enjoyed this story. Before I go any further, there are credits to be given for this show. Young Boromir and Young Faramir are modeled closely on my two little cousins. Boromir's childhood nickname of "big boy" and Faramir's blue pillow also belong to my cousins. The bedtime story that Boromir tells Faramir is in fact part of Child Ballad #4, "The Outlandish Knight." All of the tavern songs described are real (even the one about the maid with the broom). The Baltimore Consort has made a lovely and very funny recording of about twenty-five such bawdy ballads, mostly from the seventeenth century. The account of Faramir's dream is a shameless nod to the BBC's 1981 radio dramatization of The Lord of the Rings, in which the poem was set to music and sung by a boy soprano.

Many thanks also to those who responded by sharing their own views of Denethor. I found it interesting that not everyone agreed on the point at which this family ceased functioning. I do think that Denethor's relationship with his children is a complex one, and one of the things that I tried to show was the harm that Denethor's treatment of Faramir did to Boromir. He seems to have been the glue that held the family together after Finduilas's death, and I am sure that this psychological strain contributed greatly to his own early death.

After doing some thinking about what made Denethor act the way he did, I decided on three major factors. I think that his possession and use of the palantír created an enormous stress which did his mental and emotional balance no good at all, especially after his beloved wife died so young. I think also that Denethor may be a man who just doesn't like children very much. In Boromir, he was lucky enough to acquire a child he could admire and who was everything he had wanted to be. After Boromir, no second child could have fulfilled his expectations, and Denethor is not a man to deal with a child on its own terms. The third factor that I think played into his condition is his relationship with Ecthelion. The roots of family dysfunction are deep, and patterns tend to repeat themselves through the generations. Ecthelion favors Thorongil over Denethor, and Denethor repeats the parental behavior he has learned. If there is a villain in this story, it may very well be Ecthelion, though the pattern may stretch even farther back in the history of the House of Húrin.

That's about it on this end. Again, many thanks for reading, and I will see you later.