Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

"And this I remember of Boromir as a boy, when we together learned the tale of our sires and the history of our city, that always it displeased him that his father was not king. "How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not?" he asked. "Few years, maybe, in other places of less royalty," my father answered. "In Gondor ten thousand years would not suffice." Alas! Poor Boromir. Does that not tell you something of him?"

"Rían is well, Ecthelion. And you -- you have a son." Turgon, Steward of Gondor, took his own son in his arms and hugged him warmly. "Your heir, my son; I am most proud of you! Have you decided upon a name?"

"Ah. A propitious name? I wonder. We might very well have need of another Denethor. Are you suggesting our time of peace is at an end?"

Ecthelion laughed, "Father, I have no more foresight than you in this matter. It is a warrior's name. One of honor and I deem the time is right for another Denethor. You are not yet ready to go to our forefathers and I will not readily go either. Long will it be before my son becomes Steward. He will keep peace in our land, if I have anything to do with it, just as you have."

"Well, my son," Turgon said. "Go to your wife now and tell her I am overjoyed. Thank her for bringing the Twenty-Sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor into this world."

As Ecthelion left his father, he wondered at this last request. Why would Turgon say Ruling Steward? Did his father have some premonition? Was not the king to return during Turgon's or his own stewardship -- perhaps even during his son's stewardship? Was not the saying among the common folk, 'when the king returns?' Is this not what the people waited for; the hope the Stewards kept alive in their people? Did not the ceremonies, festivals, nay every meeting end with the phrase 'until the king return?' Was this not their revered duty - to keep Gondor strong in preparation for the return of the king? Daily, the hope for the return of the king was on his lips. Was his father saying there was no hope? And yet, Ecthelion wondered, had he named his son after the Steward or the Elven king?

As he entered their room, his eyes were drawn to the little bundle in his beloved's arms. So very gently Rían held their child. ‘Their child! And an heir.’ He moved quickly to her side, his long legs striding purposefully towards her. Kneeling next to the bed, he whispered, "My love, I am so happy." The nurse grumbled as she moved to allow him to be closer to the bed. He heard and laughed. Nothing could take his happiness away.

Rían looked beautiful - tired, but beautiful. She raised her eyes and looked at him, yet through him. There was something disquieting about that look. "Ah, my Lord," Rían said, "There is a foreboding in my heart as I look at our son." She gave her hand to Ecthelion, her eyes rolled back, and she was suddenly still. The nurse snatched the babe from her arms, placed him in the crib next to the bed, and ran for the healer. Ecthelion stood as marble from Mount Mindolluin. A horrid shaking assailed his body and he fell to his knees.

"Rían! Rían!" he cried in panic. Gently he touched her cheek and his hand recoiled at the coldness of it. So quickly, so quickly the cold had come and claimed her. He forced himself to an upright position and took her small hand in his. "Rían!" he cried aloud, "Do not leave me. I need you. I need your help. I need you. I need your presence here beside me. How am I to live without you, to breathe without you?" He touched her cheek again and resisted the impulse to pull his hand away. Colder still was that cheek, and yet it was the cheek of his beloved. "I need you," he sobbed. Finally, he rose, leaned over her bed and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. He brushed back the hair that had fallen lightly upon her brow.

She was gone. In a moment. With no farewell. He studied her face -- tried to etch each detail into his memory. The smile he so loved was no longer there. Her lips had lost their luster, their fullness, their smile. He would never see that smile again. He wanted to lie next to her, to feel her in his arms one more time, but instead, he knelt again, knelt next to her, trying to feel her life force, trying to hear her voice, trying to feel her hand upon his brow. His head bent forward and rested on her shoulder. The sobs came unbidden and uncontrolled. He cared not who heard -- he only wished she could, that she would take him in her arms, as she had so many times before, and whisper that all would be well. And yet, no words came from the stony lips.

Adanedhel, Gondor’s Master Healer, came running into the room, saw the gray of his patient’s face and knew Rían would laugh no more. The healer's heart broke for, like the Steward's son, he was in love with this woman of the gentle smile. All of Gondor would mourn this passing, the passing of the Lady of Gondor. He sent the guard for Turgon. The babe had been strangely quiet. Taking him from his crib, Adanedhel walked out of the room. He would leave the Steward's son alone for the time being.

The funerary customs of Gondor dictated that Rían lay in state; for two days the people of Gondor waited in snake-like lines to bid her farewell. The escarpment itself had been roped off to give the line some order, but still in silence they waited patiently. Gone were all signs of adornment on her people. Black was the color for this time and black was the mood of her people. The untimely death had shaken them, sobered even the joy of an heir.

Turgon was not sure what to do to relieve this. It was definitely time to put an end to this mourning, to shake his people from this darkness. He ordered the procession to begin. This time reminded him too well of his own wife's demise. Long had she been gone and long had Rían been Gondor's Lady. The people had loved Ecthelion’s wife fully. Now they waited in this never-ending line to take one last glimpse of her.

There was much sorrowful singing, mournful women wailers filled the Court of the Fountain, and the sickly sweet smell of burning incense wafted through the dead air that lay upon the City as the procession made its way from the Great Hall, where the Lady of Gondor had lain in state, to the House of the Stewards. The guard opened the gate of Rath Dínen and Ecthelion recoiled at the utter silence that greeted him. Was this place of absolute stillness to be her last resting place, she who had always filled the air with such joyful laughter? None could see the desolation on his face; he hid his grief well.

Striding next to his father, Ecthelion could see naught. The only sense he seemed to have was the sense of hearing -- and it heard naught. His ears searched for some sound that would make this a bearable place to leave her. Yet no sound came in the painful stillness of the City of the Dead. Perhaps if he put a wind chime near her resting place? But nay -- there was no wind in these halls to move even the tiniest bell. She would have to be content with his sobs when he came to visit her. One almost broke through his reserve, but he bit his lip and quickly blinked his eyes.

They laid her upon the center dais -- others would place her atop the appointed vault after the mourners left. Gardenias were placed all around her body. At last, Turgon gently touched his son’s arm. ‘Ah, the sense of touch has not failed me,’ Ecthelion thought gratefully. He bent over the empty body and kissed her lips one more time. Quickly he turned and strode out of that building. The others could barely keep up with him -- his long stride cutting through the distance to the open door.

Yet again, tragedy had struck the Steward’s family. Was there never to be sustained joy, long life, peace? He remembered his mother’s untimely death and found himself walking towards the White Tower. The sun against its walls almost blinded him. Naught should be bright on this day -- there should only be dimness. He passed into the Tower's cool darkness with a sense of relief. In darkness was where he belonged for was not his light, his Rían, extinguished? Slowly, he walked the steps leading upwards. It seemed to take a hundred years, but finally he reached the room at the top. He needed to be alone. No matter where he walked in the City these past three days, people stared or gave him flowers, or bowed with tear-stained faces. Their pain reflected his own and it was too much to bear.

He was glad he had come here. Always, the sight of Gondor spread before him eased his mind. He could look out the south window and gaze towards the Bay of Belfalas. The gulls circled about the Tower -- no white ones could be seen, only gray and dirty birds -- their cries echoed the cries in his heart. Slowly he walked to the north window and saw the slopes of Ered Nimrais, and further along, the Anduin. He knew the Falls of Rauros lay in that direction and his very being went there. To be standing at that place, to see the Argonath in the distance, to feel the spray from the falls hitting his face, that would ease his mind. Finally, his steps led him to the east window and the mountains of the Ephel Dúath. His heart skipped a beat as it always did when he looked at the ruin that was Osgiliath. Dior's sister-son, Denethor, had lost this land to the Uruks of Mordor. Would his own son, his own Denethor...? Now he wished he had the gift of foresight, gifted to so many of his ancestors before him.

The river ran clean and beautiful through those ruins. The city itself, both East and West Osgiliath, was desolate, bereft of its people and of its hope. His Númenórean eyes could clearly see the gaping holes in the roofs of the great hall and other buildings though so many leagues away; the devastation was terrible. Osgiliath was a mirror of how he imagined his heart looked -- cold, empty, utterly destroyed with gaping holes in it. Bereft of love, bereft of hope, bereft of her.

The Palantír was here. Almost -- he felt its presence. He walked towards it and removed its covering cloth. ‘Where was Rían,’ he wondered? ‘Was she in the lands of the West, with the Valar? Was she in the sea on some Elven ship? Or mayhap in the sky with Eärendil? It was a seeing stone, was it not? What did it see?’ If he looked into it, mayhap it would speak to him -- of her? Or at least it might show him her face again -- yes, that would help. ‘Where was she?’

But nay, it did not even flicker. He did not touch it. The other six stones were lost forever. This was just a black, useless ball sitting here in expectation of a king's return. A hollow laugh filled the room and Ecthelion was surprised; it was his own voice. He did not like the sound of it. He no longer liked this room either. He placed the cloth back upon the stone. Looking again out the east window, he shuddered. Something was amiss in that land beyond the mountains. For a moment, his sorrow was replaced with fear. Something must be done to protect Minas Tirith.

As he strode down the steps, the light from outside grew stronger. He felt a lightening of his spirit. It was time to find his daughters and his son. Time to put aside thoughts of the last few days. But as fate will at times - an old woman met him as he exited the Tower and offered him a bouquet of gardenias - Rían's favorite flower. Startled, he looked into the old woman's eyes.

"She is gone, my Lord, but will never be forgotten. As I picked these from my garden in her memory, so too must you pick your children from their grief and give them to Gondor. For Gondor, my Lord, all for Gondor."

A/N – I struggled as to what word to use for the woman who attended Rían during her childbirth and was to be what we would call a wet nurse. From dictionary.com, the etymology of nurse goes back to around 1350, whereas ‘nanny’ is much younger, from around 1795, and wet nurse is from 1775. Therefore, I am using the Middle English term ‘nurse’ for this character since it is the oldest form of what I needed for this tale. I did not see her as a midwife since the Master Healer of Gondor himself attended the Steward’s son’s wife.

Denethor was sure the City had been built just for him as he raced along the curving road. By the time the almost six year old had reached the Fourth Level, he was again grateful, for the hundredth time, that there were no steps leading to the Citadel. His little legs were already tired; steps would be much worse, he decided. Perhaps, if he asked plainly, his father would give him a pony. It would make his life so much simpler. He wanted to explore everything in and out of the City, but he had decided a long time ago, at least a week ago, that his legs were too short!

As he ran, he held his treasure tightly in both hands, holding it against his chest for fear of losing it. It squirmed and squiggled and he was forever stopping to make sure he was not hurting it in his headlong rush. Would not his father be pleased to see what he had captured! He had pretended, in his mind's eye, that he had surprised a band of Orcs by the stream. They had fled when they saw his terrible face. He had tried to look just like his father - the time when he had 'accidentally' run away.

He had missed nuncheon - the first time ever. He had forgotten the time in the midst of a game with some of the soldiers' children on the Sixth Level. When he did not return, his nurse had gone to his father in fear. He could hear his father's roar from the Seventh Level. He knew he was in trouble; he ran and hid in one of the empty horse's stalls. After a few moments, he knew it was wrong to hide. He did not want to leave the quiet refuge, but he knew he must face his father, after all - was he not a soldier in the Steward's Army? Is that not what his father called him - his little soldier? In the depths of his heart, he knew soldiers did not hide.

He stood up brushing the straw from his clothes and strode purposefully towards the stable doors. He shrank back as a great shadow blocked the door, the sunlight, the world. It was his father; he could tell it in the stance. Ecthelion strode forward, grabbed him by the collar, and marched him out the door. Denethor took a sideways glance up at him, but the look on his father's face was terrible to behold. He did not quite understand. But he would never forget that look.

Today, he had tried to look the same way at the hoard of Orcs. One of the Orcs had slipped and fallen; Denethor quickly seized him and marched him off to his father.

"Nay!" he screamed. The treasure, his Orc, had escaped and was hopping wildly away. A cart passed Denethor on its way to one of the lower levels. The driver did not see, could not see, the little creature that ran in his path. It died quickly. Denethor stood as still as a statue. He had failed to protect his prisoner. He had lost his wondrous treasure. The cart turned a corner; the driver unaware of the tragedy he had caused.

Denethor's eyes filled with tears. His shoulders shook uncontrollably as he sobbed his sorrow. Before he knew it, he was standing before the door of the Great Hall - not sure how or when he had arrived there. One of the guards bent low, put his hand on Denethor's shoulder, and gently asked him what the matter was. The lad could not speak - by now he was near hysterics, so the soldier picked him up and entered the Hall. He could not leave the little one in such despair, though he knew that he should not abandon his post. 'One duty must sometimes be put aside for another.' He also knew Ecthelion was meeting with Turgon on matters of state. 'Well,' he thought, 'it cannot be helped. This little one needs his father’s comfort.' The guard, like all of Gondor, had worshipped the ground Lady Rían had walked upon. Her son, this little one, rarely cried and the guard, concerned, could not leave the boy in pain unhelped.

"What has happened?" Ecthelion ran forward as soon as he saw the guard approaching with his son in the man's arms.

Ecthelion took his son in his arms, excused himself to Turgon, walked quickly to a side chamber, and sat on one of the chairs, hauling Denethor into his lap. He kissed the child on his forehead and wiped the tears from the chubby little cheeks. Denethor would not calm and the racking sobs tore at Ecthelion's heart. The guard brought water, said he would fetch Denethor's nurse, and left them. Ecthelion urged his son to drink and finally Denethor did. Suddenly, the boy threw his arms around his father's neck and sobbed again. Ecthelion gently detached the child's arms and lifted the little one’s chin.

"I found this...this... " Sobs stopped his words. He tried again, "I found this wonderful thing. It was almost the size of a Mûmak, I am sure!" He paused for another moment to catch his breath and Ecthelion laughed to himself. The lad had never seen a Mûmak and the thought of him carrying one in his little hands almost made Ecthelion laugh out loud, but he checked the impulse as he looked at the tear-stained face. The child was too serious to even try to lighten the moment.

Denethor continued on with his tale while Ecthelion listened intently. When Denethor reached the part about the cart, the tears and sobs increased and the boy could no longer speak. Ecthelion hugged his son tightly, concern and relief fighting for dominance. He offered Denethor a little more water, at a loss for words to help ease his son's grief. The face of Rían flashed before him and, for the thousandth time, he wished that she were here beside him. He missed her terribly; not a day went by that he did not think of her. Suddenly, he knew what to say.

"Denethor, listen to me. That was such a special and wondrous bullfrog… Orc that you found. I would have dearly loved to have seen it. I am so very proud that you were able to capture it on your own, being as big as you described it. Your mother must have been proud, too. But my son, she probably knew it could not live inside our City, and so she took it to be with her. It is a special present for her from you. I am sure she is enjoying it thoroughly." As he spoke, Ecthelion felt that what he said was most obtuse and wondered why on Middle-earth he thought this would comfort the lad, but to his surprise, Denethor's eyes widened. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and a small smile crept into his eyes.

"Father, do you really think mother has it? But, father, am not I special enough for mother to take, too?" The question almost broke Ecthelion's heart. Denethor had only lain in Rían's arms for a short time. Did he have some memory of her?

"Yes, my son," he said, "I am sure your treasure is with your mother. And yes, you are very special, my son, so special that your mother wants you to stay with me for a while. She knows I need you, my son, that Gondor needs you."

'Take those words back!' his heart screamed. Why had he said that last part? It was not necessary; the boy did not need to hear that. Mayhap it was Ecthelion himself who needed to hear it. He shook his head in dismay and saw that Denethor misinterpreted the gesture. He smiled, hugged the lad and kissed his small forehead again. The nurse had arrived some moments before and stood by patiently. Now, Ecthelion lifted his son off his lap and placed the little hand in her hand.

"Please take my son to his room, wash him and give him some light food. I will be up shortly to bed him."

"Denethor, go with your nurse. I will come shortly and perhaps you can draw me a picture of this great beast. We can hang it on your bedroom wall and we will remember the day you captured an animal bigger than a Mûmak."

Denethor hugged him around the neck till his breath was almost stopped, and then quickly left in his nurse's care.

Ecthelion sat back with a sigh. The boy was almost six; a special ceremony had been planned for his sixth birth day, but now Ecthelion wondered. He thought again of the concern that had chilled his heart during Denethor's story. The child was not maturing fast enough for Gondor's weal. Ecthelion had hoped to begin his son's training this year, but perhaps six was too young. Now, the chill came back, even stronger as he thought of the weakness of Gondor. Something was wrong. He felt it in the depths of his being. Turgon did not seem to sense it. His father did not seem to see any need for furthering the defenses of Gondor. All had been quiet for many years. Yet, there ws a nagging feeling that Ecthelion could not put words to. No matter what his father thought, he knew Gondor must now prepare for this evil that weighed so heavily upon his heart. He must keep Gondor safe until the return of the king. And he would begin with his own son. That the was the crux of the matter, the cause for his concern. For Denethor was weak, the tears today showed it. If the Steward would do naught, then Ecthelion would have to do something. He would start with his son.

He had meant to give Denethor the horn on his sixth birth day, but after last year's debacle with the bullfrog, Ecthelion decided the child was not yet ready. So, lo this past year, he spent changing Denethor's life. He took him out of the nursery suite and placed him in a room alone. His sisters were quartered at one end of the long hallway and Denethor's room was moved to the other end. He forbade the sisters to let Denethor sneak into bed with them, a habit they had allowed when the boy had nightmares. Morwen and Indis were most distressed by this order, but there was no swaying their father. It was so very hard for them to say nay to their brother when he came begging at their door. The boy's eyes filled with tears on those nights. As they closed the door to him, they clung to each other and sobbed. They were not even allowed to walk him back to his room. The corridor was dark and always chilly. The girls' hearts broke.

Ecthelion was adamant; his orders were not to be disobeyed. The boy was to be Steward. Denethor was already a year behind in the plan that Ecthelion had devised for his training. Naught could shake the foreboding in Ecthelion's heart. He must prepare Gondor and, because of Turgon's refusal to listen to his fears, the only choice he had was to prepare his son. His fear was that the darkest of evils would befall Gondor in his son's lifetime; yet, he hoped that, in Denethor's time, the king would return.

So Denethor had found the library and snuck books from it to read during the long, lonely nights. At first, some of them were very hard to understand, but he was of Númenórean blood and, through much diligence, came to understand many things. After the first few months and the discovery of the library, Denethor was not so miserable. His favorite books were those of the sea-faring captains of Gondor. Many of the old manuscripts had been rewritten to preserve them. He had found them and became quickly enamored, reading, spellbound, the tales of their great voyages.

His favorite was of Captain Vëantur, under King Minardil. The captain's descriptions made him feel as though he were actually sailing on the sea. He would close his eyes and imagine he could feel the waves rock the great ship, feel the wind blowing against his body, the spray of water on his face. He would sit on his bed and rock back and forth, imagining the bed his boat. He read of voyages to the Gray Havens, the Elven dwelling and of Círdan, Shipwright and Lord of Mithlond. He would stand on the escarpment, eyes closed, imagination running from east to west, north to south.

In his mind, he rode with the great captain from the mouth of the Anduin, the Great River, south to the Bay of Belfalas, then further south to the port cities of Umbar and west to Dol Amroth and Edhellond. He found maps that showed these great cities and reveled in their names. He felt the captain's need to sail even further west, but also felt the fear of doing such a thing. Mayhap someday, when he was a great captain, he would sail west to wherever it was that Captain Vëantur wanted to sail. Just the thought of it made him catch his breath and the hairs on his arms to stand up.

The captain wrote of strange creatures, half the size of men, whom he called Pheriannath, Little People, who dwelt in hillsides and meadows. He wrote of great towers far to the west built by Elves. There were terrible encounters with Orcs when they were ambushed north of Mithlond. Then, Denethor found the tale of the death of his captain; it was the last book he read of the seafarers of Westernesse.

Ecthelion noted the change in Denethor and assumed that his son was growing up due to his devices. So he began arrangements for the first ceremony of many in preparation for Denethor's becoming Steward. He dispatched riders with invitations to Fengel, King of Rohan (Prince Thengel was already in Gondor's service), Prince Angelimir of Dol Amroth, and various dignitaries from Lossarnach, Lebennin, Lamedon and Gondor's other fiefdoms. He even invited Curunír of the White Council.

At year's end, the guests started arriving; for three days, the festivities ran. There was feasting and singing, dancing and fireworks, along with sporting events and exhibitions of sword fighting, archery and axe throwing. During one lull, Prince Thengel took Ecthelion aside and asked him why the ceremony -- usually performed at a son's tenth birth day -- should be performed at Denethor's seventh.

Ecthelion, much as he loved Thengel, was curt. "There are things you do not know, nor can you grasp. I have had a premonition -- I must abide by it. Soon, all Gondorian males will begin military training at the age of six, if my will prevails. My son will be an example of the sacrifice that Gondor requires of its people. Do not question me again."

At last, the time had come. At the end of the third day, Denethor was summoned to the Citadel. He spent the morning with the Captain of the Guard. He had brought with him his new garments and the captain helped him dress. He first put on the long gray shirt, then his hose, then the aketon, and his hauberk, and over that a silk tunic and vambraces for his arms. Finally, over all, was the black surcoat with the White Tree embroidered on the front. There was no sword for him to wear yet. Another ceremony, much later, would be held for the conferring of his first sword.

When he was dressed, he was led into the Great Hall. His adadhron sat on the Steward's Chair and his father stood beside him. As always, the Throne above the Chair was empty. The Hall was filled with lords and ladies. Denethor was frightened. He had never seen so many people in the Great Hall and it seemed as if all eyes were upon him. For the last three months, the Captain of the Guard had gone over the ceremony with him. Denethor had spent all his nights remembering the words, some of which were in the Sindarin tongue, but finally, he had the ceremony memorized and the captain informed Ecthelion that all was ready. But knowing the words and saying them in front of all these people were two totally different things. He was terrified.

Drawing in a breath, he started to walk quickly towards the Chair and his adadhron when, suddenly, his face grew red. He remembered he was to walk slowly. What would his father say? He remembered the count he was to use to time his steps. He slowed his gait and counted - one...two...three...four, one...two...three...four. He saw his father nod his approval. He remembered to keep his head high, his eyes looking forward and his back straight, but the mail shirt was heavy and the Hall was very long. Once again he wished his legs were longer. Sweat beaded upon his forehead, but he knew he must not wipe it away. He bit his lip quickly to remind himself that he must be strong. Many times his father had gone over how very important this day was.

Finally, he reached the Steward's Chair. He bowed low to Turgon, then turned and bowed to his father. How stern he looked. Had he done something wrong? The ceremony had hardly started. Was something amiss with his attire? He did not know what to do, so he turned back to Turgon, bent one knee and looked into his adadhron's kindly face. The smile upon it lifted his spirit.

How he loved his adadhron! There were so few times when they could be together, but every moment was special. Even during this last year of preparation, Turgon would find him and bring him sweets and sit him upon his knee to tell him funny stories of the strange creatures called mûmakil and various sea animals like dolphins and terrifying stories of Trolls and Orcs. Denethor felt suddenly unafraid; he was so very glad that it was to his adadhron that he was to make this pledge and not to his father.

"In ages long past," Turgon began, "the great Steward, Vorondil the Hunter, came upon a massive kine and slew it. He cut one of the horns from the beast and brought it to the smithy where it was bound and tipped with silver. Ancient runes were carved upon it. Finally, it was hung on a baldric. And thus the Great Horn of Gondor was made. Vorondil passed this horn on to his son. Ever after have the Stewards of Gondor passed this horn down from one generation to another, always to the firstborn son. Today, we recall this event by the bequeathing of this first horn - a replica of the Great Horn -- upon commencement of training of the Twenty-Sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor."

He turned towards Denethor, his eyes twinkling with joy; his face held still. "Do you accept this horn until it is replaced with the Great Horn?"

Turgon stood. "Let it be known that Denethor the Second, son of Ecthelion, son of Turgon, of pure Númenórean blood, has been deemed fit to train for his role as Steward of Gondor."

He turned again towards Denethor and said, "I pass this horn to you -- a replica of the Great Horn -- and bid you wear it at all times to signify your allegiance to Gondor and to the return of the king. The Great Horn and the title, Steward of Gondor, will be yours upon the death of the reigning Steward."

"Aiya, Turgon! By Oromë of the Valar, before whom this horn is holy, I, Denethor the Second, swear to be faithful and true to Turgon, Son of Turin the Second. To love all that he loves, and shun all that he shuns, according to Gondor's law and according to Númenórean principles and never, by will or by force, by word nor by work, do ought of what is loathful to him; on condition that he keeps me as I am willing to deserve. I now submit to him and chose his will."

Ecthelion was startled. What had Denethor said? He spoke in the tongue of the Noldor; the entire oath was correct. But where had he heard of Oromë? He turned towards the Captain of the Guard who shook his head. He had said naught to Denethor of the great Hunter whose name meant 'horn-blowing.'

His adadhron had continued the ceremony, not noticing the words of Denethor. He brought Denethor to the table with the Steward's Book upon it. Denethor wrote his name in the book and under it, Turgon wrote his name and placed the Seal of the Stewards upon it.

He then placed his hands on Denethor's shoulders and turned him towards those assembled. There was polite applause. The Steward sat again in his chair. Ecthelion saluted him, hand to chest, congratulating him. One by one the attending lords came forward and did the same. Even the wizard came and congratulated him. He did not use the Gondorian salute, but placed his hand on Denethor's shoulder. Denethor was shaken by the power he felt flowing from that hand. He quickly looked to the floor and muttered his thanks.

At last, the time had come and he was allowed to leave the Hall. He had never been so glad to leave a place. He found his friend, Amdir, in the stables and they giggled and laughed about the people from Dol Amroth and how very serious they were. They were amazed at Fengel, King of Rohan. He did not look like a king at all.

"Do you suppose the King of Gondor, when he returns, will look like that -- with fur all over him and smelling of horses?" Amdir asked.

"I am not sure, Amdir, but I am very glad that Captain Thengel does not smell like his father!"

Denethor then told him about the wizard and how funny it felt when he shook his hand. Amdir begged Denethor to stay away from him. "Wizards are scary people," he said, "and it is not good to spend time with someone you cannot understand."

Denethor laughed. "I will remember that, Amdir, but now, let us eat. I am starving!"

It was the 25^th of May - a very special day. It was his sister's birth day. Indis and Morwen had been like mothers to him these past nine years. He had racked his brain for the last few weeks trying to think of what would be best for Indis - what would make her happy. And finally, just two nights ago, he knew! He had gone to Amdir who rejoiced in the thought of the adventure.

And now, the day had arrived. His father thought he was going on his monthly visit to his Uncle Cranthir, captain of the garrison in Osgiliath. He had been going every month, for the last few years, to visit his mother's brother. The ruined city held only happiness for Denethor. Cranthir had been teaching his nephew 'Kings and Stewards' and Denethor had found that he loved the game. Ecthelion did not. The only time, therefore, that Denethor could play it was when he went to Osgiliath. This meant a game could last months, but Cranthir told him the game would teach him patience. Little did he know that the boy would spend many sleepless nights after each visit, trying to strategize just what piece to move next.

The board and its pieces would have dust on them when they would sit down and they would laugh together as they wiped each piece. Cranthir told Denethor that the set had been in his family for many years, and that when he died, the set would go to Denethor. The carvings on each piece were intricate and finely detailed. The king and queen pieces were beautiful, but Denethor's favorite pieces were the Stewards sitting on either side of the king and queen. The little pieces even had the Steward's Staff in their hands. He knew that the Stewards were not as powerful as the queen or the castles, but he loved them just the same. Cranthir let Denethor wipe those pieces himself. Lovingly, the boy took oil and polished them until they shone so that he could almost see his face in the warm oak.

But this day, he would slip into Osgiliath, leave a note in Cranthir's door saying he would not be able to visit with him; then, he and Amdir would be off on their quest. It was a glorious piece of fortune that Indis' birth day was on a day when there were no lessons and no training. He ran to the stables immediately after breaking his fast and loaded the cheese, fruit, bread and water that he had secreted away while he ate his meal, into bags on either side of his pony. He hoped it was enough for the day, but if it was not - In training, he learned how to live off the land; would not this be the perfect time to test that training!

Amdir's father, Ingold, shouted for the boys to hurry if they wanted to be a part of the weekly supply caravan to Osgiliath. The sun was already rising and they were late! Ingold did this every time they went and both boys laughed, but not to his face. It was going to be a glorious adventure!

Everything went as planned - the caravan reached Osgiliath early in the morning. Ingold left the boys at Cranthir's quarters and quickly caught up with his men. Denethor left the note he had written the night before in Cranthir's door and then the boys galloped east - towards the bridge. Shortly before they reached the sewers, they dismounted, wiped their ponies down, and left them in an abandoned stable with some cut up apples and water. When they reached the sewers, they had to duck behind a pillar to let a sentry pass by. It would not do to get caught and stopped now. After the sentry passed, the boys slipped into the sewer. They giggled with an excitement that was mixed with just a little fear. Denethor was not quite sure about the sewers and where each one led, but he knew that eventually they ended in the abandoned part of the city that lay on the east side of the Anduin. It seemed to take forever to cross under the river. The footing was treacherous in places; lichen had grown on the floor of the sewers and created slippery patches for unwary feet. Some parts were almost totally blocked by stones that had fallen from the ceiling above and, in these places, torrents of water from the Anduin cascaded onto their heads. But they were fast and quickly waded through these sections. Finally, they felt the floor rising and knew they must be near the far shore. It had been dark for quite some time now and Denethor berated himself for not having brought torches. He imagined his father's scorn at such ill planning and he scolded himself for it. But there was light now - just ahead - and both boys relaxed in the knowledge that the first part of their adventure was successfully over.

Denethor marked in his mind, and on a great stone, the place where they came out from the sewers and then marked their path with large 'X's as they passed through the city. It was his first time in the fallen city. The quiet of it hurt his ears. He imagined how it had been so long ago with children just like Amdir and himself playing in the streets. But now - most of the streets were blocked with great marble stones fallen during countless battles and hundreds of years of neglect. Dust was everywhere so that their feet left large gouges as they walked; but that was all that was there. There were no birds, no lizards, and no insects - just layer upon layer of dust. Denethor, not for the last time, wished they could have brought their ponies with them.

They finally reached the grasslands outside the city and could see the gentle slopes of Ithilien before them. He made a mental note to come back to the city sometime and really explore it. They stopped for rest and a drink of water.

Amdir grinned at Denethor. "That was a fair piece of work getting through, was it not?"

Denethor had to smile too. He felt very tired. It had taken longer than he had expected to reach this phase of their journey; he made a note to plan more time for their return trip. But Amdir's good spirits gave him the energy he needed to press on.

"What an adventure this is, is it not, my friend?" he said as he slapped Amdir on the back - a gesture he had seen Ingold use a hundred times with his men to encourage them. He vowed to himself that he would one day be a great leader and, in the wisdom of a nine year old, he thought he would even rebuild Osgiliath.

Now it was time to focus on the purpose of the quest. Off to the hills on his right, he had been told of a great forest of iris. And Indis' favorite flower was the purple iris. Somehow, he would find this 'forest' and dig up the biggest, most beautiful iris plants, bring them back, and plant them in the garden outside her window. He hoped to find the most fragrant too, for the little scrawny ones that were planted in Minas Tirith had no fragrance whatsoever. Indis had told him tales, passed on from their mother, of this forest of flowers. The excitement of the gift pounded in his heart and he almost ran towards Ithilien.

They walked forever and Denethor once again realized that his legs were too short. He knew he had grown since the Horn ceremony, but still, he needed longer legs. And once again he wished they had their ponies. He also began to think that this was folly - that there was no such forest. They walked through fields of flowers, but none were the irises that he came for. The celandine fields alone were massive - not a place went by that they did not see myriads of the delicate little yellow flowers. They had to watch their footing as they went through the closely clumped ilex bushes - their long, sharp leaves reaching out to slash at their arms. The air smelt of late spring herbs; they were everywhere. The boys found wild strawberry plants and smelt the sweet thyme. They could not resist crushing mint and lemon balm leaves between their fingers and inhaling the scent.

As morning turned into afternoon, Denethor began to feel that he had made a mistake. If they did not find the field soon, they would have to turn back. Without telling Amdir his thoughts, he decided they must stop for nuncheon. Amdir was quite ready to sit. They had found a gentle little stream running down from the hilltops and let the water wash over their feet. Amdir prattled on about his father and the soldiers of Gondor and how, one day, he would be a soldier and follow in his father's footsteps. His father still had not given permission for him to start training, but he was ready and quite envious of Denethor. Denethor was kind and shared all that he learned. He found it good to repeat to his friend the many details he learned about Gondor, its history, battle strategies, and survival techniques. It helped him remember them. The questions Amdir posed helped him to think further. He was pleased at all he had learned, yet, it did not seem to lessen his father's own worry. He had overheard Ecthelion, on many occasions, decry the turpitude of the lords of Gondor who did not listen to Ecthelion's urgings to start their boys in training at as early an age as possible. Only a few listened to his impassioned speeches; most felt as Turgon did - that peace was now upon their land and it was time to enjoy it. Besides, not that many lords thought beyond creating their own monuments in Rath Dínen. The sight of the abandoned houses and courts in the upper circles of Minas Tirith did not seem to alarm them. Denethor himself was not sure of all that his father spoke, but he knew, in his heart, that his father must be right.

He put aside those thoughts. It had felt so very good to stop and rest. He only knew that he did not want to go another step. But what was the sense of a quest with no treasure to show for it? So after they ate the cheese and some fruit and drank some of their water, they started further up the hill. As they passed through a large clump of bay trees, Denethor glimpsed flowers ahead of them. Excitement filled him as he realized they were nearing their destination. As they broke from the grove of trees, a riot of purple and yellow and green struck his eyes. It was the forest of irises! Denethor almost ran through the field, but stopped short at the edge of it to drink in the sight, and smell the lovely fragrance in the air. It was beyond his wildest imaginings. There must have been hundreds and hundreds of blossoms. He had picked the right time to come. They were in full bloom. He almost cried with delight. Indis would be so very happy; he could imagine her smiling face. Ah, life was good.

He searched the field for healthy, strong plants. Only the best would do. But something was wrong; there was some kind of blight on the flowers. The leaves were scored in crisscross lines. He knew it was neither black rot nor borers. He had never seen such horror on a plant. And yet, he now remembered that he had seen damage on other flowers and trees as they walked through Ithilien. What had caused it? This blight seemed to have only affected the plants on the outside of the field, for as he walked further in, he found untouched and healthy plants. Amdir had followed with the pack and the wrappings that Denethor had brought. They selected six plants - their beauty was such that Denethor wanted to take more, but he knew they could not carry them all, and the day was passing too quickly. They dug up the plants, wrapped them in the cloth, soaked them with water, and put them gently into the pack. Then they started back north towards Osgiliath.

It was now at least two hours past nuncheon. They had been walking as quickly as they could, but they were tiring. Denethor called a halt and they sat by another stream -- nay, it was the same one at which they had eaten their nuncheon and where they had dangled their feet. They did so again. Yet Denethor was becoming concerned. They were still very far from Osgiliath. They must quicken their pace. They hurried down the hill, their hands touching the bay trees' bark and laughing at the sweet smell of it upon their hands. They ate the little wild strawberries and smacked their lips at the sweetness.

As they passed through the southern part of the bay grove, they ran into closely growing ilex bushes. Amdir tripped and fell headlong into wickedly sharp leaves and cried out in pain. His hands were stabbed and bleeding. Denethor pulled him out, but at the same moment, more concerned for his friend than his footing, he stepped wrongly and a large thorn from a branch fallen from an unnoticed hawthorn tree, pierced deeply into his foot. He yelped and hopped away. The boys came together and helped each other out of the morass of hungry plants. At the end of the bushes, they stopped to assess the damage. Denethor poured water over Amdir's hands, and then Amdir looked at the thorn sticking out of the bottom of Denethor's shoe. They both knew it had to come out. Denethor closed his eyes, tears streaking down in dusty rivulets to find his chin. He felt ashamed, but Amdir gently held his shoulder.

"It will be all right, Denethor. I will try to be as quick as I can." He was able to get a good grip on the end of the thorn and pulled with all his might. The thorn came out and so did blood, gushing over his hand and Denethor's shoe. He gently slipped the shoe off and washed the wound with water. Thyme plants were nearby and they cut off pieces and rubbed them into the wounds. It would help stop any further malady. Amdir then took some of the cloth used for the iris plants and wrapped Denethor's foot in it. The shoes he had worn this day were not good hiking shoes; the thorn had gone right through the one. Once again Denethor found himself berating himself for poor planning. He could not keep this from his father. He could see the scowl on Ecthelion's face.

Amdir seemed to sense his friend's chagrin. He started to laugh. Denethor was in no mood for laughter, but Amdir's laugh was contagious and he found himself, quite beside himself, laughing too.

Amdir laughed loudly again and said, "We look like we have ten years of dirt on our faces and there is yellow pollen from the irises on your nose and your ears!" He started laughing uncontrollably again, and Denethor's tears became tears of laughter.

Exhausted, they lay back on the grassy slope and looked up at the clouds. The clouds - they were black and coming close! Denethor scrambled to his feet. The wind was blowing towards them. He had not noticed that it was rising. This day was turning into a disaster. He should have watched the skies! The boys picked up their precious packs and started down the slope, moving as quickly as Denethor could hop with his wounded foot. The wind grew stronger; the clouds grew blacker and closer. They started to run. Denethor forgot the pain in his foot as the fear in his heart grew. This was going to be a brutal storm. They must seek shelter and quickly. But everywhere he looked were groves of bay trees or mighty oaks; he knew they could not hide there for fear of lightning. A rocky area rose up in front of them; Denethor thought they might find a small cave or outcropping that they could build up around them, but there was naught.

The drops of rain started falling, slowly, but Denethor knew that in no time at all a great torrent would reach them. He could see it further down the hill - a black sheet of rain heading straight towards them. In desperation, he combed the earth looking for anything that might give them shelter. At last he saw it, the abandoned holes of the large Ithilien hares. He yelled at Amdir and pointed them out. Amdir knew what he was thinking and found two fair-sized tree limbs, stricken from their trunks by the wind. He gave one to Denethor and they both attacked adjoining holes. They dug furiously, but it was very slow work. As the great torrent reached them, Denethor knew they must stop burrowing and jump into their makeshift shelters. They covered themselves with the tree limbs along with small bushes that they pulled from the ground. It was little comfort, but at least they were not the highest things on the field. They would be protected from the lightning, if not the rain. They struggled to hold onto the bushes and the tree limbs. The wind howled around them and great gashes of lightning filled the sky.

A short distance away, one of the great oaks was torn asunder by a mighty blast as lightning struck. An explosion of white blinded them for an instant. When they were able to see again, they found the tree was split in two and smoking gently. The rain was such that a fire could not endure. Denethor yelled to Amdir to make sure he was still all right. Amdir laughed his laugh and shouted back that no storm could hurt the son of Ingold. Denethor wished he had that confidence. It seemed a storm was constantly buffeting the son of Ecthelion - and the storm's name was Ecthelion. This day would be another one added to the list of failures and disappointments for his father. Denethor shook the rain from his face, but, in truth, he was trying to shake this feeling of doom -- and the tears that filled his eyes.

Everything seemed very black and Denethor wished with all his heart that the storm would end, but it seemed to stretch from one end of Ithilien to the other. The wind howled, the thunder roared and lightning flashed. And the hours went inexorably by. After a very long time, the rain seemed to slow and the thunder and lightning moved off to the north.

Denethor shouted to Amdir, "Perhaps it is time for us to go?" But there was no response. His heart stopped and fear filled it. Why did Amdir not reply? He had not heard nor seen anything hit the little shelter that lay next to his, but there was no noise, no movement from Amdir's hiding place.

He called again, "Amdir!" Nothing. He pushed the leaves, branches and assorted storm remnants off his own refuge and stretched his neck to look over at his friend's shelter. Nothing.

"Amdir!" he shouted aloud. And suddenly, there was hope in his heart again. The branches were being moved slowly away and Amdir stuck his head out.

"I am sorry, Denethor. I fell asleep," he said sheepishly. Denethor's face broke into a grin and then into a brilliant smile as the laughter was forced from his fear-sodden heart.

"I think some day I will have to do you harm, my friend, as payback for the fright you just gave me!" Amdir started to laugh too and the terror of the last hours was washed away with the wind that scurried the storm to the north.

They picked themselves out of their shelters, brushed the dirt, rabbit hair and wet leaves off their clothes, and sat on the tree limbs that had helped protect them from the storm. They broke out the last of their cheese and apples and the last of the water. The bread had become soaked in the storm and Denethor left it for the woodland creatures. Amdir still had hopes of reaching Osgiliath before nightfall, but Denethor was unsure. It was a long way still. They both sighed great sighs and stood at the same time.

"Well, my friend," Denethor said, "Let us be off on this great adventure." Neither of them felt much like great adventurers, but a firm face was needed to give them hope, and Denethor would find hope somewhere along their path.

Night was falling; they were just reaching the outskirts of the ruined city. In the dark, how would they ever find the markings on the fallen stones? The storm had not come through the city; the dust was still as thick and dry as when they first passed through. This helped a little as they followed their own footsteps, but soon the darkness was almost complete. The clouds still covered the sky and not a star could be seen. Denethor bowed his head in pain and weariness - and fright. But he would not show Amdir his fear. They were close to the bridge, he knew it, but if they had to, they could always find some shelter in the city and start for the sewers in the morning. His face burned with shame as he thought of the forthcoming scene with his father. It would be terrible. His father would be justified in his anger and disappointment. It had been a fool's errand that he had set out on. And if that were not bad enough, he had dragged his friend into danger. That was unforgivable. He had a duty to his men. How many times had he been taught that!

He gave a heavy sigh and then stopped, looked around him and found an arched area nearby. "Amdir, we have to stop. I cannot see any further. We will lose our path. I am not familiar with the city. It is very large. We cannot take the chance that we will miss the sewers' entrance. We must stop for the night."

Amdir sensing the discouragement in his friends voice, cheerfully said, "Ah, I love to go on these adventures with you, my friend. Naught ever goes as it should. And that makes them such fun! I am glad we will have some more time together. Perhaps you will tell me the tale of the great ship captain. You remember - you started to tell me about the northern trip where they came upon ice that was thicker than my body."

Denethor laughed. Amdir was a very good friend. He was glad he was with him this night.

Suddenly, he heard sounds in the distance. Both boys looked at each other. Though there was almost no light, they were able to see each other's faces and what each boy saw was fear. There had been nothing stirring in the city on their outward journey. What could this noise be? It grew in sound and came closer. There was nowhere for them to go. They were trapped in the place they had chosen as a shelter. There was no way out. Rebuking himself for not having an escape route planned, Denethor moaned quietly.

A familiar voice - it was Cranthir's! Denethor rose and ran towards the torch and his uncle.

"Forgive me! We strayed too far and I misjudged the time. I am so very sorry," he said, tears of relief choking his throat.

"Denethor! I am glad to have found you. We have been searching for hours and just a short time ago found your ponies by the sewers. Is Amdir with you?"

"Yes, Captain Cranthir, I am." Amdir ran to his friend's side. He shyly hugged Cranthir in joy. They were saved -- for the moment.

Denethor woke to no memory - just a sense of joy and a feeling of comfort - until the pain in his foot reached through his morning grogginess and brought him back to reality. How strange it was that he could so quickly have forgotten what happened yesterday. All the shame of his flawed planning flooded his heart, burying the glad parts. He thought of his father, the look of disappointment that would surely cover his face, coupled with the knowledge that he had led his friend into danger, overwhelmed him and he hid his face in the pillow and wept. A soft knock at the door caused him to use the pillow to wipe his eyes and nose. He flung the covers off and stepped out of the bed, but the pain in his foot surprised him and he collapsed onto the floor. Cranthir heard the thud, opened the door, and quickly stepped to his side. Denethor stumbled on his nightshirt as he tried to get up, hoping that Cranthir would not notice his swollen eyes but be taken by the caring of his foot. Cranthir picked him up, placed him on the bed and removed the bandage. He moved the foot slowly; it was stiff and very sore, but healing had begun. There was no sign of any malady upon it.

"You were wise to use the thyme leaves on the wound, Denethor. It is healing and there should be naught wrong with it in due time."

Denethor choked on a grim laugh. One thing done right in a whole array of wrong decisions, foolish choices and poor planning!

He saw the light of understanding in Cranthir's eyes as his uncle studied him and he hugged the man tightly. He knew it would be the last time - he had left childhood behind in Ithilien - he was now a man. He would face his father and accept the punishment that was due him, but, for this last moment, he would be a child still and acknowledge the love he had for his uncle, and snuggle into the arms of someone who loved him.

Even Amdir was quiet on the ride back to Minas Tirith. Ingold was embarrassed that his son had been part of this folly, but he could not blame the lad. His son loved Denethor and anything that Denethor asked of him, he would do so and gladly. But Ingold would prefer a month's tour of duty in some place of danger, like the Golden Wood where dwelt the Mistress of Magic, to the duty he had to perform next - taking this wayward son to his father.

Denethor begged Amdir to keep the precious plants until he could come for them and Amdir agreed. Unfortunately, neither one of them knew when that next meeting might be. The fate of the irises was tenuous at best. Elleth, Amdir's mother met them at the stables and promised Denethor she would plant them in her own garden if he was unable to come in a timely manner and retrieve them. Amdir hugged his friend as he started to walk towards the Citadel, but Denethor pushed him gently away.

"It will be all right, Amdir. I am not going to my death, you know. It was a great adventure and I will not soon forget it. I am sorry - I did not even ask how your hands are?"

Amdir burst into tears at the kindness of his friend. He knew what awaited Denethor at his audience with Ecthelion and yet, Denethor was concerned about him. "They are healing. I can even bend the fingers," he said through his sobs. His mother stepped next to him, wrapping her arm around his shoulder. "I will wait for you, every day by the stables, at midmorning. I will wait for you, I promise!"

Denethor turned, straightened his shoulders and followed Ingold to the Seventh Level. He was left in a small room off the Great Hall - it seemed hours passed. His foot was throbbing and his head hurt. He had had no food nor water since dawn and the sun was now full in the sky. He was tempted to lie on the bench, just to rest for a moment. He chided himself - that was unthinkable. He must be strong.

Finally Ingold came into the room and beckoned him to follow. As he walked down the Great Hall towards the Steward's Chair, his arms shook; cold chills ran up and down them. He tried not to think of what was going to happen next. He tried to remember the last time he walked down this hall. It was the Horn Ceremony and Turgon, with a warm smile upon his face, was waiting to greet him. There would be no such greeting this day. His father stood next to the Steward's Chair, his jaw clenched and his lips held tightly closed.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he asked softly. The tone made a muscle in Denethor's cheek quiver.

"Go to your room," Ecthelion said in the same awful, hushed tone. "We will discuss punishment tomorrow morning. You will not leave your room until summoned. Is that perfectly clear?"

"Yes, Father." He turned to leave, but sorrow stopped him. He turned back towards his father. "Father, I am truly sorry."

His father's back was turned against him. He felt the slap of it through his whole body. He had disgraced himself, his father and his line. The way to his room was long - so very long. Added to the length of it was the humiliation of an escort. The door closed quietly behind the soldier and Denethor was left to ponder the magnitude of his failure.

A servant brought his evening meal. Before bedtime, a healer came, changed his bandage, gave him a cup of valerian root tea and left him. The escort, servant, and healer were the only people he saw after his morning meeting with his father and none were allowed to speak to him. He knew he was to spend this time in thought as to the folly of his deed and to discover ways that he could better himself. He fought the tears, but as night fell, they came - like the black deluge that had overtaken them in Ithilien. In exhaustion, he cried so hard his face hurt. Sleep finally - blessedly - came.

The escort came for him shortly after the sounding of the first bell. The pace set was fast, as if the soldier worried about a reprimand for himself. Again, Denethor found himself in the little room near the Great Hall. He now understood that his father was dealing with him in the Great Hall to further drive home the magnitude of his folly. This was no small matter to be dealt with in his father's study.

Presently, he heard a voice in the corridor. He crept towards the door and found that it had only partially closed. It was his father's voice and Denethor wondered whom he was talking to. His voice sounded sad and quiet and bitter.

"I am beside myself, Rían," he heard his father speak. "Turgon has become stubborn and foolish in his old age!" Denethor realized that his father was speaking to Rían, as if she were alive. He must have not realized that Denethor was only a few paces away with an open door between them. Denethor felt sorry for Ecthelion, that he had no one to share with. He wished he remembered his mother, for many a time a person would stop and declare how much he looked like her and how much she was loved and missed.

"There is evil coming upon us," his father continued. "This feeling of dread grows stronger every day. And yet father and the elders would have us believe that all is well - that peace is still with us and there is naught to fear! But my senses reel with the enormity of an evil I cannot see. He thwarts my every attempt to protect Gondor, Rían. I have tried to have him strengthen the Rammas Echor, bolster the army, and raise serious defenses in Osgiliath, but to no avail. I feel his scorn. He thinks me a coward and weak because I fear what he cannot see. I want to make Gondor strong."

"And now your son brings further disgrace to me. He has been a constant thorn in my side since his birth - that same birth that took you from me. I am forever disappointed in him. I will wash my hands of him. Put him under Ingold's tutelage. There is naught further to be gained by time with him!" He threw back his cloak and walked down the hall towards his study.

Denethor leaned back against the wall of the little room, his fingers gripping the wall. He did not even feel the cold marble against his back. His eyes widened; his mouth fell open. He shook as his face turned scarlet. He had been abandoned. Disowned. He was alone! He was alone.

"Focus! Focus, Denethor." The swordmaster lifted his sword again, ready to parry.

Denethor hissed quietly and then pulled himself together, trying to focus on the task at hand. Yet to no avail, for his mind was ever brought back to the fact that today was his twelfth birth day. It had been three years since last he saw his father in private. There had been numerous times, during those years, to see him publicly - parades, festivals, punishments - all lorded over by the Steward's son, Ecthelion. Hope ever burned in Denethor's heart that his father would note his presence, smile at him, perhaps even introduce him to one of the guests, but his hope was for naught. Today, once again, he was disappointed. No acknowledgement of this day from any of his family. He wondered bitterly whether or not the Captain of the Guard had been told not to allow a celebration.

'I must not think that way. To say Ecthelion is 'lording it' is beneath me. I must give him the respect due as the next Ruling Steward.' But the bile rose in his throat as he thought of his banishment. Deserved or no, he was in line for Steward of Gondor. Was not some modicum of respect due him also? The thoughts whirled in his mind and again, Gwinhir hit him with his sword.

"Focus! What must I do to command your attention, Denethor?" The swordmaster heaved a sigh and turned his back on him. "I think that you should return to the barracks, think on what this training means, and return when you can give me your full attention. This will be reported to Captain Ingold."

At the age of twelve a boy was conscripted into the service of Gondor in some capacity or another. At his age, other lads were just starting their training; his had been in progress since he was seven. He knew he had learned much over this time, but his heart grieved at the loss of his family. Today, his twelfth year, tradition dictated that Turgon was to confer the Ring of Gondor upon his hand. He had memorized the ceremony - the Sindarin words of the oath - even though none had stated it would happen. The swordmaster's rebuke was the last straw.

"What would you have me do? Write a thousand times, 'I must focus? Will that satisfy you?" The anger was palpable in Denethor's face and his voice. He fairly shook with rage.

Gwinhir quickly drew in his breath. Never had he heard Denethor speak in such a manner. He walked slowly towards the lad, placed his hand gently on his shoulder, and asked him what was wrong.

Denethor almost sobbed at the sudden expression of concern. It had been many a year since he had felt any. Where were Indis and Morwen? Where was his mother's family, his Uncle Cranthir? Or his adadhron, Turgon? None had deigned to spend time with him, see if he was alive or dead - no attempt was made to contact him, to his knowledge. Mayhap they had gone to the Captain of the Guard to inquire about his health? He doubted it. He had not so much as received a note from any of them. He could not believe that Indis, of all his family, would not write to him. Cranthir was most likely deeply involved with the defenses of Osgiliath. Denethor had not seen him since their breaking of the fast in Cranthir's chambers three years ago. Last of all, where was Ecthelion? Did his father hate him so much that he cared not what happened to him?

Gwinhir saw the despair in the lad's eyes and relented. He knew where Denethor would find the peace he seemed to need. Sometimes kindness was more effective than punishment. "I believe it is time for some study of the ancient ways. Go to the Great Library and look up the Battle of Dagorlad. I want a report by the day after tomorrow - something on the role of King Elendil, what his Steward was doing back in Osgiliath, the army of Gondor, the Elves. Go now."

Denethor ran as if trolls were chasing him. There was no joy in being let out of his training. He had failed to do his duty; he was sent to learn swordsmanship. Shame, along with disappointment, pushed him towards his beloved library. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve before entering the foyer. It was dark and cold in here - just what he needed to heal his heart and cool his thoughts. He walked slowly down the circular stairs towards the archived areas. He stopped short. Someone else was here. He coughed gently to let whomever it was know of his approach. As he turned the last curve, he found himself face to face with Curunír. The wizard smiled and a chill ran down his back.

"My Lord Denethor, well met are we. I have meant for some time to seek you out. You have been absent from many of my dinners with Lord Echthelion. I have asked after you, and have been told you have been in strict training. It seems to have lasted awhile, this strict training, if I am correct?"

Denethor felt another chill run down his spine, but the smile on the wizard's face seemed genuine and he was in dire need of a friend at the moment. He smiled back at the veiled inquiry. "Yes. I seem not to be as adept as Lord Ecthelion would wish. I am putting all my energy into my training. At the moment, though, I have been asked to do a report on the Battle of Dagorlad. I have heard of it, but my knowledge is slight. Most of my time here in the library has been spent on the tales of the Númenórean sea captains."

"Ah, then it is fate that has drawn me here at the same time as you. I myself am fairly knowledgeable about that conflict. Perhaps we can spend some time together and I may share my viewpoint?"

"Well, then. Let us start. Here is a manuscript that details some of the battle. If we read it together, we might be able to ascertain what truly happened at that time." For a brief moment, Denethor wondered why Curunír had the document opened. But he let it pass in his deep gratitude for the company.

The chill stayed with him during the next hours as they poured over the manuscripts. Denethor tried to tell himself it was from the cool air in the library, but some premonition told him that it was the wizard's presence that caused him to feel thus. He pushed such thoughts aside. The wizard was giving him his undivided attention; he was treating him as an equal, sharing his knowledge. Denethor hungered for such camaraderie. The wizard exuded confidence, yet his voice, though cold and monotonous, drew Denethor closer to him, and Denethor was startled to find the wizard's hand upon his shoulder. The shiver that ran through him drew a sharp laugh from Curunír. The wizard's white hair hung down beyond his shoulder and the smell of herbs that reeked from his body stung Denethor's nose. There was a presence given off by the wizard that mystified Denethor. But he could not push the hand from his shoulder; it would be unseemly. Despite the feeling of unease, the wizard was fulfilling a need of Denethor's, and he would not yet leave this place.

They spent long hours strategizing how to change what had happened, to negate the dreadful loss of life. Curunír spoke as if he had himself been at the battle. The wizard even asked Denethor's opinion on many aspects of the battle and Denethor, like someone who has been in the desert for many weeks without water and sights an oasis, threw all caution to the wind and eagerly bound himself to the wizard. Yet, his body physically recoiled at the nearness. He fought this feeling. He rejoiced at the attention and would let naught sway him. He would be able to control this, to control himself.

At last, Denethor finally pulled himself away. "I am sorry. I must report. I know not the time, but I feel I have long passed my curfew. Please, perhaps we can do this again tomorrow?" he asked longingly.

"Nay, I am afraid I must be off," Curunír replied. Why did Denethor feel this was a lie, something to keep him further bound to this wizard? "Next time I am in Minas Tirith, I will let you know. Perhaps at that time, barring my duties to Ecthelion, we may meet and discuss these things further."

Denethor left the library only to discover that night had fallen. It was long past evening report when he walked into the barracks. Lights were already out. He had had no supper; he had dared not go to the buttery for food, and so, on this day, his birth day, he would go to bed hungry and hope there would be no reprisal for his not reporting - though he knew that was a forlorn hope.

The morning trumpet sounded long before Denethor was ready. Sleep had come late to him; his thoughts had been on the wizard and the strange feelings he had towards him. When the wizard spoke, Denethor listened raptly, but when he was silent, the sense of dread became palpable. He remembered Amdir's words from many years before, 'It is not good to spend time with someone you cannot understand.' In the morning light, this advice seemed most wise. Denethor would remember it the next time he and the wizard met.

Ingold strode towards his bed as Denethor was in the act of making it. "I am told you did not report last night. Is there some reason for this?"

"My Captain," Denethor saluted him with bowed head and hand upon his chest. "I was working on a report for Swordmaster Gwinhir and lost track of time. I am sorry. By the time I left the library, lights were out. I was coming to report as soon as I was dressed."

"And that is another thing. You are late to your post. Do you think the morning meal is to be kept waiting for you just because you are the son of Ecthelion?"

"Nay... Nay that was not my intent." The sting in Ingold's tone hurt him deeply. He did not know what else to say.

Ingold shook his head. "You will be put on report. You will do stable duty immediately after you break your fast. You will miss one of your classes and therefore, you will have to make it up later during your free time. This will place a hardship upon Captain Gwinhir, who must lose his free time also, due to your lack of respect for your duty. Now go to the hall." How could a man's back sting him so? As Ingold walked away, it reminded Denethor of Ecthelion's turned back and he cried in shame, frustration, and hurt as he quickly finished his bed and ran towards the company's dining hall.

As he passed the stables, a once familiar voice rang in his ears. "Denethor! Denethor, it is I, Amdir!"

Denethor whirled around at the sound of that voice. There he was before him, his friend of a thousand adventures! "Amdir!" He rushed to his friend's side and hugged him fervently. "What does this mean? Why are you here?"

"Why am I here! You silly goose. I told you I would wait for you each morning in the stables. And you have not come - until today. But your lack of punctuality is known to me and I offer you forgiveness." Amdir started to laugh and once again hugged his friend. "My father has finally allowed me to begin my training. I turned twelve three months ago. I am now an esquire and stationed with the Horse Guard; a commission has made it easier to keep my promise!"

"Twelve. Yes, you were always so much older than I," Denethor gently teased him. "It is so good to see you again."

"I waited, Denethor, every day, just as I promised you. But you never came." The hurt was strong in Amdir's face and voice.

Never had anyone had a truer friend, Denethor thought in amaze. "I would have, if I could. At first, after our adventure to Osgiliath, I was kept in my rooms. Shortly after that, I was placed in Ingold's care. He had other plans for me - plans that did not include my visiting with friends, I am afraid." Denethor tried to keep his voice light, to keep the pain and hurt from his friend, but Amdir would have none of it.

"My mother and father have been fighting since that day, Denethor. Mother says it is shameful how your father is treating you and -"

"Naught my father does is shameful, Amdir. You must remember that. He will be Gondor's Steward one day. Then, it will be my turn. He does what he must to prepare me, to help me be ready to rule Gondor until the return of the king."

Amdir stared in shock at Denethor. He had changed since their last adventure. "My mother asks me to remind you that the irises are still in her garden. She has watched them with care. They have grown and flourished."

Denethor started at the word 'iris.' Tears sprang to his eyes. He remembered the joy he had as they set out for Ithilien to dig up the plants for Indis' birth day. He remembered the beauty of the field of irises when they first came upon it. He remembered the last time he had seen his father - in the corridor outside the Great Hall. The last time he had seen him as father and son.

He shook his head violently. "Please give her my thanks, Amdir. It is almost a shame that your father is my warden. I could sneak away and see the flowers, but the chance of running into him is too great!" He suddenly smiled, "But come, my friend, I am already late - I have not broken my fast yet, and after I do, I must clean the stables. I only stopped to see what state they were in, and for that I am glad; I might have missed seeing you. But, tell me about you, dear friend, and what you have been doing these many long years."

Elleth looked at Amdir in surprise. "Yes it was, my son." She put down the cloth she was going to use to carry the meal to the table and stared hard and long at Ingold. Ingold squirmed - this was not to be a quiet family dinner as he had hoped. The captain had forgotten it was Denethor's birth day.

"I saw him this morning. He looks unhappy and he does not talk the way he used to. Mother, my friend has changed and it hurts to see him thus. He received no presents. I did not even bring my gift - he was not there last year or the year before. I really did not think I would see him. No one came to visit him. He did not tell me this, but I could tell, Mother. Why would not his father or his sisters visit him on his birth day?"

"It is not our place to question the affairs of the Steward's family," Ingold said brusquely, hoping to stop the conversation by the tone of his voice. However, he frowned to himself and remembered what a sour day it must have been for the boy. Ecthelion had relegated Denethor to Ingold's care almost three years ago with specific instructions not to pamper the lad - to raise him as a soldier of Gondor. He had obeyed. He had seen to his studies and his training, but who was seeing to his development as a man? He had felt burdened by this and had yet to decide what to do.

The boy was twelve. All the ceremonies that a Steward's son was to go through had been abandoned. There were none for Denethor - no sword ceremony, no fellowship ceremony...and this last one - the most important - the giving of the Ring. The boy was twelve and should have been commissioned on his birth day into the service of Gondor as an ensign as befitted one in the line of Stewards. Ingold had broached the subject to Ecthelion and had been sternly warned not to bring it up again. But his duty to Gondor was also to this lad. He would approach Ecthelion again. Gossip had slowed after the first few months of Denethor's banishment; he did not want it started up again. The people of Gondor were not fools. They knew the old rituals and when they were to be performed. He must speak with Ecthelion about this.

"Have I been wrong, my beloved?" Ecthelion asked quietly. He was sitting in her garden off the bedroom they had shared. He had not been in it for over a year, yet the garden had been well tended. The gardenias' leaves were resplendent in their greenery, but it would be many months before they would bloom. He found it strange that they lived such a short time, as his beloved Rían had lived such a short time.

Yet again, doubt assailed him. Unbeknownst to others, he had kept an eye on Denethor. He would arrange to walk past the training fields when he knew he was there. His only concern was to prepare Denethor for the hard life that would be his as Steward in the days of terror he knew were coming. Naught would still this foreboding in his heart.

He looked towards Osgiliath and the mountains beyond and a sense of desperation filled him. There had been increased Orc attacks, but nothing more. Reports of a great and deadly battle in the north had reached his ears - Orcs and Elves and Men and Dwarves - even a dragon. The tale seemed too incredible to be true. Yet, more and more as the years passed, his heart grew pinched. Perhaps he was missing his son? Nay, what he was doing was right. The lad had to learn - more than any other child in Gondor. He had to be ready when the time came. Yesterday was his birth day. Was Rían chiding him for not celebrating it with him? The twelfth year.

She had been gone twelve years. His mind reeled. It seemed like only yesterday. He could still feel the warmth of her lips on his; the remembrance brought tears to his eyes. He touched a finger to his mouth, closed his eyes, and drank in the sweetness of the memory. He tried to imagine her face, her hair, her eyes, but to no avail. His heart was heavy with thoughts of Denethor. He missed her mightily, but he also missed his son. Perhaps it was time. Ingold had come to him months ago requesting that Denethor be commissioned, but even though Ingold was many years his elder, Ecthelion had deemed him wrong in his assessment of Denethor's readiness. He would speak to Ingold later this morning, discover the extent of his son's growth; then he would make up his mind.

This twelfth year also weighed heavily upon Morwen and Indis' hearts. Their father's path for Denethor collided with their own. Yet Ecthelion was an imposing man and would not brook dissent nor conversation if it dealt with Denethor; any talk of Denethor was strictly forbidden these past three years. They remembered the severe tongue-lashing they had received the first night they had let Denethor stay with them after he had been taken out of the nursery. The little boy's nightmare had been terrible. Denethor's eyes were wide with fright. Ecthelion had come and found him with them and dragged the lad back to his own rooms. The look of anger on their father's face had frozen them. Morwen had had nightmares for a long time afterwards.

Indis finally decided that enough was enough. She was going to find out what had happened that fateful day. She was almost seventeen now. She would stand up to their father. Morwen was appalled. She was ever so afraid of him. What would he do to Indis if she pursued this? Would she be banished? Morwen could not bear the thought of her beloved sister taken from her. She sobbed hysterically, held onto Indis and would not let her go.

"Morwen, I must. I cannot stand it any longer. He is our brother, our little brother. I must do something to change Father's mind. I cannot live like this. I will not be sent away, I promise you that."

But could she keep that promise? She hurried along the Fourth Level and wished she knew what she was going to say. This woman had never been a friend of theirs; she was the Horse Captain's wife and almost twice as old as Indis. What duty of life would ever throw them together? Yet, thrown together they would be, if Indis had any control over the matter. Perhaps she could trip outside their door and seek help with a hurt ankle? 'That is ridiculous!' Perhaps she could say she lost her way? 'Oh dear! This is not working,' she thought miserably. As she turned the corner, however, fate stepped in and she ran right into Elleth.

"I am terribly sorry, my Lady. I did not see you," cried Elleth in dismay at running into, and almost knocking over, the Steward's own granddaughter. She picked up the flowers dropped in the encounter, trying desperately to hide her discomfiture.

"Nay, nay. Entirely my fault. I was not watching where I was going. You are Amdir's mother, are you not?"

"Why, yes, I am." The tone in Indis' voice warmed Elleth's heart and she found the courage to ask, "Will you not stop for a moment? I have baked some tarts - the berries are fresh and I would love to offer you some tea. My home is just a few houses down." In her heart, Elleth had been trying to find a way to meet with this woman, ever since Denethor had been placed under Ingold's care. Who would have thought they would encounter each other on this day of all days?

Indis smiled. This was going much easier than she had hoped. As she sat at the parlour table, she noted the simplicity and beauty of the room. Little collectibles were everywhere. Mostly - they seemed to be stones. Different shapes, sizes, and colors crowded every free space in the room.

Elleth blushed. "My son, my Amdir, loves to collect stones. He brings them to me with such pride and joy - I would have them out of here, but he is my only son..." She blushed again. 'I sound like a schoolgirl blathering, not knowing when to hold my tongue!'

"They are lovely. And I must confess, I have no such mementos of Denethor. I am ashamed. Amdir and Denethor's friendship is one of the reasons I came to see you."

Elleth was startled. This was not chance that brought them together. She poured the tea and waited.

Indis took a deep breath. "My father is a noble man. The welfare of Gondor lies heavily upon his heart. And with our mother gone, he strongly feels the burden of his son. I believe he sometimes is heavy-handed. Yet his heart is pure. And I would do all in my power to help him. But at the moment, he has turned from any council I might offer. I say this to prevent any harsh thoughts about him. Please, tell me what happened that May. I must know. Our family is torn asunder and I would right what has happened."

Elleth furrowed her brow in consternation, not knowing what to say to ease the pain she heard in Indis' voice, nor to explain the harshness of the events that happened afterwards. 'That day seemed so inconsequential,' Elleth thought. 'Nothing untoward appeared to have happened and yet the very depths of Gondor were shaken by it.'

"Denethor wanted to find a truly wonderful present for your birth day," Elleth began.

"The boys went to Ithilien together and found a great patch of irises. They dug up six plants, wrapped them, and brought them back. Due to a thunderstorm and some small injuries, they were very late returning. The captain of Osgiliath sent out search parties looking for them. The garrison there was up in arms. An errand-rider was sent to your father. The boys were found and returned to Minas Tirith the following day. That is when your father handed Denethor over to Ingold's care. Please, come with me."

Elleth led Indis through a side door into a small garden area. Overshadowing herbs and fledgling vegetables was a sea of tall iris leaves. They had not yet flowered; it was much too early in the season, but Indis could tell that they were large, healthy, and wondrous plants. Tears spilled from her eyes. She could not speak. She remembered telling Denethor about the forests of irises in Ithilien. She wanted to sob aloud. She had caused this. Nay -- it was not her fault, but her heart broke inside her nonetheless. 'Such pain and suffering over flowers. How could this be?'

Elleth gently led her back into the parlour. "My Lady, please take a sip of your tea." Elleth was beside herself; perhaps she had been wrong in telling of the event. She sat and waited while Indis caught her breath.

"I... I do not know what to say. Would it be possible for me to take one of the flowers when they bloom?"

Elleth laughed. "My Lady, I was just the keeper. The plants are all yours. To do with as you will. They were your birth day gift from Denethor. I could not keep them, even if you asked me too."

"Ah, but they are quite established now. We will divide them and then you will be able to keep some and I will still have my gift. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you..." She paused for a moment. "For everything."

She continued, "I had already decided that it was time I would go to my Father about Denethor and this confirms it. I had no idea what happened that day. The punishment was set, father's mind was set, and that path for our family was set. But I believe it is high time for a change. And I mean to do something about it. I must go now and devise some way to bring this to father, find the words that will help me sway him. I cannot thank you enough for your kindness to my brother and to me. Please, please come to the Citadel soon and we will talk again. I will send my maid to bring the plants to my garden. I cannot wait to show Denethor. You have made me so very happy, dear lady. Thank you!" And she quickly hugged Elleth and ran out the door.

Elleth sat back in amazement. She rued some of the words she had said to her husband concerning the family of Turgon.

They say the best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry. Naught could have stopped Indis from her resolve, naught except, perhaps, death.

The Citadel reeled from the news. Gondor's people flocked to the Great Hall, words of horror on their lips, waiting for the Steward to speak, to assuage their fears. More people gathered in the square by the statue of Isildur opposite the Great Gate. Soldiers were seen sequestered in doorways and alleyways. It was as if the City itself staggered.

Captain Cranthir was dead - along with all those who had joined him in the day's patrol. It was to have been a short jaunt into Ithilien - one of the daily patrols into that fair, but near-deserted land. Usually, the Captain of Osgiliath let others lead the patrol, but today had been a glorious day and he chafed against certain restraints imposed upon him by the Steward. So he led the men forth, but none returned. An errand-rider was immediately dispatched to Turgon, who sat on the Steward's chair - stunned and voiceless. The Chamberlain had cleared the Great Hall so that father and son could speak in private. Ecthelion urged Turgon to speak to the people, but there was naught in his father's eyes but despair. How could Ecthelion say, 'I told you so?' There was no joy in this moment of knowledge. There was no vindication. He knew disaster was brooding on their very doorstep, but never did he think it would hit so close to home. His last link with Rían - her brother now dead and gone. Nay! Cranthir was not his last link - it was Denethor! Denethor was his last link. He would find the boy. He must find the boy. As he walked towards the door, Turgon awoke from his stupor and called his name.

"Ecthelion. Help me!" Ecthelion bowed his head. What could he say to the Steward? All these many years he had attempted to plead his cause for more men in the army of Gondor, greater defenses along Osgiliath, the retaking of Eastern Osgiliath, the Rammas Echor fortified. And all these many years, his father had turned a deaf ear. This could have been avoided, Ecthelion felt; this should have been avoided. How ironic that it should be the death of one of the noblest families of Gondor that would finally cause his father to open his eyes.

"Father, you must speak to our people. You must use this time to rally them to the defense of Minas Tirith and of all Gondor. You must prepare for battle. This is not a one-time occurrence. You yourself heard the reports of the battle east of Mirkwood. There will be more Orc attacks. You know it. I beg you - tell the people that they must send their sons for training, that the City must be prepared for war, that the men and women must focus on making Gondor strong again!"

"Yes, Father. They must have comfort, but they must see that there is a plan to protect them."

"Yes, a plan. There must be a plan." Turgon's eyes clouded over and Ecthelion started at the look of age on his face. He was only eighty-eight. He had many years left to govern Gondor. Yet, the bright eyes and youthful stance of the Númenórean race were gone. When had they gone and left this old man in his place?

Suddenly, the light was there again, faint, but present. "I shall call my captains. We will plan. We must!"

All night the captains deliberated and Ecthelion fumed. There was no substance to the planning, no thoughts but those of defeat or denial or worse, apathy.

The next morning broke clear and bright. Peregrines encircled the White Tower chattering and calling to each other. All night, Amdir had searched every level of Minas Tirith starting with the stables and ending with the barracks, but to no avail. Denethor was nowhere to be found. He sat dejectedly on a stoop, holding his head in his hands. He knew he must find him. Cranthir was Denethor's most beloved friend as well as uncle. 'Where could he be?'

Another loud cry from a diving peregrine made Amdir look up. A smile touched his face. He knew where Denethor was. He ran to the back of the escarpment and started climbing the stairs. Why had not he thought of this before? He had wasted so much time. Finally, he arrived at the door and listened quietly, catching his breath. No sound. He could not be wrong! Slowly he pushed the door open, saw the beacon before him, the two beacon-tenders, but no sign of his quarry. He turned to leave and as he did, he saw Denethor hunched in a corner next to a bench. His eyes filled with tears.

Denethor did not even look up. His head was cradled in his arms. His shoulders shook slightly.

Amdir walked towards him and sat on the bench, as close to his friend as he could. He knew he had not the words to comfort him, but he had to stand next to him, to let him know that he was there for him.

A silver trumpet sang out in the morning, dispelling all darkness and making Denethor's heart jump. 'How can I sit here in mourning? I have duties to perform.' As he rose, he looked at Amdir in surprise. "When did you get here? Last night?"

Amdir started. "I just arrived a few moments ago. I came to see if you needed anything."

"Nay, but thank you, my friend. We must attend to our duties. There are many things that must be done, preparations for mourners from far lands, cleaning of the stables for their mounts and hunting for sustenance for our guests. Then errand-riders must be sent with the news. The burial must be in Ithilien; he would have wanted that. Will you come with me to your father? Mayhap he will let us hunt together."

"You know I will follow you anywhere, Denethor. Do you want to talk about Captain Cranthir? I remember the last time I saw him. You remember, do you not? We were in Osgiliath at his home and he broke the fast with us in the morning after our adventure. He was telling us about the time he had gotten lost. Do you remember?"

A sob escaped Denethor's lips. "I remember it well. That was also the last time I saw him. His kindness - we must go."

"Lead on, my Lord, and I will follow," laughed Amdir, but there was no laughter in reply. Amdir sighed. This was going to be a long day.

Indis was beside herself. She had called the Captain of the Watch and requested that Denethor be sent to her. His emissary had returned an hour later saying that Denethor was not available. She was furious. Had Ingold forbidden it? She would go to the Great Hall and demand from her father that Denethor be allowed to be with her at this time. She threw her cloak around her shoulders and stamped out of her room, running directly into Morwen.

"Where are you going now?" 'Wen cried. She saw the look in her sister's eyes, the look that had been growing there these past years and knew that she was losing her childhood friend. She also knew Indis was growing up. Furthermore, she knew where she was headed.

"I am away to see father. No one will let me see Denethor and I will not have this - on this day of all days!" She shook, she was so furious. "Cranthir was beloved of Denethor and I will not have him mourn alone. There is no reason for it."

Morwen took a deep breath. "Then I am going with you. I will not let you fight this alone. Though I am most afraid, Indis. Are you sure we should go? Do not you think father will be furious? Can we send one of the servants?"

"I value our father's love, but I value my own respect more. I will not stand by and let Denethor suffer alone. Not another day will I let go by without doing something. My mind is made up."

"Woman, get back to your rooms. You have duties to perform. There are notices to be designed and lists of guests to invite. It is your duty to do these things, not mine. Gondor's defenses are my ilk. Go! Now!"

Morwen ran back through the Great Hall, tears streaming down her eyes. Indis stood in front of Ecthelion. She shook inside but would not let him see it. She would not run! This was too important. She must not fail - herself or her brother.

"You would pay heed to your guests over your own son! Lists will be prepared, but your first duty is to your son, my Lord. I will command Ingold to bring him to you here within the hour. I will go now to do that duty and the one that you have given me. Father!" she begged him, "Life is very short and our span lessons with every generation. You must speak with him. There may not be another time. Does not my uncle's death tell you this! Please."

"I will speak with him. But have Ingold send him to my chambers. Now go and do your duty, my daughter. Know that I am pleased."

She almost skipped down the length of the Hall. She had stood up to him, with respect, but she had stood up to him. Now, perhaps, Ecthelion and Denethor would be reconciled and the family would be one again. Cranthir would be most pleased. His death had meaning.

The remains, that was all they could be called, were placed in a closed coffin and displayed in the Great Hall. When the soldiers had found the bodies of the lost company, they stood stunned. Limbs lay far from bodies, tossed from the battlefield as if in mockery. Heads had been severed and unspeakable tortures were visible on the torsos. Some soldiers went off and did what they had to do to help overcome the horror they felt. Sounds filled the air, sounds of sickness and despair. Sobs racked many a man that day. Sacks were brought; they massed all the parts together, to be separated and identified in Minas Tirith. None envied the task of the healers in correcting the chaos that lay before them.

Due to the fact that Cranthir was of the Steward's family, though by marriage only, it was fitting that he lay in state in the Great Hall instead of in the Soldier's Hall. This distressed many of his friends; the Captain of Osgiliath had hated pomp and any show of stature. He thought himself a simple soldier; his friends knew him as one of honor and courage and loyalty. They would have preferred to spend their last moments with their captain in privacy.

Only a few torches were lit in the Great Hall. Shadows abounded, but Ecthelion was glad. He wanted to see nothing clearly this night. He laid his hand gently on the coffin. "Ah, my old friend. How I will miss you. You understood, more than many in higher places, the need for vigilance. You were my one ally in this battle against those who would have us sit and wait for death to tear us apart." Tears formed in his eyes; he let them fall. No shame for Ecthelion. A heavy sigh left his lips. "I am so very sorry that I had not seen you these past months. I am so very sorry that I did not bring Denethor to visit again. I know your heart and his were attached - beyond even any attachment that he and I had." At this thought, he shook his head. "I will miss your wisdom, though I did not oft listen to it. Forgive me, my old friend." He bowed his head, the grief too much to bear. He felt alone this night, alone against the forces of darkness and evil. Tomorrow this Hall would be open to the people of Gondor, but tonight, he would mourn in solitude next to his old friend.

He heard a noise, faint, coming from a corner near the entranceway. "Who is it? I have not given my permission for any to enter yet. Leave me now!"

What voice was that? It rang familiar. He turned towards the sound. A small figure started towards him, slowly, fearfully. Suddenly the figure began to run, legs churning down the long Hall. Ecthelion gasped. It was his son, his Denethor. He stooped and hugged the sobbing boy to a chest that suddenly burned with unaccountable pain.

Neither spoke for some time; they held on to each other. No words were needed. Father and son were one again.

Ecthelion sat and leaned against the coffin, still holding Denethor in his arms. Their tears mingled, tears of sorrow for the lost one and tears of joy for the found ones. Indis stood in the shadows and sobbed.

Morning brought rain, heavy, menacing. Torches blazed to dispel some of the darkness of the day; their smell and smoke covered the Hall. Yet the people came. First, Cranthir's own company, what was left of it - those who had been too sick to patrol that day, or had been on leave - they proceeded to form an honor guard around the coffin. Next came Turgon, Ecthelion, Denethor, Indis, Morwen and the rest of the Steward's family. After that came soldiers, in their finest uniforms, cleaned and buffed till every button, buckle and clasp shown bright. Then Rangers in their dark garb, browns and greens, adding a somber note to the scene. Guests from far off lands came also, from Lossarnach and Lebennin, Rohan and Dol Amroth, great captains and leaders, kings and princes. Finally, the people of Gondor, proud and noble and wounded; all filed past. After the day's viewing, the coffin was paraded to the Great Gate on a black draped wain; Captain Cranthir's horse led behind. The entourage gathered before the gate and Turgon spoke in the Common Tongue.

"My fellow men and women of Gondor. The past days have been a sore trial for our land. It has been many long years since such violence has been made against us. Yes, I say against us for it was not against Cranthir and his company alone that this was done; rather, it was done against all of Gondor."

Ecthelion was stunned by these words. Were they finally words of reprisal? Perhaps the Council had come to some agreement the night of his vigil with Cranthir's body. Perhaps something had happened that he did not know of. He waited in hope.

"And now, all Gondor must learn to heal. This was a random act. There was no sense to it. I do not believe it will occur again. We will keep our garrison at Osgiliath for the time being, but know that the captains and I do not feel that there is cause for alarm. A wayward Orc or two do not mean the end of the peace. We are not in danger. Know that, my people, and be at peace. We go now to bury our brethren." He started forward and the procession followed.

"Nay!" Ecthelion screamed in his heart. How could he keep from screaming aloud? His jaw hurt from holding it tight shut, from not saying the words that should have been said. His shoulders shook from the fury that engulfed his being. Then they stooped and he stifled a sigh. He had no authority to say another word. He must wait upon his father and obey him. But his heart was frozen within him. What further harm had to occur before his father would see? The death of Cranthir was for naught. His chin trembled at the attempt to keep from crying. His heart despaired.

Muffled drums beat quietly, their cadence giving matter to the procession's progress. Passing through the Pelennor, the entourage headed towards the garrison at Osgiliath. They would pass the night there and begin Cranthir's last journey. The next morning dawned clear and bright. Water from a sudden storm during the night still covered the streets of the old city adding a further sense of loss. The broken city was mirrored in puddles and Ecthelion sensed these were the teardrops of the city, crying out for revenge. Once across the Anduin, the party headed southward, towards the old homestead of Cranthir's family, now long abandoned. A company of Rangers had been sent ahead to scout the area. Even though it was a mighty procession, Orcs and Haradrim were not above trying to disrupt even a solemn time such as this. There was no way the Haradrim could not have heard of the disaster, mayhap even been part of it. Gondor's only hope was that they would think Cranthir would be buried in Minas Tirith. Or better yet, that Gondor was afraid to come to Ithilien after the massacre.

There was not a word said, nor a song sung; despair weighed heavily on all present. The drums continued their low anguish. They passed ruin after ruin of towns and farms, lost and forsaken. Even in the depths of their grief, the entourage was stunned by the desolation of the land. The enemy had ravaged field, forest, and glade. No crops were visible -- even fields that had gone wild were bare. Something had been used to scorch the earth and leave the ground untenable for life. Orchards, long forsaken, had there trees chopped into small pieces and left on the ground to decay. There could be naught more to say; the silent screams of the denigration done to this land and to the people of Gondor went unanswered.

Soldiers had gone, the day before, to the burial site and repaired the damage to the family vault. Cranthir was laid inside and the heavy door swung shut and bolted. Ecthelion put his arm on Denethor's shoulders and the two walked away, their heads bent in sorrow. Denethor would not soon forget this day. This day they had laid to rest his dearest confidant, one who held him in esteem, given him a sense of worth, challenged him to grow, and taught him how to laugh and to cry. Sobs strangled him as he fought to hold them in. As his shoulders shook, his father tightened his hold. Denethor's heart lifted. The touch of his father was long sought after and long denied. To feel the warmth of his body next to his was beyond comprehension. There was no condemnation in that touch -- a shared moment of grief.

Then, Ecthelion started to speak to him of what had happened and what should be Gondor's response. He spoke to him as one man to another. They discussed the many battles that had assailed this land in times past and what course of action had been taken in response. Ecthelion opened his heart to his son and laid upon him the burden of regret that he felt for Gondor. He cautioned Denethor to show respect for Turgon, but decried Turgon's path for Gondor.

"When we return to the Citadel, my son, we must devote ourselves to understanding warfare, for war is upon us, on our very doorstep. You have spent many long years in learning swordsmanship and archery, self-defense and survival training. I would now that you put your entire self into the matter of warfare. I will instruct Ingold to portion a time of your day to research in the Great Library. You cannot learn enough. The past will show us how to prepare for the future. We will meet once a week and you will bring me your findings. We will discuss our preparations for defense, but we must also prepare for offense. This we will do quietly, you and I. For Turgon will be laid with our fathers one day soon and I will be Steward. Then, I can protect Gondor; we can protect Gondor until the king comes."

Amdir and Ingold walking a short distance behind them looked at the heads bent close together, and smiled sadly. Ingold was glad that his Captain-General was educating his son; Amdir was glad Denethor had his father back. As Ingold placed his own hand on his son's shoulder, Amdir sighed. Perhaps Cranthir's death had purpose.

Thengel was going to be wed. He had met the Lady Morwen of Lossarnach during a tour of duty in the southern fiefdom, and had fallen deeply in love with her. All Minas Tirith was in an uproar, a very pleasant one after last year's events. No one, it seemed, but Denethor and his father remembered the horror of the last year, yet Denethor remembered it too well and would not let the memory of Cranthir die, nor the reason why he died. But he, also, was caught up in the planning. Now that he lived back in his old rooms in the Steward's Hall, he could not but be involved. Indis and 'Wen were forever running back and forth, clucking, chattering, and driving almost everyone 'round the bend, so to speak.

There were so many dignitaries coming for the wedding, first and foremost Fengel, King of the Mark. The Prince of Dol Amroth, Angelimir, was coming also. Denethor was most interested in speaking with him. Though they had met many times, it was when Denethor was a child; he was almost of age now, and he hoped he could approach the prince. He so wanted to speak with him about great fleets and battles at sea. Never had he lost his longing to one day be a part of seafaring history. He had had to put that part of his reading aside after his father charged him with learning more about the battles in Ithilien and Northern Gondor, but his heart still lay with the sea. He vowed one day he would make an extended visit to the inlet of Cobas Haven in the Bay of Belfalas and the fair city of Dol Amroth.

Indis gave him a light, playful tap on the back of his head. "Focus, would you, Denethor! There are too many details for me to handle alone. I must needs your input on where the three Marshals of Rohan should be seated. This is beyond me. Why would Father put me in charge of the seating? I have never done it before!" Much as she groused, Denethor could tell she was pleased and proud of these new duties.

He sat at the long table in Indis' room and stayed as quiet as possible, hoping she would not notice, as she poured over her notes, that he was trying to read a book he had found in the Great Library. He had it hidden under the cloth covering the table, peeping at it every few moments.

But Indis was to be left to her own devices, and he would not yet finish the book. A messenger came from Ingold requesting Denethor's presence. He had been at fault for missing the morning's lessons and was in store for definite punishment. Ah, but he was free and knew that Ingold would be merciful. Not many would dare stand up to Indis this last year. She had become a woman on fire; her whole demeanor had changed. She had finally come of age and had taken her mother's role, and taken it well.

As punishment, Ingold sent Denethor off to the Great Library. Denethor's cheeks burned with the fire of enthusiasm. To spend the rest of the morning in the library - life could be no better. His assignment was the Battle of the Camp. He relished this tale for it told of Eärnil and the way he saved Gondor. Eärnil was also father to Eärnur, the great captain who brought his fleet north and helped defeat the Witch-king. This was a good assignment; one that would fill his next few days and keep him far from Indis as she prepared for the wedding. As he stepped into the cool darkness of the lower room, Curunír stepped out of the shadows. A chill ran down Denethor's spine. What was he doing here?

"Forgive me, Lord Denethor. I see I have startled you. I hope you are well. It is good to see that you have become so adept at your training that you are back living in the Steward's Hall?"

There was a note of disdain in his voice. Denethor was beginning to see people - to see through their guile. He assumed it was a gift that most had, but, in truth, it was a gift to those of purer Númenórean blood. Indis had oft said that the blood of Númenor flowed strong and fair through him.

"My Lord," Curunír shrugged and tried to hide a scowl. "I am ever your servant. Is there aught I can do for you? I seem to recall the last time we met here; you were studying the Battle of Dagorlad. Has that assignment been completed?"

"I am here to study the Battle of the Camp. The books on the Wainriders are stored in this level. There is much that I do not know about this battle, but since I know where the books are stored, I should do fine."

"Well, perhaps I should leave you to your own devices. I am looking for uses for some herbs I have just discovered near the Eastfold." With that, he brusquely turned his back upon Denethor.

Denethor was glad. He was looking forward to his time in this hallowed place. He fervently hoped that the wizard would leave, and quickly. It seemed a strange change from his last encounter, but then he had been abandoned and felt quite alone; now he had his father again. The wizard, however, would not leave. A darkness seemed to fall upon the room and the voice of the wizard bore itself into his very being. What was Curunír saying? His words were soft and low, too low for Denethor to hear the content, but the timbre shook him to the core. There was a malevolence in the sound. Denethor could feel himself being drawn towards the wizard and he fought for control of himself. A glint of light shone off a ring on Curunír's hand. The wizard stepped closer and their eyes locked.

"You are a brave lad, Lord Denethor," the wizard droned. Denethor could not pull himself away, nor his eyes from that stare. "You have only my deepest respect and admiration. You are most wise; I can see it already in your demeanor. I am looking forward to working with you, for the defense of Gondor."

Denethor found himself breathing hard. The words were soothing, but his whole being flinched at the touch of those words. Yet, he could do naught to fight this strange malaise that lay upon him. More was said; he remembered not what in the days that followed. At last the wizard gave a sigh and moved away from him. Denethor gasped and ran to the stairs. He told himself he would not look back, but was drawn to; it seemed he had no will of his own. The wizard smiled at him and waved him off, as if dismissing him.

As he reached the parapet, Amdir ran into him and they both almost fell to the ground. Amdir laughed uproariously. "You must watch where you are running, my friend. You might run right into your sister who has been looking for you these last few hours!"

"What time is it?" Denethor asked for the sun was low in the sky and he had gone to the library in the late morning. He was frightened, gasping for breath. Where had the time gone? What had happened in the library? He had not opened a book and yet the day was lost to him.

"It is near to the daymeal. I came to invite you to our home. Mother has asked if you might join us. I thought you would enjoy being away from your sisters for at least a little time."

"I am sorry, Amdir. I must be away. I... I have chores to do." He turned to walk away but Amdir put his hand on his shoulder.

Denethor looked into pure eyes, simple eyes and a portion of the chill that was on his body left him. "You are right, my friend. I must trust someone. I have just left the Great Library. The wizard was there." He went on to explain what had happened, the time lapse, and his loss of memory of what was said or done during that time. "I... I am frightened a little, my friend. I would know what power he has wielded over me and I would find a way to stop it. But I know not how he took me from myself nor how to overcome it."

"Yes, you did. And the last time I saw him, I remembered your words and vowed to stay away from him. But I seem to be thrown at him. Every time I am in the library, he seems to be there." He shook his head trying to clear it, to make some sense of what had happened to him.

"Nay! I will speak to no one about this and, as my friend, I require you to do the same. I know not what is happening, but I will determine what is to be done. In the meantime, you must promise to say naught to anyone about this."

Amdir, distressed, nodded. "I will do as you wish, Denethor. But next time you run into this wizard, find me, call for me. I will be at your side immediately. This is no foe to take lightly."

A thought, strange yet haunting came over him; words he had heard in the library came back to him and he shivered. "I am no foe, Denethor. I am your friend."

The previous year, Ingold had been promoted to Captain of the Guard. One of the privileges that came with the promotion was the fact that the family moved to the Sixth Level - not on the north side where the sun shone so warm, but on the south side ever shadowed by Mount Mindolluin. 'Never mind that,' thought Elleth, 'I am close to my husband and my son,' and that thought brought its own sunshine. She smiled and hummed as she went about preparations for the evening meal.

As with all of Gondor, she was basking in the excitement of the wedding preparations. Indis had heard, probably from Denethor, that Elleth was gifted in lacework and had commissioned her to create handkerchiefs for the new bride. Elleth was delighted; handkerchiefs bearing the White Tree upon it were what she penciled on paper and showed to Indis. Overwhelmed, Indis hugged her when she saw the pattern. It was just what she had hoped for. The women had spent many days together discussing how many to present to Morwen, if they would be in colors or the purest white, when they might be completed, and how much Elleth would require for compensation. Elleth had wanted to offer them without payment, but then she remembered the sword that Ingold had ordered from the smithies for Amdir's commissioning to lieutenant, due in two years time. She gratefully accepted the offered coinage and placed it in her special place. The sword was most expensive, but both father and mother would make any sacrifice to protect their son. A sword was not a thing to be bandied about lightly, a toy; it was a weapon used to defend a soldier and to defend Gondor. Only the best would do for that service!

As she was smiling over thoughts of the sword, Amdir and Denethor arrived without their customary racket; Elleth looked up in surprise as the boys edged through the door. Amdir gave her a small smile and a hug; yet, Denethor stayed back, not his usual custom. Elleth wondered what trouble the lads had gotten into. After they had washed, they stripped peas with her and scrubbed carrots. Neither boy spoke; a feeling of disquiet assailed her. What could be wrong with the lads in this time of merriment and joy? Just as she was about to speak, Ingold came in with a rush, the scent of the barracks clinging to him - a scent that Elleth had held dear from the moment she had met him. It spoke to her of strength and courage and fidelity. He had been all that to her in these years since first they spoke their promises to each other, and more.

Ingold wrapped his arms about her, kissed her lightly on the brow, and then proceeded to wash himself in preparation for the evening meal. Amdir, now officially in training and a future soldier of Gondor, smiled politely. Ingold would have none of that. He grabbed his son and hugged him till the breath almost left him. Amdir, as always overwhelmed by the love of his father, shoved his head into his father's shoulder and sighed. What he would not give to speak to his father of Denethor's experience with the wizard. His promise to his friend sealed his lips, but could not erase his need for comfort. He was afraid for his friend and did not know how to help him. It would be so very easy to just ask Ingold what to do. Denethor's eyes caught his and they were filled with warning. Amdir was surprised. Did Denethor know what he was thinking?

"Wizards are not to be trusted," he blurted out and reddened. He could not look at Denethor; he had not meant to say anything like that! Denethor tensed, resisting a foolish urge to run for the door.

"Ah, wizards. My son, it is better to stay away from them. A soldier needs no dealings with a wizard. He is here for the wedding, I am sure. Ecthelion usually invites him to these events. Remember, Denethor?" he turned towards Denethor, "He was invited to your Horn Ceremony many years ago."

"Yes, I remember the ceremony well, Captain, but I do not remember many of those in attendance," he hedged. "It was a rather great crowd and I was only seven at the time."

"Seven. You have grown and I will not have you call me captain in my house. I am Ingold, father of your friend, and therefore, friend to you."

Denethor started in surprise. The memory of the wizard was still very much upon him. Ingold's kindness brought tears to his eyes, but he willed them away. "Thank you, my friend," he said and bowed stiffly to cover his discomfiture, "I will remember that."

Amdir walked him home after the meal. "I am so very sorry, Denethor. Honestly, I would not betray your confidence for all the mithril in Middle-earth. Please forgive me."

"There is naught to forgive, friend. I understand your fear. It has clung to me all evening. I cannot shake the feeling of alarm that has settled upon me. I would that I might speak with someone about this, but I am at a loss as to whom."

"Father invites the wizard here! How am I to go to him? What am I supposed to say? 'The wizard casts spells that I am sure are all for Gondor's good?' What proofs have I? 'I went to the library in the morning, Father, and when I left it was late afternoon?' Fie on that; there is naught that can be done. Except - I must protect myself. I will go to the library tomorrow to look for some spells or enchantments that I might be able to use to defend myself. Would you..." He felt so very foolish. "Would you meet me there tomorrow after nuncheon? I would go alone, but I..."

"Do not say another word. You would be foolish not to ask me. Perhaps in numbers there will be strength. He would not dare do a thing against you whilst others are about." He laid a hand gently on Denethor's shoulder and was surprised that he had to reach up to place it there. Denethor had grown; Amdir was almost a full year older and yet, Denethor was already a few inches above him. "Never mind that wizard, my friend, I know a trick or two we can use to outsmart him."

"Friend you are indeed, Amdir. What Valar do I owe this gift to? I will see you tomorrow then. Walk safely home, my friend, and thank you."

He turned the corner towards the White Tower and ran directly into someone dressed in a black cloak . He shivered uncontrollably; fear gripped his stomach and his chest.

"What are you doing out so late, my Lord?" a familiar and welcome voice questioned him.

"Thengel! What a delight." Denethor breathed deeply in the cool night air and breathed out the horror that had gripped him. "What are you doing on this level yourself, this late at night?" He greeted him with bowed head and hand upon his breast.

"You have caught me, my Lord," smiled Thengel. "I was coming from the guest quarters. I had to see Morwen one last time before the stars came out. Time slipped away from us as we watched Eärendil appear." Thengel blushed at the telling of his private affairs to this child!

Denethor perceived the thought upon Thengel and smiled. "I have not been a child since last year's massacre in Ithilien, my Lord. You should know better than that. The loss of one loved beyond endurance is a loss that causes one to mature quickly."

Thengel sucked in his breath. He had heard tales of 'gifts' that Denethor possessed. He had not had occasion to evidence them before. "My Lord, I apologize. I meant no disrespect." Twenty-five years separated these two, yet the blood of Númenor flowed through Denethor, not Thengel, and this was suddenly very apparent to both this night.

"None taken, Lord Thengel. But now, did I hear correctly, the gossip in the Tower? Are you to be the new Horse Guard Captain?"

"Yes, your father has decided I must hone my skills as a horseman. He wants me ready when Fengel passes, for when I must return to Rohan to take up the crown. He wishes it for the good of all Middle-earth, but I would prefer to stay here in Gondor with my love. There is naught as beautiful as Minas Tirith in the morning sun, or in the light of the stars of Varda Elentári. I would leave it only if commanded. Yet, your father is wise and I must do as he bids."

"Wise and perceptive also. He will know you have spent the night under the stars. Perhaps we should discuss them another time. We both have duties that must needs be done in the morning. Good night, my Lord"

Thengel laughed. "Ever the good of Gondor lies upon your heart, my Lord. You have indeed left the things of a child behind. I have seen this before, and now I know it for a fact; yet, Gondor would survive if you laughed once in awhile!"

"Laughter and joy will flood the Great Hall tomorrow in the wake of your wedding, my Lord. Get to your bed, for you have much expected of you on the morrow - and later."

The ceremony was held in the Great Hall. Indis was enthralled with the very thought of this match and did her utmost to make the day, and everything about it, beautiful. As he entered, Denethor looked in awe at what his eyes beheld. Garlands of gardenias were everywhere, with bunches of wildflowers lain in the laps of the marble statues lining either side. He laughed. What would Turgon say when he saw the 'desecration' to these noble Kings of Gondor? As much as the old Steward loved Indis, this might be beyond his ability to forgive. Yet, Denethor knew Indis was only trying to remove the coldness of the Hall with the warmth of Gondor's rich flora, and he could do naught but applaud her efforts. He was also very grateful that he had not been conscripted to be a part of this. He laughed again, and Amdir, at his side as always, chortled in glee.

Fengel and the other ambassadors were seated in the front. The scowl was so deep on Fengel's face that Denethor thought it must hurt -- one very sad note on such a beautiful day. Weeks ago, Thengel had come to Denethor in the barracks and asked him to walk with him.

They went out into the cool night air, resting their arms on the parapet near the Great Library. Denethor waited patiently. A heavy sigh escaped Thengel's lips. Still, Denethor waited. 'Sometimes sharing ill news takes time,' the old saying went.

At last Thengel spoke, "Denethor, forgive me for pulling you away from the games. Your opinion would be most appreciated. My father opposes the match between Morwen and me. He has asked me to reconsider. I would do as he asks, but there is love between us. How can I obey my father and preserve my vows to Morwen? True - these vows have not been made public, but they were made in my heart and, more importantly, they have been said to Morwen. I never dreamt that father would be in opposition to this match. You have the gift of foresight. What see you?"

Denethor bit his lip. How could he tell Thengel that it had nothing to do with foresight, that anyone with any sense could see that Thengel's father was only concerned with wealth, riches and jewels? How could he tell him of the times he had seen Fengel, this past week, in the ancient smithies of Gondor, fingering the mithril waiting to be re-forged? He himself had not believed it when Ecthelion had told him of Fengel's greed; not till he had seen the avarice in the king's eye. Ever his father watched and waited to exploit people to strengthen Gondor. It was another link in the chain that Ecthelion was manipulating to snare Rohan's fidelity. He kept quiet.

"I cannot leave my love. She has become everything to me. I cannot leave Gondor. It is my home. Fengel will have to accept this. I have no other course to take. I will not leave her! Thank you, Denethor, for listening to me."

With that, Thengel strode away, back towards the barracks. Denethor was grateful that Thengel had not pressed him further. Their friendship was too important to wound with words that would only do harm.

His thoughts were brought back by the noises of the Hall. Chairs had been placed in long rows down the entire length of the hall, while drapes of lilies, attached with golden thread to the center aisle seats, made it necessary for each row to be seated from the left and the right only - not the center. The women in their long gowns had a difficult time reaching open chairs. The noises that had distracted him were the grunts and groans of the men as they tried to move chairs to accommodate the women. Denethor laughed at the sight. Dearest Indis, proud and wonderful, but not very practical in this instance. He fervently hoped she would never know of the difficulty her decorating caused the guests.

"I must leave you now, my friend," Amdir whispered. "My place is with my father and mother. Please meet me afterwards. I have some thoughts on that matter we were discussing last night."

Denethor gently bowed to him, trying to stifle the shiver that ran through him, and forced his attention upon the ceremony before him. He walked towards his sister, 'Wen, and found his seat.

Silver trumpets heralded the arrival of the Steward. Slowly Turgon walked forward. Denethor flinched at the look of age upon his face, his body - stooped and low. Tears pricked his eyes. This dear beloved man was aging before his very eyes, and quickly. Ecthelion appeared next to him and seemed to walk slightly behind Turgon, but as they drew closer, Denethor could see his father was steadying Turgon and helping him to the Steward's Chair. This was too much for him. He looked away, helpless, as his father eased Turgon into the Chair. Why could not the world stay as it was and leave his adadhron as master of his own body, his own mind?

At that very moment, Denethor heard a gasp from the guests. Morwen, fairest daughter of the land of Lossarnach, appeared in the doorway. Slowly, she made her way towards the Steward's Chair. Denethor smiled. She was truly beautiful and so kind; his heart had warmed to her when first Thengel had introduced them. Fengel was wrong in this matter. This woman would make Thengel happy; that made Denethor happy. Indis hid in the recesses beyond the last pillar and watched. He knew his sister's heart, and that tears would be streaming down her face. She had worked so very hard to make this a glorious day for all of Gondor. The happiness was not the couples alone. Denethor felt a lump in his throat as he looked upon his sister. He had discovered that she was the one who had forced Ecthelion to reconsider his banishment of Denethor. It was she who devised the placing of Denethor at the Great Hall when Ecthelion was alone, mourning Cranthir's loss. It was she who, to this day, would remind the both of them how much Gondor needed them. He shook slightly; this was certainly a day for tears - tears of joy and warmth and gratitude.

Thengel appeared and stood next to the Steward's Chair, his face alight with joy and wonder. Denethor could see the smiles on those present; the tears also on the faces of several of the women. Many of them would be sad this day, to see the fair Thengel wed. Denethor looked towards the Steward's Chair again. His heart broke as he watched Ecthelion fingering a white gardenia, part of a garland draped over the back of the Chair. His father's face was white, and the muscles in his neck strained. Indis, whose great love for their mother and their mother's favorite flower, had bedecked the Hall in them, totally unaware of the impact they would have on their father. Ecthelion dragged his eyes away, forced them upon Turgon, but his hand never left the flower.

The parapet in front of the Citadel was filled with tables laden with food such as had not been seen in Gondor in a long while. This fete surpassed any in Denethor's memory. Ecthelion was sparing no expense in securing the allegiance of the son of Fengel. Alliances were made through such events, such ceremonies, and Ecthelion was ever aware of the need for alliances as the dark days neared. He shared these thoughts with Denethor as they walked from the Hall. Denethor's heart was saddened by the words his father spoke. Were alliances all that their friends were for? Thengel was one of his dearest friends. They had spent many a night in the barracks talking and laughing about life in Gondor, sharing their dreams. Was he to put aside that friendship now and only dwell on Gondor's need for alliance? In his mind, he knew that was part of all this, but in his heart, he mourned the loss of the purity of their friendship. He would do as Ecthelion bid and further develop the alliance, but his face burned red at the shame of it. There was, however, good news to alleviate some of Denethor's shame. Ecthelion thought it better for the alliance if Denethor was placed in the company of the Horse Guard, under Thengel. This was Ecthelion's way of furthering the alliance, and binding allegiance from Thengel, but it much delighted Denethor. Try as he might, he could not look upon Thengel as an ally only, but as a friend.

Music floated from the area near the White Tree. When was the last time he had heard music, he wondered? It was glorious. He could see the musicians, off to the north, with the sun streaming behind Mount Mindolluin on its westward path. They were from the conservatory on the Second Level. A ballad was being sung; he could not hear the words, but a feeling of melancholy struck him. He recognized the song as one of those written to honor his mother. Thengel and Morwen were dancing to it. Neither knew the keen sorrow that this brought to Denethor. He looked around, trying to find Ecthelion -- to judge what the music was doing to him. Indis stepped up and placed her hand in the crook of his arm.

"Hello, dearest brother," she said. "I have not heard that song in a long while. I remember mother was so embarrassed when first it was written. She thought it was too fine a thing for a girl like her. Come, dance with me."

Denethor leaned against his sister. He now towered above her, but nothing would belie the fact that she was his eldest sister, his rock. "I wish I had known her." Once again, he remembered his father. "Have you seen father, Indis? I want to keep him away from this."

"Dearest brother. Do you not know that he also must grieve, even these long years after. To see that the people have not forgotten her is a good thing. Do not be concerned over this."

"But, Indis, father was holding a..." Denethor bit his lip. He had not meant to bring the gardenias to her attention.

"Naught. I just wanted to make sure someone who loved him was standing by him at this moment."

"Do not be concerned, Denethor. I saw him walking to his study with Prince Angelimir. He will not hear this."

The dancing had ended and Indis had given him a small curtsy, and then, ran off to admonish a young servant who was pouring wine in the wrong container. Denethor pitied the servant. He went to Thengel and asked to dance with Morwen. A lively tune started up and, thoroughly embarrassed, Denethor quickly gave Morwen back to Thengel. The whoop of laughter that emitted from Thengel's mouth caused Denethor to grow red, but the hug from his friend dispelled any darkness. Off the two of them went, feet flying to the rhythm of the tune. Denethor smiled - and breathed a sigh of relief.

Amdir came up to him, laughing, patting him on the back. "You were definitely saved from some serious embarrassment, my friend. Never try to dance with a woman when you do not know how!"

"I was not going to try to dance that dance. I thought they would play another ballad. I can stand there, hold her hand, and make her think that this is perhaps the way Gondorian men dance."

Amdir laughed. "There is no way she would ever have believed that all Gondorian men dance as you do. This is one area totally lacking in your training. I believe I shall tell my father that he must add dancing to your training!"

"And I will see to it that cleaning the stables will be your constant duty. Do not mock me, Amdir," he said quietly, but the laughter in his eyes negated the sternness of his words.

"Well, that is not why I came over here anyway, my friend. There is the matter of the library. Have you forgotten? Now would be the perfect time. Everyone is busy with dancing, eating and frivolity. Many of the guests have left. The evening is coming on; travelers will start to depart. I will stand by the door and watch, while you go down to find the books you need. Bring them with you; you do not have to study them there. The warden will not know you have taken them. We can put them in your room and you can study them at your leisure."

"That is a fine plan, Amdir. I will go now. Whistle, like the peregrine, and I will know it is a warning to flee the place."

He ran towards the library. The terror of the previous day's encounter lent speed to his feet. He ran down the stairs, almost slipping in his haste. He knew what level and room the books were in; he discovered the room was locked, but he knew where the keys were kept. He rummaged through the desk, found them, and turned to open the door. Curunír was there! In front of him! Nay, this could not be happening. He almost collapsed from fear.

He held his arms in front of his eyes. What would the wizard do to him now? He must get away. He dropped his arms; prepared to flee. There was no wizard there! What had he seen? Were his eyes deceiving him? Nay, there was no wizard there. But he had seen him! He knew he had seen him! Shaking, he placed the key in the lock and turned it. He heard the click of the lock and turned the handle. The door would not open. He tried again, his hand now shaking almost uncontrollably. The click of the lock sounded again; he knew he was using the key correctly. The door would not open. A sense of dread filled him. There was a spell on the door -- a locking spell. And he knew who had placed it there. He turned and fled from this once-beloved place. He would not return, he vowed.

Amdir was sickened when he saw Denethor's face. The look of fear was too much to bear. "Denethor, what has happened?"

Denethor took great gulps of the night air. His mind reeled. He could not fathom what had happened to him. He bent over, put his head down, and pushed his hands into his thighs. Amdir took hold of his arm. Denethor was shaking like a leaf. He walked him towards a bench near the library, but Denethor froze and would go no further. Amdir turned and led him towards the opposite wall. They sat; rather, Amdir sat and pulled Denethor down next to him. As much as Denethor willed that he was mature, the last two days events had worn him down; he was very close to feeling like a young lad again. Thirteen years was still young, given the terror that he had endured. Amdir went to leave him for a moment; Denethor grabbed his arm, alarm in his eyes.

"I will be gone for only one moment." But Denethor would not loose his grip on Amdir's tunic. Amdir looked frantically around and saw Indis nearby. He caught her eye; she came over, quickly. Denethor averted his eyes. Indis, knowing something was amiss, sat next to him, and took his hand. Amdir ran to the tables, filled a goblet with wine, and handed it to Denethor. Denethor's eyes were unseeing. Amdir forced his hand around the goblet, and then brought it to his mouth. Denethor swallowed. Indis looked at Amdir, questions rampant in her eyes. She could feel the trembling in Denethor's body, but could find no sign of harm. She remained quiet. Together, they lifted Denethor to his feet and walked him to his room. Amdir undressed him and Indis put him to bed as she kissed his forehead. She gestured for Amdir to leave them. She would stay.

Change was all about him. Thengel and Morwen were living on the Sixth Level very close to the house of Ingold. Indis was turning into a proper lady of Gondor. Morwen was ever closer to Turgon in his hour of need. Osgiliath had a new captain, Húrin, who was loyal to Ecthelion and upheld his views of Gondor's defense. Yet, the walls of the city crumbled bit by bit, the people did not reproduce, and the defenses were not attended to during Turgon's Stewardship. All of this Denethor could see every day as he rode his horse out on patrol with Captain Thengel and his company. Denethor's heart was heavy as was his father's.

Thengel knew this and devised a plan to lighten Denethor's mood, if for only a few days. They would take their horses south towards Lossarnach. He would bring Morwen with him. They would stop at her father's home and he would leave her there for a much needed visit. Then, the plan would take hold.

"There is need for me here, Thengel. I do not have time for an extended trip," Denethor had protested. Then, there was the matter of the nightmares. Alone, in his own room, no one heard his screams. When they would go on overnight patrols, he devised to always take the first watch. When he was relieved, he left camp and found some out of the way place to sleep, schooling himself to wake before he knew the rest of the camp would wake. What would he do now?

"I myself am most ready for any kind of a jaunt that does not involve patrol," laughed Amdir. "I am most heartily sick of these daily patrols and would accept any kind of diversion." Amdir had been taken into Thengel's confidence and knew what the trip portended.

"Permission has been granted by your father," Thengel stated flatly, "and we are going. Besides, I have heard of possible warg attacks in the foothills of Mindolluin and would make inquiries of those in the area. We will take a half company and investigate."

"Wargs!" said Denethor. "I have heard no such reports. Have their been injuries? What damage has been done?" Wargs had never been seen in South Gondor. They were known to be in Rohan. Perhaps some had come over the White Mountains? He was immediately concerned and now, naught could keep him from this outing.

There was an air of excitement around Thengel and Amdir that Denethor could not fathom. His heart was troubled by the reports of wargs and he could not rest, nor smile. Yet the two of them were almost delirious with joy. Denethor imagined that Thengel's joy was from being able to spend time riding next to 'His Lady' as he called Morwen. But what was Amdir so happy about? And another thing, why was Thengel even taking Morwen? If there was danger near Lossarnach, why would he bring Morwen? True, her family was there and she had not seen them since the wedding, but still.... Once or twice Denethor saw smiles shared by the two men. Something was afoot, he was sure. But what?

The ride was long and uneventful...the early spring sun was hidden by the White Mountains and the chill made Denethor glad he had wrapped himself in the warm cloak of his rank. It was new and he was most proud of it. He had been promoted to lieutenant just this past month and the thrill was still upon him. Thengel most appreciated his skills as soldier and diplomat. The long years of studying and training were bearing fruit. Amdir also had finally been commissioned as a lieutenant and assigned to Thengel's Horse Guards. Denethor was stunned when he saw the beautiful sword presented to him by Ingold and Elleth. It must have taken many years to save for such a weapon. He clapped Amdir on the back in appreciation and complimented Captain Ingold on the fine sword.

Morwen's village in Lossarnach was more than eleven leagues from the City. They rose early and rode hard. Finally, Thengel called a halt. Indis had instructed the kitchen to make a hearty repast for them and had packed it herself. The ride was long. They would need all their strength, especially to combat the spring winds they would encounter as they turned west towards Lossarnach; Mount Mindolluin and the Ephel Dúath, had protected them thus far in their journey.

Thankfully, though there was now no discernable road, another telling instance of Gondor's fall into disrepair, the land itself was soft with rolling grasslands. This part of the foothills was not covered with stones and deep gullies as the northern side was. Farmers were in their fields preparing the soil for their spring crops. Cows, pigs and sheep were apparent everywhere. This part of Gondor had been protected from the ravages of war. It had been most necessary to guard it at all costs; this was the breadbasket of Gondor. Denethor wished Indis could be here to see the flowers. Spring lay rampant on the land of Lossarnach; she would so love to see the wealth of flowers.

Morwen's village was situated on the banks of the River Erui. As the party approached, her family came out, smiling faces on these swarthy men of Gondor. Morwen started to dismount, but Thengel was there and offered his hand. He was still madly in love with his fair wife and never hesitated to show it. Denethor smiled. Being motherless, he had no training in how to treat a wife. He could not imagine his father doing the same. Morwen introduced Amdir to her father. Then, Berthil started to show Thengel, Denethor and Amdir their rooms, but they stopped him and asked, most politely, if they would be allowed to bed their horses. Thengel, being a true horseman, would not allow another to tend his mount. The rest of the company bivouacked in the barn.

The festivities ran late that evening and Thengel chafed at the delay. He was ready to spend some time alone with Morwen. Good manners dictated a different course. Finally, the men started for their shelter, Denethor and Amdir headed for their rooms, and Thengel made to take his wife to bed. Berthil stopped him.

"I would speak with you sometime during your visit, my Lord," he said. "It is about coming to Gondor. Morwen's mother and I both are at a loss without her near. You yourself know well what separation can do. Would you consider this?"

Thengel was dumbfounded. He shook his head, but only to clear it; however, Berthil assumed it was a denial of the request. His face flushed red under the darkening from the sun. He turned to go. Thengel immediately put out his hand and gently took the elder man's arm in his. He profusely apologized.

"Forgive me. It has been a long journey and our staying up late has addled my brain. It is a simple enough request. I will speak with Morwen before the end of our time here. Tomorrow is a long awaited day and I will not consider a thing of such import on short notice. Please forgive me if this does not meet your approval. I had no idea that you would consider leaving your farm."

"I understand, my Lord," said Berthil and walked Thengel towards his room. "We will speak of this when you return - that should be in two days time, if I remember your letter correctly?"

"Yes, we should return on the night after next. Keep your fires lit and we will find the house, though it be late for our return. And do not fret over this request. It is an honorable one and not to be taken lightly. I will think upon it whilst we are away."

Denethor waited until all were asleep and then, packing up his bedclothes, he made for the door. Amdir was there to greet him.

"What are you talking about? I am just going to shake these out. I ... I found a spider on them." Denethor hesitated.

Denethor interrupted him, "Come, let us be outside. We do not want to wake the household."

"I followed you, my friend, the last time you took early guard outside of Forannest. You remember, we were strengthening the wall of the Rammas there. We spent three nights. One night, I rose early to play a trick on you, and found your bed empty. You were not in the camp. I was concerned that you would be found out and decided to search for you. And I found you. By yourself, some far distance from the camp. You were not up yet. In fact, you were in the midst of a great struggle. In your sleep. One in which you cried out often. Curunír was the name most used. I waited till you quieted down, and then went back to camp. I have followed you every night since then. And left you at the dawn."

Denethor hung his head in shame. "Amdir, I would keep naught from you except that which is shameful to me. I cannot shake myself of these dreams. The wizard haunts my days, if I am not busy on other tasks, and terrorizes my nights."

"When we get back to Minas Tirith, Denethor, I will go to the healers and say I am having nightmares. They will give me something to help. You know they still have a great wealth of remedies from the days of Númenor. They surely must have something that will help stop these."

"To be free of them, Amdir! Please leave me now. Get some sleep yourself. I saw a little shepherd's dwelling as we came over the ridge. It will make a fine place for tonight."

"We will leave tomorrow to tomorrow. Now, go my friend. I will be fine. See you in the morrow."

Rain greeted them as they awoke early in the morning. Thengel was sorely disappointed but Amdir, ever ready to enjoy life, suggested they start out anyhow. The rain could let up; the sky did not look dark nor was it filled with black clouds.

"It is just a spring rain, light and swift. I am sure it will end soon. Why should we let a little rain stop us?"

Denethor had overheard them and wondered what rain would do to an investigation into the activities of wargs. The rest of the company was still eating when Amdir brought their horses forth. Denethor started and gulped down the last of his ham. He grabbed his cloak and quickly mounted. Thengel and Amdir were already galloping north towards the foothills of the Ered Nimrais. What was their hurry, he wondered, and why was not the rest of the company coming with them?

They had risen at dawn and now it was almost three hours hence. It did not seem to Denethor that Thengel nor Amdir had any intention of stopping. They were almost on top of the mountain so to speak. They had left the gentle plains behind and were truly in the foothills. They had slowed down as they drew nearer to the mountain and as the terrain proved more difficult, but still - they did not stop.

Many times during the ride, he would call out and question what they were doing and always, the only answer he received was a smile from Thengel and a chuckle from Amdir. He was beginning to think this was no warg hunt. Finally, he settled back in his saddle and relaxed. His friends were up to something, no doubt. But that something was definitely not dangerous - they were riding alone with the rest of the company sitting back on Morwen's farm. He wondered what they were doing. Ecthelion would be none to pleased to think that a whole half company of his top horse soldiers would be spending a day sitting at a farm. Yet, that thought made him smile. The men were a good lot and deserved a day's rest. Perhaps this was Thengel's thought. Again, Denethor smiled - this time it was at the thought of Thengel and what a great captain he had become. And what a friend. Denethor found more and more that he turned to the elder for council. Amdir was as close to him as his shadow, but Thengel was his teacher. And he was grateful. He taught him how to lead men and gain their respect and confidence. He taught him how to assess a situation and then deal with it. He showed him how to react in crisis with as little loss of life as possible. He taught him to respect his men and their lives. Denethor slowly forgot the reason his father had placed him under Thengel's tutelage, and drank up every bit of knowledge the Rohir would give him.

The stumble of Rochallor brought him out of his revere. Denethor gently patted his horse's neck to reassure him. He looked about and discovered that they were following the River Erui. In fact, Thengel and Amdir had definitely slowed their forward progress and were searching the terrain - for what, Denethor did not know. Small willow trees grew on the sides of the river. The water was clear and rushed singing from somewhere above them. Thengel pulled up on Nahar's reins and smiled.

"Here. This is a good place," he said and started to dismount. Amdir jumped off his horse, took off the saddle, and started wiping Hros down.

"This is about you, Denethor," said Thengel. "We were patrolling the area at the base of the Falls of Rauros when your birth day passed this year; we were not able to give you any presents of worth. This, dear friend, is your present - two days of spending time with us."

Amdir laughed. "You have been a friend and a pain and we are paying you back for it. Now get off your poor horse, let him rest and eat, and find us some nice long willow sticks. We are going fishing!"

"This does not seem to be the proper time for fishing. Captain," Denethor used Thengel's title to add weight to his plea, "we must be about Gondor's welfare. That means patrols and..."

"Listen to me, dear friend," Thengel had come over and placed his hand on Rochallor's withers. "Do you remember the night before my wedding, when I suggested that you let Gondor go for a moment and relax? Well, now that time has come. Turgon will have no more of defense; we are relegated to fixing fences and doing patrols. So, while we have this moment, we are going to rest, think of what is best for Gondor as we sit by this stream, and plan for when your father becomes Steward. We will be hard put to rest then."

Denethor knew Thengel was speaking true. It was difficult for him to relax. Life had been hard and strange for almost as long as he could remember; especially since his encounters with the wizard. Perhaps he could rest.

For two days, the men walked this small part of the river - together sometimes and sometimes alone - each had found his honey hole, his favorite spot. They would eat as they fished, tell jokes over the rushing water, and slowly Denethor felt himself smiling again. The river was clear and clean. Denethor had discovered the trick of finding nooks and eddies where the water lay quiet. There the fish hid and he found them. It was a battle, he thought to himself, between the fish and him. One would hide and one would find. He discovered it was not easy to catch a fish. The worms they used were not active - early spring cool accounted for that - and, try as he might the first day, he could catch nothing. Amdir was gloating. Already he had four on a stringer and Denethor had not one bite. But he would not be discouraged. He found the exercise relaxing. He watched the fish in the little pools. Sometimes it seemed his hook would land so close that he felt he could hit the fish on the head, yet the fish would not bite.

"Hmmm," he thought aloud and Amdir laughed. "Having a little trouble there, Lieutenant Denethor?"

Denethor could do naught but chuckle. "I will learn this fishing thing and I will catch more than you, I promise."

Thengel had walked down from a little spot further up the stream. "I believe it is getting close to sunset, my friends. Time we gathered firewood and settled down. I have heard that fish like early morning for their eating time. I am sure that is why I have caught none. Wrong time of day, sun in my eyes, hook too straight, not sharp enough," he started a list of excuses. Both Denethor and Amdir hooted with laughter.

As Denethor collected the firewood, Thengel set up a small tent and Amdir cleaned his fish. He insisted they be called his fish, even marking the length of each fish on a log. Denethor knew what that was for. Tomorrow, if he caught any, Amdir would hold them up to the log and probably howl with laughter over the size of Denethor's fish compared to his own. Denethor sighed, but it was filled with fondness. Amdir would die for him, he knew it, but he would give no ground when it came to this fishing!

Denethor had found some wild rice during his firewood foraging; he brought the few stalks back to their camp. It was early for wild rice and the pods were small, but this would do. Enough to give them something to add to their repast.

Thengel brought out bread that Morwen's mother had packed. The banquet was becoming quite substantial. They laved their hands in the river, stood, turned towards the west, and gave up their moment of silence. Then they sat and ate and were grateful.

After the meal, Thengel brought out a small flask of wine which Morwen's father had urged upon him. The fire was warm against the cool of the night. They were close to the snow line. Their backs were cold, but the wine, along with the fellowship around the fire, filled them with warmth. Their talk had started out good-naturedly about the fishing and the prowess of Amdir, but gently moved towards Gondor and its weal. Denethor found himself frowning again and willed his brow to unknot. He took another drink and forced himself to relax. Thengel saw his struggle and smiled.

"My Lord Denethor," he intoned, "do you not wish to tell your subjects what causes your brow to furrow?"

Denethor laughed - how could he not! The smile quickly left his face, though, and his eyes turned dark. "Gondor has changed just since I was a young boy. My father has changed; he asks me to do things that, I believe at another time he would not ask of me. I have seen Turgon take on the visage of an old man. I have seen a wizard..." He stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, shook his head, and continued. "There is evil lurking in the land we do not name. I had not expected change. I am not sure why, but I find it troublesome."

"Look about you, Denethor. This mountain stream has not changed since men came from Númenor. The change you see is transitory. Gondor itself will not change. The land will not change, nor the White Mountains, nor the plains of Rohan. People will change and adapt to..." He did not want to bring up the subject of Mordor, nor what terror it seemed to hold. He did not want to speak of such things here in the beauty of the mountains. Yet it would be difficult to speak of Gondor without speaking of the future. He sighed. "There is evil coming; we cannot not speak of it. Yet, there is good also in Gondor and in Rohan. Trust your people, Denethor, your men and your friends. Change will come; but you are learning how to adapt to it."

They leaned back on the logs before the fire and drifted into silent thought. These men, stalwart and strong, were Gondor's hope. One was Rohan's hope. Slowly, Denethor felt peace. He closed his eyes.

For almost two years he had suffered the nightmares. This day - he woke to find he had none. Relief flooded his entire being. He had fallen asleep by the campfire; he remembered that. Now he awoke in the tent, alone. Where were Amdir and Thengel? He quickly threw on his tunic and left the tent.

The fire glowed; there was water gently boiling in a kettle. A small package lay next to it, filled with bread, cheeses, and tea leaves. Denethor looked around him. Upstream, he saw the head of Amdir showing through a break in a great rock outcropping; further ahead of him was Thengel.

He colored slightly. He had slept well into the morning and his companions had left him to rest. Gratitude filled his heart. He could not remember a day since he had started his training at, what - was it eight years now - that he had slept in. He found it a glorious experience.

But nonetheless, if they thought that leaving him to sleep would assure them the spoils as fishermen, they were sadly mistaken. Smiling at the thought, he quickly threw together his tea, grabbed the small package of food and his willow stick, and hurried to where he hoped fish would come to him.

A touch of fog lay on the ground burning off slowly as he found his nook. He quickly baited his hook. He tried to see what might have been the catch for his companions so far this morning, but they were hiding them. Denethor shrugged, forcing himself to relax. He had noticed the fish seemed to bite when there was stillness within him and quiet around him. He would not sit; he would stand. Focus, he told himself, and had to laugh at the memory of Cranthir during their 'Kings and Stewards' games and Gwinhir during his training with the sword saying the exact same word. They would laugh to see him focusing on fish!

Slowly the morning passed and not a fish was on his stringer. He decided sitting might be more beneficial. Perhaps his shadow was frightening the fish. Finally, he could stand no more and walked to where Thengel stood.

A hint of red touched Denethor's face but he refused to give ground. Then a smile broke his chagrin and bad-temper. He clapped Thengel on the shoulder.

"I have caught nothing. The fish sit in front of me and laugh," he said. "I have used every resource I know; I have even watched Amdir to see what trick he might be using, but to no avail."

"Nay. I finished crushing the tea leaves, drank my tea, and then baited the hook."

"Ah! Therein lies your trouble. The tea leaves are bitter; the fish can smell the bitterness on your bait. Lave your hands in water upstream and try with fresh bait. That should help."

Contentment came with fishing. It was a strange thing to think. But it was true. He sat by his honey hole, his stick resting in his hand, and contemplated the feeling. It was a feeling he was not accustomed to. Long days of training and study, long hours on patrol, and longer discussions with his father centering on the preparedness of Gondor, left little time for contentment. Yet, today, in fact these past two days, he was filled with this new sensation. He relished it. He did not want to lose it. In fact, he dreaded the thought of the end of this time of peace. Peace - not a word he had ever associated with Gondor - and yet here he sat, on the slopes of the Ered Nimrais, contemplating peace. It wrenched at his heart. How long were his people to endure the horror of war and death and evil? He laughed and scowled at the same time. It seemed he was not even allowed one moment of peace, for Gondor's weal was ever in his heart and his thoughts.

Thengel came over and sat beside him. The two men, one in the prime of his life and the other just beginning it, mused in silence. Thengel had been watching Denethor and had seen his friend's shoulders slump. He thought he knew the reason too. So he had left his fishing and joined Denethor.

"Life is very short, my friend. Especially for the Rohirrim. Yet, you have a longer lifespan than I. You should not spend it in dark thoughts. Here is the grandeur of Gondor and of Middle-earth before you. Drink it in, Denethor. Let it lighten the load. You have only to look out your window, on any morning or any evening, and see the world at your feet. The glint of the sun on the White Tower should bring only joy to your heart. Do not be troubled by the future. Live today. Know that you have friends who will sustain you when difficulty comes. If it be my fate, Rohan will ever be at your call."

Amdir walked over and sat also. "Amdir too, my Lord, will always be at your call."

Denethor laughed. "If anyone saw us, we would be laughed at. Friends at hand, fish ready to eat, a mountain spring bubbling at our feet, and our faces drawn in scowls and frowns." He laughed again and Amdir and Thengel joined him. "I believe it is time for a telling of who is the better fisherman. Time to take our fish to Amdir's log and gauge our success....or my lack of the same, for in truth, I have caught nothing."

Thengel laughed. "I will not even question the superiority of Amdir's fishing. I cede to his prowess."

"How am I to gloat if neither of you offer me the chance?" Amdir fumed. "All the trouble I went to yesterday to measure my fish and for what?"

"Well," Denethor said, "you can always bring the log back to Minas Tirith with you. I could find a carpenter to hang it in your quarters. We could come in on cold winter nights, Thengel and I and any other who might want to - to sit and admire it and the prowess that it stands for." He ducked out of the path of the log as it flew from Amdir's hands. "Foul, foul," he cried, falling to the ground laughing as Amdir rushed him and pummeled him mercilessly. Laughter spilled from them both.

"I am sorry, my friends," Thengel pulled them apart. "We have a long ride ahead of us. It is time to eat our fish, excuse me, Amdir's fish and depart this place."

What had been a hard climb towards the top of the mountain proved even more difficult on the descent. The horses had to pick their way carefully through the rocks and uneven terrain. The men were silent and watchful. At last, they reached the sloping hills of Lossarnach. The sun was warm on their backs as it advanced in its westward path. Thengel was anxious to see Morwen again. Separation from her was difficult. He saw her face in his mind's eye and sighed deeply. It was delightful to have her by his side. Denethor smiled. He knew where Thengel's mind and heart were. It was good to see his friend this way, and he wondered if ever he would be of like mind. His heart turned towards dark thoughts, but he pushed them aside. He had decided, up on the mountain, that he would focus on only good. He knew it would be difficult. Young as he was, life had been hard, his thoughts were often dark, but no longer. He had friends who trusted him and loved him, and he would not soon forget the lessons learned on this outing.

The night was spent in song and drink and fellowship with Morwen's family. Berthil laid out a grand feast and invited many relatives and friends from the surrounding area to join them. Not often was there time for laughter and joy. The spring had been harsh, but the crops had finally been sown. It was a good moment for rest and friendship. Morwen sat in Thengel's lap, much to the consternation of her father, but she would have none of his scorn. Too often Thengel was gone on patrol. She was going to enjoy this time with him - time away from his duties, from Minas Tirith and the crush of responsibility that lay upon him. She ran her finger down his cheek. He looked at her, winked, picked her up and went towards their rooms. None stopped him, for delight was plain upon his face.

The morning dawned bright and beautiful. Denethor realized he loved a spring sky better than any other. There was a cleanness about it. A sharpness. Berthil and Thengel had been deep in conversation during the morning meal. Denethor had wondered at it, but they soon bade their farewells, left the farmland behind as they headed southward towards the River Erui. Before they retired, Denethor had requested that route for their way home. He had studied the Battle of the Crossings and wanted to see the site. Thengel thought it would be a good idea, too. He had been happy in the change of countenance on Denethor. Another day away from his father would only be helpful. There had been no messages for him when they had returned to the farm, and he deemed all was well in Minas Tirith.

The ride was long but they did not push their mounts. They followed the river as it rushed headlong over the terrain; it ran cold and bright from the winter snowmelt. Thengel thought they might even try their hand at fishing again. They stopped close to the border of Lebennin about a league from the battle site for their midday repast. They sat and Denethor recounted the battle between Eldacar and the cruel usurper, Castamir. It had been a bloody battle; one that should have quelled any further division in the land, but it only gave fervor to the Corsairs. Umbar had been taken back, then lost again. There had been no peace between the descendants of Castamir and Eldacar since.

Morwen was feeling a little ill and lay quietly as the men talked, some skins thrown down for her to lie upon. Thengel gave her a glance and a smile. 'How could anyone be so beautiful,' he wondered? He walked towards her, water in his hand, when he heard shouting further off, and saw dust rising from the hooves of horses. Ciramir rode up to him, his horse lathered from the exertion.

"Get Morwen out of here!" screamed Thengel, mounting Nahar at the same time and riding forward to meet the enemy.

Never before had Denethor fought. Never before had he actually been on an enemy-filled battlefield. The hairs on his arms stood up as he faced the foe. His mind whirled... 'I am not ready, I am not ready,' it seemed to scream. But there was no being ready - it was time to fight or time to run. Running was unthinkable. Thengel was before him; Amdir to his left. The rest of the horse soldiers were behind them. The Corsairs were before them, great swarthy men dressed in rags, not proper uniforms. Their faces, getting closer, were dressed in hideous scowls. The noise from their throats was deafening. Denethor tried to count them, but they were too many. He cursed himself for bringing his friends here. Then he cursed himself for that. If they had not come, the folk of this area would have been slaughtered. Perhaps, this time, fate had worked on his side.

He drew his sword as his body shuddered. It took all his strength to lift it. It felt strangely heavy, this sword; he had wielded it for the last three years. In fact, he remembered at this year's birth day, considering getting another as this one was getting too light for him. Strange. But no longer time for thought. A Corsair ran past the already busy Thengel and rushed Denethor. Denethor swung his blade hard and quick, but not quick enough. The enemy dodged the blow and retaliated with his own. Denethor's speed from countless practice sessions saved his life. He quickly moved to Rochallor's right; the foe sliced to the other side and left himself wide open for the blow that finished him. No time for rest or breath, for another of the enemy came at him, full on. The blow dropped him from his horse. Denethor struck Rochallor's flank to get the horse away from the battle. He had but a moment to settle his feet, and thus was able to give a full swing to his sword, neatly severing an arm; the foe fell. He smiled. Another and another came. Would they never stop?

He looked wildly about for Amdir. He could not be found. Fear gripped Denethor's heart, but there was no time for searching as another of the foe attacked. Blood was everywhere. His hands slipped on his sword; he wiped one on his tunic and continued. Off to his left, he saw Thengel fighting furiously - a wide smile covering his face. He was enjoying this. He had been dismounted too, but it did not slow him. Denethor marveled. He himself had not been caught up in the battle fever. Fear still lingered too close to his heart.

He felt the blade before he saw it. His thigh ignited in fire. His hand automatically went to clutch the leg, but instinct told him to hold on tight to his sword. He swung blindly at where his foe should be, and was rewarded with the feel of flesh being cut. His sword had found its mark. The enemy lay dead at his feet. He felt the warmth of blood streaming down his leg, but another was upon him. Furious, he did not wait for the charge, but flung himself forward. Another lay dead. And so it went on for days and nights, or so it seemed. Time and feeling had left him. The battleground was all his mind saw and felt. The noise was horrific - men yelling, horses screaming, the clash of metal on metal, metal on leather.

A moment came, one moment when none attacked nor were near enough for his blade to do damage. He straightened himself and looked about. The field was clear of their foe. His ears were blocked; no sound filtered through them. He shook his head to clear them. Thengel, standing a short space away, saw Denethor and smiled. Denethor returned it, but somewhere in the haunts of his mind, he was missing something. What was it? The field was deathly quiet. The ground seemed to move gently. It was the bodies of the wounded, trying to free themselves from the dead who weighed them down. Denethor shuddered. Amdir - that was what was missing! Where was Amdir?

"I have not - not since the battle was joined." They both turned, looking in a great circle, searching the ground for their lost friend.

"I am here," a quiet voice answered their shouts. "I am all right. Nay, I am not all right, but not wounded."

Denethor rushed to where the voice came from, far towards the edge of the battlefield. In truth, his friend sat, seeming unharmed. Yet, something was wrong.

"My friend," Denethor said, "what is wrong? Are you so grievously wounded that there is no hope?"

"How did this happen?" He looked up at Denethor through his tears. "One moment I was next to you, standing, waiting for the attack, and the next moment I found myself turning away."

The silence was appalling - almost as appalling as what had occurred. A tear slid down Denethor's cheek as he looked at his friend.

"There will be other times to show your courage, my friend. You know now what fear can do. You will be ready for it the next time. You will not run. I know your heart, Amdir. I trust you. You will not fail us again." Denethor spoke with quiet conviction. He was making no excuses for his friend; he knew him. He knew this encounter with fear would make him a better soldier of Gondor, if he was challenged to use it. Thengel smiled in approval. Denethor would one day make a great leader.

Denethor rose to stand and collapsed at the same moment. He had forgotten his wound. Luckily, it was not deep. Amdir jumped up in alarm. Denethor laughed. "Do not be concerned, my friend, it is but a scratch, whilst the wielder of the blade lies dead on the field. There are others with greater need than mine. Go to them and help the healer."

The fires burned bright that night as the men tried to dispel the darkness of their thoughts while they buried their dead. How could Corsairs have come so far north and none know of it? From which way had they come? Defenses were poor indeed for such a large troop to have come so far, unheeded. It boggled the mind. They had been on the very doorstep of Minas Tirith! Where were the soldiers stationed at Pelargir? Thengel, Denethor and Amdir sat in quiet discussion.

"Long has my father warned me of this day," Denethor said. "However, he feared the One we do not name. The Corsairs seemed not to be a threat in this age."

"How could they have come so far north and not be seen?" Amdir asked for the hundredth time. "Where are the southern patrols?"

Thengel shrugged. "Turgon has stopped them. He said there was no need. He deemed the need was closer to Minas Tirith. We cannot now go to Pelargir ourselves. Morwen must be returned to Minas Tirith. Ecthelion must know of this attack. I will send a small patrol under Ciramir down the Anduin and wait for their report." He sat in silence for a moment. "But nay! We must go now." He pulled together his bedclothes and stood up. "We dare not wait till morning. We will not rest until we reach the Great Gate, though I am loath to lay this trip upon Morwen."

"Mayhap we should go back to Berthil's and leave her there?" Amdir asked. But Thengel would not hear of it. With the enemy so far afoot, he dared not trust her anywhere but behind the walls of Minas Tirith. Morwen, however, had taken a turn for the worse. The company's healer cautioned Thengel; she was in no condition to ride. Thengel was beside himself.

Denethor sat in silence. All his long life it had seemed his father had been in battle with Turgon. Today's combat proved Ecthelion had been correct, that Gondor was ill prepared for the future. Perhaps it was time for Turgon to use the gift of Eru and sleep. 'Nay!' his mind screamed, 'not Turgon. There must be a way to break through this cloud that hangs over him, that prevents him from listening to Ecthelion.' Denethor could not bear the loss of Turgon. Finally, he became aware of the debate going on around him. He rose and looked at his friend. Amdir and Denethor knew what must be done.

"We will ride ahead to Minas Tirith and bring back help. Our numbers are too few if there is another attack. It would be better if it were just the two of us, less noise, and we will be less likely to be seen." Denethor knew Thengel's heart was torn. "It is little more than fifteen leagues and the South Road is flat and fast. We should be there and back by morning, barring any difficulties. We will have a cart follow behind, to carry Morwen back."

"You cannot go. You are wounded. The ride will open the wound again," cried Thengel.

"It has been sewn closed and will not open. I will be of no use to you in battle if more of the enemy are about. It would be better that I be the one to go. Our party is now very small, and with Ciramir off scouting the land, who would you have?"

"Go then, but be wary. This might have been a small troop, but it also could have been a wayward patrol separated from a larger force." Once they were horsed, Thengel gave them more instructions, then slapped the flank of Denethor's horse and they were off.

Pickets were set, the fires were lowered and the remaining men tried to sleep. The dead had been buried, another group of mounds on an already tortured land.

Both Denethor and Amdir rode hard. The sky was overcast; they had nary moon nor stars to guide them. But the road was still in good condition and their undertaking was great. Neither spared a moment for words; they focused solely on where they were heading. Each man's head swirled with his own thoughts.

Denethor's were solely on Gondor and what this attack meant to it. He shuddered at the thought of how incredibly vulnerable they were. For Corsairs to have come so close to Minas Tirith - it was unthinkable. Were there others along the way also? Was this the forward thrust of a larger force, or the rear guard of such a force? That thought sent his heart racing. Perhaps they were too late. Perhaps Minas Tirith was already under attack. He spurred his horse faster. No sooner had he prompted the horse to the faster gait, than he pulled Rochallor up again. They were all tired, horses too. They had been on the road, or in the battle, since early morning. He had to give his mount a moment's rest. Hros and Amdir needed rest too. Killing the horses would serve no purpose.

Amdir, too, was deep in thought. The shame of the afternoon was still upon him. Denethor's words had been consoling, but now, in the dark and away from the battlefield, his heart sank. After all the training he had been through, after all the mock battles that they had practiced, still, when the fight was upon him, he had run. His face reddened at the thought. He knew it had happened to others. Never had he thought it would happen to him. Thoughts of Ingold filled his mind. What would his father say? That thought, however, brought comfort. He knew his father would speak to him as Denethor had. 'It is not in the running that a man is judged,' he had heard him say before, 'but in his coming back to the fight.' Amdir knew this was just the beginning of Gondor's fight. He would do everything he could not to make the same mistake. If he had to chain himself to Denethor, he would be in the thick of it. He pulled Hros up as Denethor slowed.

'We will walk the horses for a short distance and then give them freedom to run again,' Denethor said. 'I can hardly abide this pace though. We should be near Minas Tirith.'

The moon, recognizing the need for reassurance for these men of Gondor, broke through the stifling clouds and lit the spike of the White Tower, mirroring the ghostly light back into Denethor's eyes. It was all he could do to not rein in Rochallor and stare at it in wonder and awe. This was one gift he wished for his sons, if ever sons were given him, and that would be to love Minas Tirith with every fiber of their beings as he did. He gulped a quick breath of air and forced himself on.

It was well past midnight, but the torches by the Great Gate blazed. A lone silver trumpet rang out its call as they passed inside - a Lord of Gondor had returned. Turning into the Rangers' barracks next to the Court of Kings, Denethor was met by Captain Inlach in his night attire. It weighed heavily upon Denethor that the Rangers had come to such an end - not even one guard on duty before their barracks - something would have to be done about this. He pushed that thought into the back of his mind, for there were greater issues pressing him onward.

"Quick, steeds for Amdir and myself. Ours are spent from our journey and we must needs speak with the Captain-General immediately. I do not trust our horses to endure to the Seventh Level at the pace we must needs set."

"As you wish, my Lord. Hurry," he said to an underling, "bring two horses to Lord Denethor."

"And make sure our horses are tended well," Denethor shouted to the servant as he mounted his new steed.

As they hurtled up each level, Denethor chafed at the distance. He remembered as a child wishing for a horse to make this interminable climb swifter; here he was again wishing for a speedier route. They left their mounts at the stable on the Sixth Level and hurried forward. As they reached the escarpment and strode towards the Steward's Hall, a guard stopped them and pointed towards the White Tower

"Lord Ecthelion is waiting for you there, my Lord. The trumpet woke him. He bids you enter." He motioned them forward as the Chamberlain came, requesting they follow him. Denethor nodded his head as the guard left, acknowledging his service. Ecthelion bid them sit, but Denethor strode towards him, greeted him with bowed head and hand upon his chest, then began to speak.

"Captain-General," he used his father's title. "Great evil has come to Gondor. A troop of Corsairs attacked us at the Crossings of Erui. We destroyed them, but we lost many." Anguish touched his voice. "Father, it is as you have dreaded. Gondor is under attack."

His leg throbbed and he looked for a seat. "The Lady Morwen is ill," he continued, "She cannot be moved. Thengel has sent scouts to search the land - to see if more of the enemy are about. But there are so few of the company left, they will all be lost if we are not swift in sending them reinforcements."

A servant brought mulled wine, bread and cheese, but Denethor turned his head. Tears were so close. Amdir sent the servant back for the healer.

"We will send help; however, I will not involve Turgon in this. It is late and haste must be of paramount concern, but we must also use caution," Ecthelion said as Ingold, Gwinhir, Durahil and Inlach entered the chamber. The healer followed behind them, quickly evaluated Denethor's wound, and made him sit by the fire as he tended him.

All in the room listened attentively as Denethor obeyed Ecthelion and told again, but in greater detail, of the attack and their flight to Gondor for help. These Captains and Masters of Gondor were dumbfounded. Denethor knew their hearts blazed with fury as they thought of Corsairs on their beloved roads, their defiling feet on the lands of Gondor. They said naught, however, and waited upon the Steward's son.

"As I said as you entered, we will send Thengel the rest of his company, plus two more. They will leave at dawn." He held up his hand as Denethor started to speak. "A cart will be needed; I want it protected along the way. Haste without wisdom creates a fool's errand."

"I forbid it!" Ecthelion said as Indis stepped from the shadows. She had entered unnoticed with the others, saw Denethor was being tended to, and stayed by the door.

"Forbidden or not, my Lord, I am going," she said as she stepped to her brother's side. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Morwen will have need of me. She is with child."

Denethor felt as if a sword had cut him once more. He should have known; he cursed himself. He should have known. Morwen had been most anxious to see her parents. Nothing Thengel had said would dissuade her from taking the trip. Now he understood so many things, her tiredness at each phase of the journey, her wanting to be near her mother almost the entire time they had been at their homestead, her illness. He thought of his own mother, lost at his birth, and he would not have that happen to Thengel. "Father, we must be away now."

Ecthelion's face had whitened at the news. Rían's cold, white face looked at him from the grave. "Yes! Assemble the companies immediately. The cart will follow. What healer is with the company now?"

Ecthelion turned towards Indis. "If you are going, then wake Master Healer Adanedhel. He must accompany you."

"I would be one of the company, if my Lord allows," said Amdir. "And I, Father," entreated Denethor.

"Neither of you have slept since the night before last, according to your tale. You must rest. And you, Denethor, must heal."

"Father," Denethor looked beseechingly at the healer, "I am well enough to travel. The wound was tended well after the battle." The healer nodded his approval. "I must go to my captain. He has great need of me."

Ecthelion knew of what need his son spoke. Loath as he was to agree, he could not forbid his son this request. "Go then, but in the cart, the both of you, and have your horses follow behind. Rest as you can on that ride, and then aid Thengel as you may."

It seemed the whole of Minas Tirith was awake, all but Turgon, asleep in the Steward's Hall. 'Wen had held Indis close, and then bid her sister farewell. She must stay by the Steward. She knew she could not dissuade Indis from her path; she helped her pack warm robes, blankets and clothes. Firieth, newly assigned to the Master Healer, helped pack ointments, herbs, healing droughts, and cloth for bandages. She gave the packaged supplies to Indis when she stopped by the Houses of Healing to fetch Adanedhel.

The soldiers left the City, hearts deep in sorrow. All knew what they might find when they arrived at the Crossings - perhaps the entire company dead, Thengel and his men, and the kind Morwen. The pace was set. The company quickly outdistanced the cart and its occupants. Denethor chafed to be riding in a cart instead of at the forefront with his fellow soldiers. Amdir quietly bid him rest and Denethor knew he must.

The first pale fingers of the sun were starting to streak the sky as the company drew close to the Crossings. Fires could be seen, lit in the distance. Denethor had wakened an hour earlier, and was heartened to see the light. Corsairs would never light a fire so close to Minas Tirith. He fervently hoped it was Thengel's fires that he saw, not those of the rescuers who had preceded them.

He scrambled from the cart ere it stopped and searched the area for Thengel. A sob caught in his throat. Thengel was standing apart from his men, his shoulders shaking. Denethor knew the news before asking, but found compelled to ask, "Is the Lady Morwen well?"

Adanedhel and Indis had run to the tent that held Morwen. Dropping to her knees, Indis quickly hugged her friend. The healer evaluated her, shook his head, and spoke with Arciryas. "There was naught I could do," he said. "The babe was dead ere it was born. I have tended to Morwen's needs, but alas, there was naught I could do.' He shook his head in sorrow. This was the first babe Arciryas had ever lost. For it to be his captain's son!

Indis sat next to Morwen, holding her head and rocking her gently. Her tears mingled with Morwen's. "I suppose I should not have come," Morwen sobbed. "I knew I was with child, but I so wanted to speak with my mother. I had not even told Thengel. Never let him speak to the child within me." Her sobs increased as the warmth and love of Indis penetrated the darkness that had lain about her since the healer had told her the babe was lost. She kept running her hand over her stomach, wishing that the child was still within her. "Indis!" she suddenly wailed. "Indis!" And Indis held her as if Morwen herself were a child and helped her friend release the anguish.

Ciramir and the scouts had returned. The camp was struck; the decimated, wounded army turned north. Denethor shook his head. Naught would ever be the same.

Indis held Morwen the entire time it took to return to Minas Tirith. Thengel's beloved sobbed and slept, sobbed and slept. Arciryas road alongside the cart, his face contorted with pain. He had seen men die before, had cut off limbs to save their lives, had told families of loved ones' deaths, but never had he felt this before. It cut him deeply. Life was supposed to have been here, and joy, and the promise of a future. Now there was just death in all its finality.

His captain road at his side, head bowed, tears long spent. Thengel would look towards the cart when Morwen was awake, trying to impart some measure of comfort to her, but she would look away when their eyes met. The world tore apart every time she looked from his face. His heart tore with it. He had failed her - miserably. The little things that he had been so very glad to do, help her off her horse, rub her shoulders during the day, hold her close at night, all were for naught. When she really needed him, he was gone. No good did it do to tell himself he had been needed at the battle. He knew with every fiber of his being that he did what he must. But riding alongside her negated everything, everything. No wonder she would not look at him.

Morwen retched suddenly and Thengel called a halt. The constant crying was taking its toll on her. Indis hugged her more closely and offered her water. "Indis," Morwen whispered for the thousandth time. "What am I to do? I have lost our child. Look at Thengel, how he looks at me. He is angry, I know it. He must hate me. Oh, Indis, what am I to do?"

"Hush, you silly child. Thengel is dying inside. He loves you. He would cut off his arm 'ere he saw you in pain. The look he is giving you is one of comfort. Can you not see it? There is no anger in him, except perhaps at himself for leaving you, but no anger at you."

Thengel dismounted and approached the cart. He shook. How would she react to his presence? "My beloved, how fare you?"

Her eyes darted this way and that. She looked quickly at Indis who smiled at her. He gently reached out and touched her shoulder. She did not recoil. He breathed a sigh of relief. "My beloved, do not turn your face from me. Please. Do not take your love from me. I could not bear to lose you." Indis beckoned him into the cart and moved over so that Thengel could sit next to Morwen. They sat together; he holding her hand in his; she sobbing quietly.

When Thengel called the halt, the men rode slightly ahead and stopped. Every soldier there loved Thengel. In varying degrees, they felt for their captain. Death on the battlefield was one thing - one thing they all understood. But this loss was unthinkable.

Denethor and Amdir turned in their saddles to watch their friend. They could not hear - did not want to hear - but the droop of their captain's shoulders told them volumes. Ciramir ordered the company to stand down. Some men dismounted; some took dried meat from their packs and ate. Others lay on the ground, glad for the respite.

Denethor still reeled from the battle, their headlong rush to secure help, the loss of Thengel's child. He sat heavily upon Rochallor.

Denethor and Amdir did as he requested, and the three men walked away from the company.

Ever since the battle, Denethor would shiver now and again at the thought of the men that he killed. His first battle; his first kill. Would he be able to forget their faces? He was embarrassed. The fear started again in his gut. He did not want to go back to that time.

Ciramir sensed his thoughts. "There is no reason to fear the battle, nor your reaction. It is over and done with. Now is the time, in the sunlight and in the company of friends, to speak of it. Your first battle. There will never be another like it. It is good to examine it and your reactions to it. This will help you become better soldiers. It will also prepare you for the next battle."

"And what if I say that fear ran rampant through my heart and my very being?" Denethor snapped angrily, now thoroughly embarrassed.

"Then you would have answered correctly. Once you lose fear, Denethor, you will be dead. Never let pride in your ability overcome your fear. Welcome fear; use it to focus on what you must do. You did well yesterday. I watched you - you did as you were trained. There was one moment when you were distracted and that moment almost cost you your life, but you recovered."

How could Denethor tell Ciramir that that moment was when he could not find Amdir?

"You too, Amdir," Ciramir continued. "You must remember this. Fear drove you from the battlefield. You should have grabbed it, clasped it to your heart and used it. Instead, you let it drive you to another horror, one that will be with you until you are tested again."

"I... I see their faces," Denethor said quietly, almost in a whisper. "I almost wish I had left the field of battle myself. The moment of death..."

Ciramir put a hand on Denethor's shoulder. "Sadly, you will lose that horror, Denethor. One face will soon meld into another. It is not good, but that is the way of it. A soldier's life... a soldier's burden. I do not believe the men of Númenor were created to kill. Because of the lies of the One we do not name, Westernesse is no more, and we live with the evil he has unleashed on our land."

"Ah, I see Thengel has remounted. Let us go," said Ciramir. "Remember, the both of you, what I have said. There is no shame in fear, no shame in remorse over killing, and no shame in relying on your friends to get you through the battle. However, remember what is at stake. Gondor! And we who fight for Gondor know - it is all for Gondor."

He was not sure why but it had surprised him when he discovered that Morwen, Thengel's beloved, was of high Númenórean blood. Her fair face and black hair all bespoke of that heritage. Her father, he found, was the son of one of the Princes of Dol Amroth. But since finding that, it was no surprise to him when Thengel and Morwen decided they would go to the festivities centered around the birth of the new Princess of Dol Amroth, Ivríniel. Berthil was going with them. He and Morwen's mother had moved to Minas Tirith the year Morwen lost their child. Ecthelion would not gainsay their need to be near their daughter. Thengel would take his entire company with him. He would not have Morwen unprotected again, though there had been no further Corsair sightings. Indis had decided she would also be one of the parties. Ecthelion had been invited, but declined, so she would take his place as representative of the Steward of Gondor. Morwen was delighted that her sister-friend was coming with her. The long trip would be shortened by their closeness.

They would also use this time to finish their gift of fine embroidery for the new princess. Indis, thanks to the kind teachings of Elleth, was becoming quite adept at embroidery and was now teaching Morwen. The laughter from the cart that Thengel insisted they ride in was infectious. Soldiers close to the women were caught smiling. Thengel relished this time and rode his steed as close as possible, within the bounds of propriety, to the cart. Discipline had to be maintained and he did not want those in his command to think him weak. That thought brought a smile to his face. His men knew him for what he was - stern warrior, brave soldier, and totally smitten by his 'beloved.' Yes, he knew he was utterly under her spell and loved every moment of it. And he knew his men were aware of his hopelessness. He laughed aloud at the thought of how completely he had fallen. He also laughed for the joy of it. To hear his 'beloved' laughing again meant all the world to him. The past year and a half had been good. They had grown in their affection. Grief, which had lain as a close bond between them, strengthened their devotion to each other. After the first few hours of self-recrimination and misunderstanding, they had clung to each other and become whole through each other's love.

Denethor requested that he be allowed to remain behind. Though Thengel looked at him quizzically, he ordered it so. Yes, Denethor had wanted to see the sea - he could almost taste it his desire was so great. He wanted to speak with Prince Angelimir, but this was not the time. All of Dol Amroth would be in a glorious uproar; there would be no time to speak of ship captains and sailing vessels and all the things Denethor's heart ached to speak of. He had ideas heavy upon his heart since the Battle of the Crossings and decided that the time was ripe to address them. Amdir, however, was ordered to go. Denethor had at least a month, perhaps two, before they returned.

He walked slowly to the First Level; he could have ridden, but wanted to take this time to think, to plan his approach. He shook his head. He still did not have the diplomacy of Thengel. He wanted to rush in, shout orders, and make changes that he felt were so desperately necessary. He knew that was not the path to take, however, and once again shook his head.

"Captain Inlach," he greeted the old man as he entered the Ranger's barracks. "How fare you this day?"

"What do you want?" The old man was beyond worrying about dallying with the heir to the Stewardship. He had been critical of Thengel's promoting him. He thought it was only because Denethor was Ecthelion's son. He would not spend time with this lad. How old was he now? Only seventeen. Still wet behind the ears. If he was as proud as Ecthelion, this would be wasted time. He wished Denethor were more like Turgon. Turgon had been the one to make Inlach Captain of the Rangers and had left him to his own devices as to what that captaincy meant. Now here was this upstart. What did he want anyhow? He still chafed over the rough treatment he felt Denethor had given him the night of the Battle of the Crossings. Just rode in and started shouting orders! 'Little whelp,' he scowled to himself.

Denethor sensed the anger in the man and was hard put to understand it. "My Lord," he said, "I have come to..." To what? That was the problem. How did he make this man understand the need for action? He knew the captain's loyalty was to Turgon. So was his! Did not Inlach realize this? But he must have seen, he must know of the dreadful dangers that were all about them. He must realize that defenses were needed. How to start? He wished Thengel was with him. Perhaps he had made a mistake and should wait for his own captain's return?

"Might I sit down? Have you a cup of tea?" He sat as Inlach, growling, motioned him to a chair and looked at the old man. "I have been studying the first Battle of the Crossings and would like to have your input on the matter. Turgon has told me of your great fondness for the history of Gondor and your knowledge. I have spent many hours with my tutor on such things, but would most appreciate the sharing you might give me... your feelings about the battle and what strategy might have been used to save more lives. Would you be able to give me a moment of your time?"

Inlach fairly bristled with pride. That his Lord would suggest Denethor come and speak with him about the history of Gondor. Well, he could not let the lad learn only one side of the tale. He was certain his tutor, whomever he was, had not properly told him the entire tale of that time. He went to the little stove, removed the hot water to the cupboard with the tea leaves, the cups and the teapot. Filling it, he returned to the table, all the while harrumphing and generally making a fuss. He talked for hours. Their tea grew cold. His knowledge far exceeded what Denethor had expected and he felt a certain embarrassment at his attitude toward the old man. That attitude was quickly changing into respect. As the sun began to wane, Denethor thanked Captain Inlach and excused himself. Again, the faint rush of embarrassment surprised him. He realized that he had judged the man, and unfairly at that. He would not be so rash the next time.

However, he had to choke back a laugh as he left the captain's chambers. He had at least made a dent in the old man's armor. He would have patience. He smiled; he felt very satisfied with the progress made. He knew he had the authority, as Ecthelion's son, to go to Ecthelion first and then order the captain to make the changes he sought. But what was the sense of that? This man had seen many campaigns, had been loyal to Turgon and to Gondor his entire life; naught would be served by demeaning him. And what good is enmity when one is courting a friend? Denethor was comfortable with his plan, had thought it through, and knew that, once he presented it, Inlach would see its merits and agree. The real dilemma lay in what his father would think. Well, he would concern himself with that matter once Captain Inlach was aboard.

He liked the image that phrase brought to his mind - 'was aboard.' It reminded him of the great ships of Númenor - those that had sailed from Westernesse as their island home sank beneath the waves. He shivered at the thought. What must it have been like to live through that time - to see friends washed away by the furious waters? He wondered if the Eldar had come and warned the Faithful. But how could the Elves ever conceive that the One would destroy something he had created?

Nay, his ancestors must have felt a warning in their hearts. Perhaps such as the warnings, premonitions and dreams that entered his heart from time to time. He could trace his family's blood back to before Mardil. He knew the blood of Númenor flowed strongly in him. He had come to realize that those with less pure blood, those whose blood had been mixed with the blood of the hill folk who were in Middle-earth before the coming of the Dúnedain, did not have the - what would he call them - the gifts of foresight that he had. He shook his head. A pity that his people would deign to mix their blood, marry outside of those with Númenórean blood. He expected to live a long life, yet knew that others in Gondor - those with mixed blood - would not. He suddenly was very grateful that Amdir was Dúnedain.

He shook his head and smiled at himself. How ever did he fall into this stream of thought? Ah, the thought of the stream reminded him, once again, of the Great Wave that engulfed and destroyed Númenor and all those left on it. He could understand the Lords of Westernesse being distrustful of the Eldar. 'It was because of the lies of the One we do not name,' he thought, 'that men took their ships West. And thus sealed their own fate. The Eldar did nothing to help them. Well, that was not entirely true. They had taught them the art of shipbuilding, had given them many gifts, had visited them often. But in the final moment, where were they? The Faithful had never been afraid of Elves. What was he to think? Were Elves to be trusted or no?' Denethor knew that Elves still dwelt further south near Dol Amroth and north of the Rauros in the forests East of the Misty Mountains, the Land of Lórien. He had even heard rumors of a dwelling beyond the Misty Mountains, in the far West. There were terrifying stories of the Lady of Lothlórien. 'If Men have dealings with the Mistress of Magic who dwells in the Golden Wood, then they may look for strange things to follow. For it is perilous for mortal man to walk out of the world of this Sun, and few of old came thence unchanged, 'tis said.' He remembered those words being spoken to him. Men of Gondor had been lost who had attempted to contact them. He shuddered and thought of how he had been changed by his encounters with the wizard and wondered if an encounter with Elves would wreak the same havoc. Were Elves like that?

However did this division come, this distrust, nay, this fear? He remembered tales of the Battle of Dagorlad. Elves were there in legions defending Middle-earth with Elendil and his sons. Yet, the Elves had drifted into legend and none ever came to Gondor. They hid in their forests and hills. He snorted. Fine use they were to him! Let them come out of their hiding holes. Were they so unwise as to not know that the forces of evil were gathering. He knew it in his heart, apart from the fact that Ecthelion had oft told him this. Misgivings of the One they do not name. Where was He? He had been defeated in the battle, but not destroyed. Where was He hiding? The Elves certainly would not hide such as this! He shook his head trying to clear it of the anger, nay, the frustration that he felt. All the tales of Elves told of their prowess with arms, their fearlessness, and their courage. What he would give to have an army of Elves at his side now.

Denethor rode towards Osgiliath, supposedly on an errand to the garrison there. His real reason none knew. As he approached the ruined city, he pulled up on Rochallor, dismounted and stood.

The sun was just rising over the mountains of the Ephel Dúath and shadows lay long on the city. As ever, his heart grew heavy at the desolation before him. This horror. He had read so much of the glory of Osgiliath. Fortress of the Stars. Jewel of Gondor. His heart ached and tears threatened. Mighty walls, towering buildings, graceful arched streets, museums, art galleries, monuments, the Dome of Stars wherein lay the Seeing Stone, all lost, destroyed during the Kin-strife. He shuddered at the thought of that time - so heinous that it crushed this beautiful city. How could he make certain that history would not repeat itself?

'When the king comes...' Words always on his father's lips. His mind whirled at the implications that thought brought. Who would discern if the claimant was the rightful king? How did a Steward make such a decision? The horror of the Kin-strife was before his very eyes! This is what would happen if he were Steward and made the wrong decision. He turned his back on the ruins and faced full upon his City, the White City. His eyes clouded and suddenly he saw fire, smoke, broken parapets - his City in ruin. Soldiers and horses, dead, strewn about the field of Pelennor like hay strewn out to dry, no sign of green grass beneath the bodies, so thick did they lay. He closed his eyes, but the vision would not leave him. He heard the moans of the dying and faint war horns, blowing in vain. Everywhere was destruction. His heart quelled in fear. There were no signs to tell him what wrought this devastation. He tried to breathe quietly, to dispel the darkness surrounding him. His nose pinched at the smell of death.

"Nay!" he screamed aloud. "I will not let this happen to my City!" At that, the vision ceased. He was alone again and the White City shone in the sun. He took a steadying breath and mounted, turned towards Osgiliath and repeated his vow. "I will let naught destroy my City. I will let naught destroy my Gondor. No matter the cost. No matter the cost!" Shaking off the horror of the vision, he rode onward.

He smiled as he reached Osgiliath's sewers. The unhappy memories of that day long ago were overshadowed by the mission he now had. Seeing the vision had made him surer of his course of action. He tethered Rochallor near a cistern and slid down the side of the sewer, keeping his head low. He chuckled. Last time he was here, he did not have to bend down; he had been nine. 'Well,' he thought to himself, 'I suppose this proves I have grown, at least in stature!' He went quickly through and soon reached the other side, slightly wetter for the broken areas in the sewer, but intact. He again laughed to himself. 'When we take back the city, I must fix that leak.' The dust of the city stifled his laughter; the lack of echo quickly brought him back to the certainty that life was not as he wished it. He swiped off some of the dirt and cobwebs that had clung to him during his passage, left a mark on the stone nearest the entrance, and started off towards North Ithilien. It was eight years since last he set foot here. He wondered why he was startled that his old markers were missing. Eight years is a long time for wind and rain and the ravages of who knew what that came here. Again, there were no tracks visible - only dust and disillusionment. Once more, that piercing ache came to his heart, the same one he had during the vision, but he swept it aside with his arm, as if physical movement could erase the feeling.

He spent long hours walking northward. He knew that there had once been farms and villages here, but there were only ruins before him. If there were people left in Ithilien, they lived in the south. Tales told of abandoned fortifications near here. He hoped he would find some. He was heading towards Cair Andros but knew he did not have the time to reach it - not without a horse. He would walk slowly, examine these woods, and come back later, after Captain Inlach was swayed to his thinking. He would bring only a few men with him, but enough to protect themselves. Something in his heart told him that Cair Andros must be refortified. Must be. And he had heard tales of a cave. This was not the time to look for it, but mayhap he would find the beginnings of an old path and thus begin to denote how he might find it again.

He took out his log and started to mark some of the paths where he had come, marking X's here and there to stand for fresh water, another to show where a deep valley ran. He would find someone to make good maps of the area. A scribe would not do. He would need someone with knowledge of terrains and warfare.

Indis and Morwen were enthralled with the festivities. The Princes of Dol Amroth besieged their guests with gifts, food, plays, and all manner of dancing and singing. For fourteen days the merriment continued. The women had rooms adjoining each other and every night, as they concluded the day's activities, they would sneak away and giggle and laugh about what they had seen, done and heard that particular day. Thengel and the men would stay up late into the night telling tales of battles and deeds of valor. These men of Belfalas were all noble looking and Morwen was ever trying to find someone special for her friend. Indis was beside herself. She did not know if she wanted anyone. She had duties to perform; after all, she was mistress of all Gondor, was she not. How would she find time to take care of a husband, as Morwen did, and still run the City? Morwen teased her ceaselessly and lovingly.

Within weeks after they arrived, Morwen turned to Indis in the garden where they had come for morning tea. "I... do not know how to say this, but I believe I am with child again. I am frightened, Indis. So far from home. How will I ever tell Thengel? He will think I have lied to him, but I have not. There were no signs before this." She wretched again as she leaned over the basin that Indis had brought for her; even tea had upset her stomach. "I kept telling myself it was the strange food or the excitement of this place, but I know now it is not." She began to wail. Indis shook her head. She knew her friend was frightened, but she was twenty-one now. This was no way for the 'beloved' of Thengel to behave.

"Listen to me, dearest sister-friend. You will be fine. Sometimes, healers have told me, the body purges itself of a first child to make the woman stronger, to prepare the womb properly. You are older than you were, and I myself have been watching your food and drink, making sure you are eating what is good and wholesome. You are a strong young woman now and will have no trouble carrying the babe. You must, however, tell Thengel immediately. He will want to return to Minas Tirith as soon as arrangements can be made. If you delay any longer, he will think that you have been less than truthful in this matter. You do not want him to think that, my dearest friend. Wipe your eyes, lave your face, and I will walk with you to him. He is in the court of Prince Angelimir. I will leave you on the terrace and bring him to you."

The party set out for Minas Tirith the next morning; two healers being sent by the prince to tend to the Lady Morwen. A carriage was provided with a great store of pillows and coverlets and mantels to keep Morwen warm in the cool winter's air, and help protect her from any untoward jarring. Indis and she spent the entire trip sharing thoughts of cradles and clothing and coverlets and such to be made for the little one. As on that last fateful trip, Thengel hovered within hearing distance of the carriage. His every thought was upon her, his 'beloved,' and he could not sleep during the nights as they traveled slowly towards the White City.

Denethor finally turned back towards Osgiliath. He found neither sign nor inkling of a hidden cave. Everything was in disarray in North Ithilien and his spirits drooped. There were no signs of Orcs, no signs of anything but a deserted country, waiting. It was this sense of waiting that most disturbed him. He continually looked over his shoulder with the distinct impression that he was being followed. He realized his folly in coming alone to this enemy-ridden land. What a fool he was. Was it pride that had sent him here alone? He held the hilt of his sword and put his left hand on his horn. He quickened his pace and scolded himself for looking backwards. What good would that do if there were any enemy behind him? He would use his other senses and walk forward. How he wanted to run. His face flushed with the thought of it. Run as fast as he could back towards the ruined city. He knew he could not. He took a deep breath and forced himself to slow the pace. If an enemy was behind him, he did not want to give away the knowledge that he was aware of it.

The hairs on the back of his neck quivered. He closed his eyes for a moment and heard it, the soft crack of a twig being broken. Fear gripped his heart and blood rushed through his body. There was definitely some one behind him. He was far from any help. He forced his thoughts to return from that other fateful day when he and Amdir had been obliged to spend the night in Osgiliath with no fire, no warm clothes, no hope for help till the morning. Yet, help had come, unexpectedly from his mother's brother, Cranthir. The thought of Cranthir brought stinging tears to his eyes. He was going to die here in this forsaken land and none would know of it, for Cranthir was dead.

'I will face my enemy,' he thought, 'It would be better to die in battle than with an arrow in my back.' He took a deep breath, pulled his sword from its scabbard and turned. His eyes scanned the trees for a sign of what might be stalking him. His fear was Orcs but it could be anything, from a panther to a Haradrim. Nothing. Nothing faced him. He gave a longer sweep of the area and still found nothing. Letting his breath out, he placed the sword back in the scabbard and turned back towards his path. Then it hit him, full in the back and knocked him to the ground. He scrambled to his feet all the while trying to disentangle his sword from between his legs, to pull the Horn around to wind it. At the same time, whatever had hit him pushed him hard to the ground again, shoving his face into the dirt. A low growl sent a shiver down his back. He found his arms were pinned behind him, held by a rope. How had he been so quickly overtaken?

"Tell me," a low voice growled, "Do all the Lords of Gondor fall prey so easily?

Denethor squirmed and tried to break the bonds holding his hands. "I will kill you, when finally I am loose," he screamed.

His captor laughed. "You and what army? You are naught without your Horse Guard and your captain ringed about you. Just a child playing at soldier."

Denethor wriggled, trying desperately to push the man off his back, but to no avail. Finally, he twisted so that he was facing his captor. "Húrin!" he cried, half in relief, half in chagrin.

"Yes, little one. It is Húrin who holds you captive. Whatever betook you to come this far north alone? Do you not know the dangers here or is your pride so great that you would think yourself immortal? The blood of Númenor might run through you, but the Lords of Westernesse do die," he said as he untied Denethor's hands and helped him to his feet. "Once again, a Captain of Osgiliath has rescued you."

"I had no need of rescue," Denethor cried hotly, though the color had risen in his face and his eyes shone with the beginnings of tears. How could he have let his guard down so much as to not have heard this detachment from Osgiliath? He saw the soldiers around him smiling openly at Húrin's barb; this did naught to assuage Denethor's embarrassment.

Húrin swung up onto his horse and held his hand out for Denethor to grab, but Denethor would have none of it. Húrin's voice grew cold. "Must I make this an order, Lieutenant?"

Denethor pursed his lips and gave his hand to the captain. The detachment followed close behind as they headed towards Osgiliath.

Húrin sighed. "You are the only heir to the Steward. If evil befalls you, what will Gondor do? Have you not thought out your purposes enough to know you, of all people, should not wander alone in these lands?"

Denethor's cheeks smote as if Húrin had physically struck him. He almost wished the captain had hit him. This rebuke hurt more than a slap would have, for he knew the truth of Húrin's words.

"I will say no more on this matter, Denethor, for I know you and I know your heart. You are punishing yourself more at this moment than I could in an age. Let us speak of why you are here."

Denethor hung his head. He had not wanted to share this with anyone as of yet. He had not even told Amdir about it. Too many questions hung about him, too many unresolved issues, too many loose ends. Yet, he almost sighed at the thought of sharing his plans with someone.

"I am convinced, as my father is, that something more evil than Orcs is planning the destruction of Gondor. I do not know what, nor when this will be attempted, but I must do something, device defenses, anything to prepare for this. When the Corsairs attacked, I vowed we would not be ill equipped to meet the enemy again. When Amdir and I entered Minas Tirith that night, the barracks of the Rangers were not even guarded. We have fallen into dishonor. We tarnish the name of the Rangers. I remember tales of the Dúnedain of Ithilien and I wonder if these are truly their descendants. These warriors I read of do not resemble those living in our barracks. It is not the fault of Inlach. He is a great warrior. I have spoken with him and, I believe, if he had the right men and the order from Turgon, he would surely make a force worth reckoning with. I believe the Rangers should be stationed in Ithilien, their presence known only to a few, and be a hidden defense for Gondor. They could be taught the ways of the bow and arrow again and cut and parry at our enemy. The forests of Ithilien would be a place of terror for Orcs instead of it being a place of terror for Gondorians!"

His passion was not lost on Húrin. "You speak wisely, my Lord. I agree with your assessment of the danger and I applaud your plans. Yet, Turgon will never allow this. And Inlach will never do what Turgon will not allow. Will you then take the captaincy from Inlach?"

"Nay. Never. He has been a faithful and true soldier of Gondor. I would do all in my power to persuade him to accept this. If I cannot do it, perhaps you would..."

"Now, now, my young Lord, I do not see what my becoming enmeshed in your plans would do to help. Inlach is Captain of the Rangers and I am Captain of Osgiliath. We each have our own devices for the safekeeping of those who have been put in our charge. Perhaps he will see the wisdom of your words. Or there might be another, not so close to him, who yet commands his respect."

"It is not Ecthelion. He loves Turgon and believes that Ecthelion has none of the greatness that is Turgon's. Thengel will not do for Thengel has promoted me and that is a sore point in Inlach's mind." He shook his head. Was there no way around this? "Ingold! Yes, I may speak with Ingold. He and Inlach have fought side by side and both are loyal to Turgon. Thank you, Captain Húrin. I will speak with Ingold when I return home."

Húrin laughed to himself. Denethor showed much promise. He listened, and that was a good trait for a Steward. Now if he would just put aside his pride. It would certainly save him grief.

Amdir had met someone while they were in Dol Amroth. Her name was Listöwel. They had met while in the Prince's palace; Listöwel was a handmaiden for one of the Prince's cousins. Amdir had been drawn by her quiet dignity and her happy smile. There was no time for anything even approximating courtship, but his heart was taken from the first. He was lost. How or when would he ever see her again? Her hours and minutes were all taken by her duties, but once in awhile their hands would touch as she poured a libation for her mistress, or they would pass in the great castle's halls and slow their opposing steps. She would smile at him shyly and he would practically walk into the nearest wall. His eyes seemed glazed; he only wanted to see her - nothing else seemed to matter. Despairing, he went to Thengel.

"What am I to do? I... I have never felt this way before. I know we will not see each other once the festivities are over. Yet, I cannot bear that thought. Thengel," his voice echoed the pain in his heart, "What am I to do?"

Putting his hand over his mouth to hide the smile that grew there, Thengel tried to think of something that he could say that would give Amdir some respite, perhaps even some hope.

"Amdir, we are friends. Listen to me now. This is not the end of things. Morwen is of the house of Prince Angelimir. We will be invited to many more festivals, ceremonies and such. I will make it a point, whenever I am able, to assign you to guard duty on our journeys back and forth. You will be able to see her again. There will be long spells between these visits, but your relationship will grow stronger, if your feelings are true. Does the lady return these feelings?"

"How can I know? How can I be sure? She seems to want to be in my company. I, of course, have twisted my schedule to be wherever she is - though it is unbeknownst to her. As for her feelings for me - she smiles when she sees me. Is that any indication?" he cried again.

Thengel could see Amdir was tormented by doubts and love and foreseen loneliness. He shook his head. "We might speak with Morwen. She and Listöwel seem to be friendly."

'I would be too embarrassed to ask. Perhaps... Nay, forgive me. I cannot ask that of you."

Again, Thengel had to suppress a grin. "I will do my best to be discreet yet trustworthy in finding an answer for you, my friend."

Morwen, Indis and Listöwel indeed had become fast friends and when Listöwel had discovered Morwen was with child, she begged to be allowed to move to Minas Tirith and serve her. Prince Angelimir had been most happy with the arrangement and so, when the company set out for Minas Tirith, Listöwel was with them, much to Amdir's joy.

"I know that what I ask might seem fantastic, given the thoughts of my adadhron," Denethor spoke quietly, "but I believe it is possible to work around these ideas of Turgon's. What say you, Ingold?"

"Nay, it does not seem fantastic. It bears much thought. Bring the Rangers back to Ithilien? Hmmm. I believe you are correct, Denethor. I believe we can sway Ecthelion. And Inlach will obey. He is a soldier. I will come with you when you meet with your father. He respects me. You were wise to not approach him alone. Perhaps Thengel will join us in this venture. Or should I say adventure. Ithilien is almost totally bereft of her people. It would do my heart good to once again know she is safe."

Through all his machinations, his heart hurt and he did not know why. There were times when he felt as if he was a third thumb. Amdir spent his days with Listöwel and Thengel with Morwen; where was he? He began to think of other things besides training, Gondor, and his father. Perhaps there were other things in life. Nay, nay, this thinking was not for the future Steward of Gondor. Others could have their happiness, but not he. He would have to find his happiness in serving Gondor. Is not that what his father had oft told him? Besides, who would want to take a wife and then have to leave her at home for months at a time, as a lowly lieutenant pulled duty in other places in the kingdom. What woman would put up with that? Did Listöwel know that would be her fate someday, and Morwen? Of course, Morwen's situation was different. One day, no matter what Thengel thought, the man would be King of Rohan. Morwen would live at Edoras with him and he would send others off to their duty. He shook his head. This was foolish thinking. Was there a time when Thengel would let his men go without him? Would he even consider remaining in Meduseld when his troops were sent off to danger?

Action - that was what he needed. To be out on patrol with his unit. He would approach Thengel and ask for a sortie towards Rohan. They had surveyed the area directly above the North Gate, but there were other places to survey before reaching the borders of Rohan. Anórien was well known by Amdir and Denethor. They had oft traversed its forests just for the pleasure of it. He had maps sent from the Great Library to his room, poured over them, and discovered that the forests were not well mapped. They could be gone for weeks, perhaps fish a little, and return with valuable information. He pursed his lips. Amdir might be angry with him for taking him away from Listöwel, but he would be pleased once they began their trip.

His deepest desire, however, was to map Northern Ithilien, but he knew that Thengel would not allow this. They had a loud and passionate disagreement when Denethor brought the subject to Thengel's attention. First, Thengel had been furious that he had gone alone. Secondly, he was furious that Denethor had discussed anything about the Rangers with Captain Húrin. And thirdly, he was just furious. "Chain of command," he kept spouting and Denethor had to check his own temper. Did Thengel think he was a raw recruit unable to care for himself in the wild? Well, Húrin, of course, had to report about how they found Denethor, but the captain did not tell Thengel of their overtaking him unawares. For this, Denethor was mightily grateful. Once again, Denethor wished he could speak with his father. Since Thengel had become Horse Guard Captain and Ingold Captain of the Tower Guard, it seemed his father had no time for him. His loneliness, he now realized, was not just from Thengel and Amdir's distance, but also from his father's.

He kicked at stones as he walked towards the stables. Being with the horses, with Rochallor, always made him feel better. He brushed his horse's coat and nuzzled him with his head, placing it under his friend's neck and sighing deeply. Perhaps if he went to his father. That was the beginning of the chain of command - his father, now that Turgon was losing what wits were left to him. That thought brought tears to Denethor's eyes. Why was there always change? Why could not his adadhron live forever? He felt foolish - he was seventeen. But his memories were stirred by the thought of Turgon - deep and heartfelt memories of a trusted ally against Ecthelion's indifference. Here he was again, dwelling on those things which were of consequence to a boy, but should no longer disturb a man. Another sigh escaped his lips.

Enough of this! He was already disheartened and their stint of duty had just begun. He looked at Amdir riding next to him in sullen silence and another sigh escaped him. Their orders were to spend the summer charting the area from the River Glanhir to Cair Andros, including the Firien Wood and the Drúadan Forest. They were also to report the status of the beacon-hills.

His heart ached as he turned Rochallor east past the North Gate. He turned around in his saddle to speak with his men, but the glint of the sun on the Anduin and the forests of North Ithilien east of it caught his eye. 'Someday, I will cross the river and do what must be done for Gondor."

Their first night was spent on the western bank of the great river directly across from the island of Cair Andros. Denethor's palms fairly itched at the thought of being so close to North Ithilien and yet not able to cross over. He debated whether he should take a few men and cross the Anduin; at least spend a few hours on the island, exploring it. In his heart, he knew he would be countermanding Thengel's orders, and so he pushed his own will aside and concentrated on the maps that were spread out before him, adding the details of the landscape they had passed through already. How could records be so lacking in basic detail of the area so close to Minas Tirith? He shook his head in wonder at this indictment against Turgon's rule.

Their second night was spent among the pools and reed beds of the marshes of the Entwash; it turned into a thoroughly miserable night. The evening meal had to be taken in their tents for the flies, midges and other insects owned the land and filled the men's eyes, noses and mouths. Reeds and tussocks had hidden them when first their unit had pitched camp, but as night drew nigh, the crickets cries grated on their nerves and the biting insects tried to devour them. Denethor pitied his pickets. Even one hour spent on guard duty would drive a man mad with the flying creatures so thick about them. Great clouds of them swarmed everywhere. Never had he given his men only one-hour duty, but he would not subject them to more of this torture than was necessary. He himself woke every few hours, beset by the incessant buzzing of the creatures that found their way into his tent. He covered his face with his blanket but the noise still filtered through. He hated trying to breathe through his covers. He slept fitfully, awoke, covered his body with his blanket, as undignified as that was, faced the thousands of creatures that flew about him as soon as he stepped out of his tent, relieved his pickets and replaced them with new ones, and returned to his tent, all the while hoping for some surcease from the insects attacks. He spit out a body or two as he tried to settle down again to sleep.

He ordered a late departure for the morrow in hopes that the heat of the summer sun would drive the creatures away, so the men would be able to eat their morning meal in peace. But fate would not have it thus. Rain began falling ere the sun rose and Denethor called the muster, the camp folded, and he and his unit turned westward eating dried meat as they rode. 'What a miserable way to begin an adventure,' he thought. His foul mood was exacerbated by Amdir's sullenness. They had not spoken since the sortie began. Amdir, he knew, was livid at the fact that he must spend the whole summer away from Listöwel and he knew he had Denethor to blame. How was he ever going to repair the damage to their friendship? Another duty would have called to take Amdir away from her, but the instigation for this trip was Denethor's need for action, for distraction from pain, and Amdir was not about to let Denethor forget it and the misery it was causing him.

Another night camped near the marshes and Denethor scowled. 'Naught is going as I planned for this trip,' he thought. He had failed to take into account that early summer was a great breeding time for the insects that inhabited these marshes. The pickets were set and the camp settled as best it could. No moon shone this night and the relentless noises from the pests again made it difficult to sleep. Denethor tossed and turned and finally gave up the struggle. He rose, placed the cover around his shoulders, and stepped outside again. Amdir was awake also, pacing the little camp area despondently. Denethor debated whether or not to join his friend. He could not let him suffer in silence. Perhaps if he encouraged him to speak of Listöwel it would help assuage some of his grief at their separation. That is, if Amdir would not turn away as soon as he saw Denethor approaching. Well, there was naught to do but try.

As he walked purposefully towards Amdir a sound caught his ear - it was silence, the insects had quieted - and a smell assailed his nose. The hairs on his arms flew to attention. He hurled himself at Amdir, knocking the man to the ground as an arrow flew past the place where he had stood. His shout roused the camp and men dashed out of their tents, weapons hastily being snatched from their resting places. 'Why had not the pickets given the alarm?' Denethor wondered as he tried to see through the darkness. He had not even a moment to look. The camp was being overwhelmed by Orcs. He jumped to his feet, gave Amdir a hand up and cut the head off a charging Orc. Another replaced it and Denethor chopped at its arm, severing it cleanly as he turned at the grunt of another behind him. He gratefully acknowledged Amdir's rescue of him as he saw another fall. Now he wished he had ordered fires set, but they had drawn the insects, and the need for shelter from the bugs had caused this lack now. A torch would come in most handy for the Orcs were spilling from the blackness of the night and Denethor could not count their number. Not that the counting of them would do any good. Their only hope was to keep their weapons blazing.

He was glad these men had been with him at the Crossings. They knew how to fight and that skill was desperately needed as more and more Orcs spilled out of the night. Amdir's cry of pain roused Denethor from thought. He ran to his friend's side in time to annihilate the Orc that had struck the blow. Turning to help raise Amdir caused him to miss seeing the Orc on his flank. His left shoulder blazed with a pain that was quickly forgotten as Denethor, falling to the ground, swung his sword and viciously chopped the leg off his attacker. Amdir was on his feet again and was helping Denethor to his when two more Orcs attacked the friends. They placed their backs together and faced their enemies. The sound of death and dying were all about them, along with the sound of the growls of the Orcs and steel hitting flesh. Time seemed to stand still as his sword cut and chopped at the foe all about him. His ears had long since ceased trying to make sense of the noise that assailed them. Years of training had made his arms strong, but the hours of fighting were taking their toll. Would the enemy never stop coming?

As suddenly as the attack occurred, it was over. The Orcs faded into the night. Denethor called for fires to be lit. His men gathered around, their backs to each other and their faces towards the darkness. Once the fires were lit, they counted off. Tears stung Denethor's eyes as the count stopped at thirty-three. There had been fifty men under his command. He sent men with torches to the pickets' posts. They returned with grim news. None had survived. Denethor cursed himself, the night, the insects, the Orcs and anything that had ever moved upon Middle-earth. He set pickets again, but this time closer to camp, and calculated their losses and what their course of action should be. They were only two days from Minas Tirith. Should they return or continue on? He walked the camp trying to decide, but the decision was taken from him as he scanned the carnage before him. Their injuries were numerous, some of his men near death. He would send errand-riders to the City and his unit would return in ignominy. He remembered Amdir and his wounds, but was relieved to see him bending over a fellow soldier, offering him water. He walked towards him and pulled him a few steps away from the camp.

"We will have to return to Minas Tirith, Amdir. Our losses and wounded are too many for us to continue. Since this is just a mapping expedition, duty does not bind us to complete it. Our duty is to the men. Also, Ecthelion must be warned of this attack. I do not understand it. Orcs have not been west of the Anduin for an age - not on Gondor's soil. What is drawing them here against their foresworn enemy? How could I have prevented this?"

"I do not know, Denethor. It seems strange to me as well. We must retreat as you counsel but I find it most difficult to do so. I want to follow them and slay them all." A note of anger and frustration belied the calm on Amdir's face. "We did not humiliate Gondor, Denethor. We fought well. Appease your guilt with that thought." Amdir knew Denethor's nature - the constant voices of guilt that he knew assailed his friend at every moment of calamity. His task now was to stop Denethor's self-denigration and put his mind on what must be done.

"You are right, Amdir. I have sent messengers. We must make haste. We will not prove as able to defend ourselves if another attack occurs. You did well tonight." He said, embarrassed.

"You mean I did not run." Amdir's face blazed with shame. "Nay, I did not run. I wonder if you had not suffered injury, if I would have stayed."

"I saw the look in your eyes, Amdir. There was no fear tonight." He clasped his friend on the shoulder. "Let us away now."

The wounded were horsed with those able to support them and the camp was quickly struck. Much as it pained him, they would leave their dead for burial by others. The condition of the wounded demanded a quick retreat. It would take at least three days, perhaps four with the horses thus overburdened, to make their way back to Minas Tirith. A dark cloud settled on Denethor's heart and the wound in his shoulder started to burn.

He fell, fully clothed, into his own bed. He was beyond tired and the interview with Ecthelion had taken the last shreds of his strength. Now all he wanted to do was close his eyes. He had disobeyed his father and gone to his quarters instead of the Houses of Healing. The wound in his shoulder was not deep and had already been cleaned by Arciryas. There had been no need to go to another healer. Denethor had almost no recollection of their retreat back to Minas Tirith, except for the fact that he had lost three more of his men before they reached the City. He had never lost men under him before. The men lost at the Crossings had been under Thengel's command. This aborted sortie had been his first. He knew it would not be his last. How was he to endure this? These men had been his friends. He still had to go to their homes to offer his condolences to their families. Seventeen men lost in one night, three on the road, and perhaps another one or two that were still grievously wounded. His head spun as he ticked off the numbers.

The door to his room opened slowly, tentatively. Indis' face was covered with love... and concern. "Denethor," she began and as she spoke his name her tears began to flow. She knelt by his bed and laid her head on his chest, gently touching his bandaged shoulder. "I am so very sorry. Morwen told me of the battle and your loss. Thengel is concerned for you, too. What can I do?" The gentleness in his sister's voice broke the dam that held back his resolve and brother and sister shared their tears.

Once again, Ecthelion was thwarted by Turgon's utter blindness to reality. The Council was called, Denethor recounted the recent battle with the Orcs, Ecthelion exhorted them to action, and Turgon had said nay. There was no arguing his decision. He was stubborn, even at the end of his life. The Council would not go against him. Ecthelion's heart grew bitter at the folly of his father. He thought, 'I will not let this be the end of it. If Turgon will not take action, I will. In secret if needs be, but action will be taken!' He strode from the Council chamber and none would dare stop him once they looked upon his face.

He called Denethor to his chambers, his face still red from the suffused anger. "I recall your telling me some plan with regards to Ithilien. Would you refresh my memory?"

Denethor's heart leapt. "I will return in a moment, my Lord, if you would but give me leave to bring some maps back with me. They will help illustrate my plan in a clearer way." When he returned with the maps, he outlined his plan to Ecthelion, passion spilling out between the words, as he finally was able to show his father what he had been working on this last year, ever since the Battle of the Crossings.

Ecthelion listened, pointed to places on the maps, asked questions, and then sat - silent. Denethor held his breath. If only he had known this moment would come, he could have better prepared.

"I am impressed. It is a good plan. And you say there is a cave somewhere in this area?" he pointed to a spot on the map northeast of Cair Andros.

"That is what the texts in the Great Library say. Some place that was used of old to defend North Ithilien. I tried to locate it in the early spring, but could find neither sign nor road, but the time I spent there was short. If I could just lead a sortie across the river, I am sure, with the help of these legends that I will be able to find the cave. If all goes well, we might restore it as a watch point for the Rangers. One that they would be able to use as a base camp."

"Who would lead these Rangers?" Ecthelion wanted to know, wondering if Denethor had the temerity to request it for himself.

"He is loyal to Gondor, my Lord. I have spoken with him. His love of Gondor and his men supercedes everything else. I have not found a soldier so true."

"Yes, my Lord, in the early spring. I... I needed to... I was hurt by the..." Why could he not just tell his father? "I was ashamed at how I found the Rangers when we returned from Lossarnach. Father, I have read some of the history of the Rangers, discovered they were once a great force in Gondor's arsenal against evil. I had to determine what happened, why they now were merely window dressing, sentries who did naught. I had to know if it was Inlach's fault."

"I believe the cause may once again be laid at Turgon's feet. Father, he does not see; he... I have the fortune of having listened to your words all these years, heard from you the signs of evil about us. He has not. His councilors seem to have their heads buried in the sands of Harad. They do not read. They have no sense of history. They are fools!"

"Forgive me, Father. I can hardly bear to see what is happening to Gondor - to Turgon as he slowly slips away from us. And I rue the day he chose the councilors he now has. Father! You know yourself they see no further than their noses. Perhaps I have been a little harsh in calling them fools. What am I to call men who would see Gondor continue its spiral of death and despair? The people walk in oblivion, believing we, the Steward and his family, are taking care of them, when we are not! We sit and listen to the prattle of a man who has lost every vestige of sanity. His sentences make sense no longer. Long ago he should have accepted the gift of the One and laid down with his fathers. I speak thus only because of my love for him - that man who sits on the Steward's Chair is no longer the Steward. He is a shell - an empty shell and ripe for the wiles of his councilors, juggling for positions of power and full of greed."

Denethor held his breath. "Nay, Father, I speak the truth. You yourself have said the same things I am saying now. But you have said them couched in honeyed terms, while I speak the same words plainly. I would not have Turgon taken from his Chair. But I would not have Gondor held captive by unscrupulous councilors. Father, we must act now. Something terrible is coming towards Gondor; I can feel it in my heart, in every sinew of my body. Please, speak with Captain Inlach. Build the Rangers back into a force that is too terrible to deal with, one that will cause our enemies to think twice before considering an attack upon Gondor. Do you think the Corsairs would have attacked us if we were strong? Do you think the Orcs would have attacked us on our very borders? Father, I beg you. For Gondor."

And that is how Denethor, two months later, found himself on the road to Cair Andros with a sizable unit of men following him. He had been most surprised that Ecthelion had agreed to his plan; even more surprised that he had put him in charge of the operation. He still was not sure that he should have been the one leading these men. He had asked for Captain Inlach to head this march, but Ecthelion wanted to wait. He wanted his crack troops part of this. He was not sure of the Rangers' readiness. He also wanted to have more information and a stronger plan ready to present to Inlach. Ecthelion knew that Inlach did not trust him, nor respect him. He would not have this fail because of that lack. When Denethor returned, he would bring Inlach in and apprise him of everything. Then, he would find out whether Inlach would support him on this or no. Would he go to Turgon with the information and hope that he would agree to Denethor's proposal? Ecthelion still was not sure. With Denethor leading picked men, secrecy would be upheld. He was not now ready for anyone to know of this sortie.

Denethor's heart soared. His father trusted him, had listened to him, and had accepted his proposal. Nothing could surpass this feeling that ran like fire through his heart. He must do everything he could to make this a successful venture. Ecthelion had met with Thengel and the two men chose Denethor's company. Denethor had no say in that - but it did naught to quash the joy in his heart over the trust placed in him by his father.

Amdir rode at his side. He had insisted upon Amdir being with him. His wound was not too fearsome to prevent his coming. Neither was Denethor's for that matter. The first day's journey would be easy and that would give them another day of healing. Arciryas once again was with them and for that, Denethor was also grateful. Two battles, hard-fought battles, were under his and Amdir's belts and Arciryas had brought both of them back to Minas Tirith alive. Arciryas was beginning to be a good talisman for him.

They slept on the island itself the first night. The next morning dawned bright and clear - September was warm and the sun helped cheer Denethor. 'A good omen for us - bright sun and good men,' he thought. The island itself was about thirty leagues long and shaped like a great ship, with a high prow pointing north, and the Anduin crashing on the sharp rocks at the point. Bubbling foam it was called. Denethor laughed to think of its name when it was such an important place in his great-adadhron's time. It was still the only practical place for an army to cross the Anduin except for the bridge at Osgiliath - now almost completely ruined. Turin II had been a great leader and had been the last to fortify this island. It had fallen into disrepair under Turgon's rule and no guards were left. That would now change. Ecthelion had given Denethor seventy-five men to be left at Cair Andros when their foray into North Ithilien had been completed. These men would stand guard over Cair Andros, fortify the barracks and the fort on the island, and report directly to Ecthelion. No Rangers these but crack men of the Tower Guard, now a unit unto themselves. The rest of the island was covered with trees and would prove a formidable obstacle to any who came from the east. Denethor thought there might be other uses for this island. Perhaps as the center of a warning system against attack. If Cair Andros was ever breached, some method would have to be devised to warn Minas Tirith. Denethor marked that question in his log with a footnote 'beacon-hills.'

Two days later, they left the island, crossed the east leg of the Anduin, and marched into North Ithilien. 'At last,' he thought, 'we have arrived. I must find that cave. That will be my first priority.' Weeks passed - he only knew the cave was somewhere northeast of the island. He was beginning to give up hope - to think the texts were only legends and not reality. His face burned red at the thought of his failing to find it. He based so much of his argument with Ecthelion on the existence of this cave. What would he do if there were no such thing? No other fortifications had been found. Prospects were looking grim. Amdir and Denethor sat by the fire that night, both men frustrated and angry. Amdir had been a keen supporter of Denethor's plan for the Rangers. If there were no cave to house them, to use as their base camp, how else would they survive in the wilds?

It was not a matter of facing his father. He was becoming used to the gruff way he was regarded. He had noticed that Ecthelion treated him in a rougher manner than when he dealt with his other officers. He could only assume it was because he was his son. The weight of Gondor lay heavily upon his shoulders. It would soon lie on Denethor's. Try as he might to forgive his father for this treatment, try as he might to make excuses for his father, it still hurt. He was building up resistance to the hurt though and hoped that, in time, it would make no difference. It reminded him of when he was a boy and Ecthelion had moved him out of the nursery. 'He must think me weak,' thought Denethor. 'I must continue to show him my strength.' Now all he had to do was find that dratted cave!

The next morning brought them to the very foot of the Black Gate, built by the men of Númenor in an age past, built to keep evil contained within. It was an awe-inspiring, if terrifying sight. Denethor reassured his men that Mordor was uninhabited. 'This would be a formidable place to attack,' he thought as he sketched the gates and the entrance in his log. The gates yawed open, ominously, like a great beast ready to pounce. Scruff grew all around, and silence - silence so profound that it frightened Denethor. It felt as if a presence were there - the silence hiding it in the same way that silence reigns when animals sense that a hunter is about. He could not send his men into that land. They were too few, but he chafed at not being able to assuage his fears. With one last look, he turned his unit aside and headed towards home.

Amdir gave him a sideways glance that spoke volumes. His friend was glad they were going no further.

Denethor sighed and spoke earnestly. "Amdir, within the near future we will be attacked by the One we do not name. I am sure of it. We have been living on the edge. I wish we could have gone inside and looked about. I am concerned that something now dwells there. If He ever comes back, Gondor will be sore pressed to defend itself. And for that I am heartily ashamed."

"Ashamed? Why should you be ashamed? Have you not hounded your father to prepare?" Amdir asked in wonder.

"Yes, but to no avail. I am still mystified as to why he allowed this trip. But I am grateful." He paused for a moment, then continued. "Amdir, we must find that cave. We must have a hidden, fortified place for the Rangers to strike from. And we must have it soon. Evil is coming, I am sure of it." He laughed a short, hurt laugh. "I feel as if I have been saying that same thing my whole life and not being heard. Have you ever felt that way, Amdir?"

"With you as a friend? Nay, never. I have always known whom I could go to, who would listen when most I needed listening too. Do you not know that I am here for you, my Lord?"

The sincerity and hurt in his friends voice caused Denethor to pull up on Rochallor's reins. "My friend, does it seem to you that I feel that way? I am very sorry. I know you are here for me and I for you. It must be this place. It addles my mind. Let us away from it as quickly as possible. We will find that cave. I will not return until we do."

There had been no sign of Orcs or other enemy. Orcs would not attack if they were outnumbered. But that thought did little to console Denethor. The cave had not been found, nor any other fortress, and Denethor would return to Minas Tirith in disgrace.

Two nights later, they came upon a little sage-covered valley. Never had he seen such a field. A small stream ran through the middle of it; there was no sign of its beginnings and that made Denethor pause. He looked to his right and saw that the stream continued westward towards the Anduin. 'But where is its beginnings?' he wondered again. He looked up at the mountains to his left. Further up the hill, the sage was mixed with heather, ferns and moss. Denethor dismounted and looked around him. Amdir sat quietly, waiting. Suddenly, Denethor's skin began to prickle, not in fear, but in anticipation. Something was here. Something was very near. They had passed close to this spot on their way to the Black Gate, but Denethor had noticed nothing about the land. Perhaps one had to approach from the north? He continued eastward walking along the stream, stopping now and then to pitch a stone into it. Further up the hill he went and then he saw it. A long, deep gorge started just where he himself stood, headed westward. He gestured to Amdir to dismount, and started walking forward. "I can feel something, Amdir," his voice was excited and Amdir could tell by the tightness of it that Denethor was forcing himself to remain calm. "Something from long past. It is calling to me."

"Denethor, it is getting late, the men are tired, and we will soon be lost in this wilderness. Let us camp for the night and resume our search on the morrow."

Denethor stared ahead. He seemed not to have heard. His very skin trembled. He could not stop his search now, but he heard the wisdom in Amdir's words. "Order the men to bivouac for the night. I will return shortly."

"Nay, my Lord! You must not go ahead alone. Give me but a moment. I will settle the men and join you. Please!"

Denethor laughed. "Of course. Forgive me. I had forgotten my duty in the heat of this..." His voice trailed off and once more he faced the gorge.

How many years had it been since someone had come this way, he wondered? Once again he felt a presence upon him as he stood waiting for Amdir. The gifts of Númenor were many he was learning. And he was most grateful that it showed itself at this moment of great need. He walked slowly to where the men were preparing to spend the night. They would need torches, for the night was already dark.

The thrill of anticipation clung to him like a cloak, but he willed himself calm. He sat and ate with his men. Amdir looked at him quizzically. There was a self-assurance upon his friend that he had not seen before. This whole trip had brought changes to Denethor. There was a calmness and confidence in him that puzzled Amdir. And - Denethor shared his thoughts with him. As often as Amdir had wished for such a thing, had made himself available for Denethor, the sharing had been sparse. They had spent much time together laughing and telling jokes and playing pranks, when possible, upon Thengel. But deep, heart-felt sharing as he had done yesterday before the Black Gate - rare indeed. Gratitude welled in Amdir's heart. The mantle of leadership perhaps had caused these changes in Denethor. Whatever had caused this marvel, Amdir was not going to gainsay it.

At last, Denethor stood, motioned to Amdir and started walking away from the fire. "We will go alone. We will not go far, but we will spend some time in searching. I cannot sleep with this fire in my body. I have never felt anything like it, Amdir. It is as if my ancestors of old were calling to me. Perhaps the force of Turin II - I know not; I know only that we are very close to our destination. We will like as not find it tomorrow, but tonight I must spend some time exploring." He gave a short laugh. "I cannot understand this feeling, but I know it in my heart. And I do not fear it."

Amdir strode back towards the fire, took two stout branches, wrapped cloth around them, poured cooking oil on them, and then stuck them into the fire. They lit immediately. He walked back to Denethor with a smile on his face. They had not had a night adventure in a long time. In fact, the last one was almost a disaster. Denethor questioned him about the smile and he broke into a grin.

"Do you not remember the last time we used torches?" Laughter, which he could not control, bubbled through his voice. He made sure they were far from the rest of the detachment.

"Well, we had thrown down many a jug of ale at the time, my friend. So, you really do you not remember?"

Denethor shook his head. Now what had he done? He knew Amdir was not going to let it lie, that he would reveal all the nasty details, for it seemed that he must have made a fool of himself the way Amdir was laughing.

"It was about this time of year... Nay. A little later for it was cooler. Must have been sometime in November or perhaps December. We had gone to 'The Three Fishermen' with Thengel and that new lieutenant, I cannot remember his name, and a few others. You had asked Indis to come, I remember, and she hooted with laughter at the thought. I think you had already had wine at dinner. Well, Thengel left after only a few mugs and the new lieutenant was feeling a little awkward, I think, and he left and finally - it was just you and me. You had had dinner hours before, but I was eating as I drank. I think therein lay the problem! You kept drinking and I kept eating and soon we were both happy. That is when you began to sing."

"I know and so do the other patrons that were there that night. You made an awful noise but sang with gusto. I was most proud of you, until the owner came over and asked you to quiet down a little. You blustered, shouted, and fell over. I thought I was going to fall over myself - with laughter that is. The owner suggested that I take you home. As we walked outdoors, you started to laugh. "I know where we may go and sing and no one will mind at all. We will disturb no one." We had conveniently carried our mugs with us - the owner was too busy shoving us out the door, for you continued your howling, er... singing. So we walked from the Fourth Level all the way to the Sixth - you singing and me shushing you the whole while. We stopped at taverns along the way, filling our mugs, and then being shoved out the doors when you began to sing again. It was a most pleasant evening. I am sorry you do not remember it. Finally, you took me to the Sixth Level and turned south, not towards the next gate. That is when it dawned on me where you were taking us - Rath Dínen - I was not that full of ale."

"Yes - but you were humming now. And I was protesting - this was the Silent Street that we were going to walk upon! But you stood up straight, ran your hand through your hair, and approached the porter. You told him we were going to pay our respects to your ancestors and he let us pass! When we reached the Steward's House, you were singing quietly - but I did not recognize the song you sang. We took torches from the entranceway and walked in. The hairs on my arms lifted as we walked past Steward after Steward, and you humming all the while! We finally stood in front of Cranthir's tomb. I remembered him well - a good man and a good soldier. You sat on the floor in front of his tomb, pulled out your mug, and sang one of the funeral dirges. You sang terribly. I put up my torch and put my hands over my ears. It seemed disrespectful to sing there in that place; the sound echoed horribly. Somehow, the torch must not have been in the hold tightly, for next thing I knew, it had fallen down right into your lap. Your tunic caught on fire and we both laughed as we tried to put it out, but it would not go out." Amdir stopped for a moment. "I... I thought I was going to lose you my friend, right there, before the tomb of Cranthir. Thankfully, we were able to extinguish the flames and you were not burned. What a night that was!"

Denethor stopped. His face was red. "Is this some tale that you are making up? I remember none of this."

"Well, of course you would not have in the state you were in," Amdir said, glad to put the thought of that burning tunic out of his mind. "I put you to bed that night in the barracks. I certainly did not want your father to see you like that."

"I believe we are on the wrong side of the river," Denethor changed the subject and spoke a little more gruffly than he had meant to.

Amdir understood immediately. "Well, my friend, we both enjoyed ourselves immensely that night and I am very sorry you do not remember. You and I have not visited a tavern since then."

"And I doubt if I ever will if that is what happens to me when I do! We will strike camp early, cross the river and begin our search." He shook his head, "What kind of a friend are you that you would let me drink that much ale?" He smiled and slapped Amdir on the shoulder. "I tell you this, we will celebrate when we find that cave, but more sensibly."

Just ere dawn came, they broke camp. Fog covered the stream and the forests nearby. Denethor was disturbed. This would make it much more dangerous for their pursuit of the elusive cave. He was not sure where the gorge first began. First meal was quickly dispatched and the men waited for Denethor's orders.

"We are on the wrong side of the river." Denethor spoke to his men. "First, we will turn upstream and find a crossing east of the gorge. I want no one falling into it! We will go a short ways past it perhaps and then we will make a line. Each person will walk ten paces from the next towards the west with our anchor post held by Damrod on the east. Then we will turn towards the north and begin our search. We will be like a comb running over every part of this landscape. It will be a grueling, tiresome, and minute search of the area. We will not stop until we find the entrance to the cave or night falls. Amdir will take the westernmost position and I will take the middle. I must tell you that I believe the safety of all of Gondor relies upon our finding this cave. I will say no more."

They turned eastward, crossed the river about three leagues above their camp, climbed a long bank, passed into green-shadowed woodlands, and began the long arrangement of the men. This took a total of four hours and Denethor chafed at the slowness of it, but he knew this was the only way to find the cavern. He smiled to himself - of course it would have to be off a gorge like this. He did not know why he had not thought of it before. The gorge did fall off quite unexpectedly. He wondered how many Orcs had fallen in, much to their amaze, and the thought brought a further smile to his face. His only worry was not to lose any of his men in the same fashion.

It was well past noon when a soldier suddenly yelled a warning. Denethor ran to him. "Here is the beginning of the gorge, my Lord, and the stream is now a swift torrent! There is a path here that is descending steeply."

"Captain Denethor! My Lord," cried another soldier further down the line. "I have found a fissure that is opening into the land; I cannot see where it comes out."

Denethor's heart leapt. "We will split up. I want ten men taking the downward path under Amdir's command and ten more will come with me towards the fissure. The others will continue their sweep of the land. I want pickets out in three places, to the east, the south, and the west. I want no one or thing coming upon us unawares. And, I want none falling into the gorge. It appears to be very deep."

Denethor ran towards the opening; hope filling his heart. 'This could be it. This must be it. Or the pathway leads to it,' he thought.

Damrod ran towards him. "My Lord, may I come with you?" Damrod was young and full of spirit, knew the Elven tongue, and Denethor liked what he saw in him. "And my Lord, if I may say so, it would be wise for one of us to go into the fissure first. The water may fill a small space and leave no room for air. If we tie a rope around the first to descend, we can pull him up, if danger lies below. And if I may request that I be the first to descend?"

Denethor laughed. 'Give me five hundred men such as Damrod,' he thought, 'and I would be able to attack the Corsairs tomorrow!'

The fissure turned into a long tunnel that was slippery with water. Damrod called a report back every few moments. At the heartening news that there was no lake at the bottom of the hole, Denethor had two more men tie ropes to their waists and sent them after Damrod. "Have your knives ready. The width of the hole does not allow you to travel with your swords drawn and we have no idea what might be at the end of this tunnel," he instructed. The hole, though steep was long; Damrod reckoned they had traveled more than fifty feet already. Denethor desperately wanted to be with his men, but knew he must wait. To commit any more men to this venture would be senseless. The hole was about ten feet wide at its mouth, but, according to Damrod, it was becoming smaller in diameter the farther down they went.

"We have reached what appears to be the bottom," the last man shouted up to Denethor. "The path now appears to be flat - the ceiling is very low. We are on our hands and knees."

Time seemed to be standing still and Denethor was ready to jump into the opening himself. But just at that moment, a voice called up. "My Lord," the excitement in the voice was palpable. "We have found it. It was just another fifty feet or so from the end of the descent. Send down a lit torch tied to the rope so that we might be able to see."

Denethor scowled. 'Tied to a rope? Never.' It was time for him to follow his men. His aide struck a fire, found a suitable piece of wood, lit it, and gave it to Denethor. Then he tied a rope around his waist and Denethor was lowered into the fissure.

It was difficult keeping the torch lit and away from him and still be able to navigate the long, steep tunnel. His feet hit solid ground and he was forced onto his knees. He tried to hold the torch out in front of him, gasping and choking on the fumes from it. 'Will I never reach the end,' he thought as the smoke blinded him.

He felt the sharp cold touch of a blade upon his throat. Blinking back the smoke induced tears, he tried to see who would dare draw a blade upon him. The face of a stranger loomed in front of him, dressed in garb of greens and browns, like unto a hunter. The face before him scowled.

"Who are you and what type of foolery would cause you to enter this forbidden cave?" the man asked in Sindarin. "Speak quickly, ere my arm tires and my blade slip."

Denethor looked about him and saw Damrod and his men being held captive by men just as stern, daggers at their throats also.

"I am Lord Denethor, Lieutenant in the Horse Guard of the Army of Turgon, Steward of Gondor. Put up your blade before we both do something we may be sorry for later." He replied in the same tongue; his voice was strong, but his heart quaked. These were tall, stalwart, wild men and he could not be sure how they would react. He could not, in the pale light given off by the torch, tell how many men were in the cave, but there were more than a dozen at least.

"Forgive me, my Lord." The man greeted Denethor with bowed head and hand upon his chest. "My name is Findegon, Ranger of Gondor. Steward Turgon, stationed my men and me here in 2930. I am afraid we have been forgotten."

The breath he had held was released as he recognized the Gondorian welcome. "Findegon! I have read about your exploits fighting Easterlings long ago. I... I thought you dead."

"So that is what happened to me!" Findegon laughed. "I hope 'twas in battle, my Lord, and with a victory in the end. Forgive me for the blade. We are wary of all. There are so few of us, we dared not engage you. We knew not who you were. Here, sit and we will bring food and drink." He shouted to his men who sheathed their blades and quickly brought seats forward.

"Nay, I am sorry. No word had come to us that Rangers still dwelt in Ithilien, never mind North Ithilien. It was only by reading the old texts that I even discovered the existence of this cave. It has taken us many weeks to find it."

"And that is much to our detriment, my Lord, that you were indeed able to find it. If you were able, how might not others?"

"We will speak about that later. I have some ideas. Tell me all that you have been about since your deployment here. How many men have you? Where have you found supplies? What...?"

"Peace, my Lord, I will tell all, but first, I hear others on the stairway. Are they your men?"

"Yes, I sent another contingent down the path. They must have finally found their way here. Amdir!" Denethor jumped up as he saw his friend approach.

Amdir quickly drew his sword when he saw the strangers around Denethor, but just as quickly Denethor stepped between him and Findegon.

Morwen's pains had begun and it was much too soon. Indis sent her handmaiden to the Houses of Healing requesting that a healer come quickly to the Steward's quarters. She tried to make Morwen comfortable, but her sister-friend moaned piteously. Indis sat at her side and held her hand as the tears fell. They could not lose this babe; she could not lose her friend.

Adanedhel himself came. By this time, Thengel was at Morwen's side. The healer quickly asked him to leave, though he allowed Indis to stay. His assistant, Firieth, had brought tools, bandages, and other supplies needed by her master. Flashes of the scene at the Crossings flew before Indis' eyes. Morwen had suffered terribly then; Indis hoped it would be different now. Morwen was a much stronger woman. Indis had made sure that she ate well, exercised, and was well rested. Why was this happening? She had sent for Amdir's mother, Elleth, who came quickly and stayed with her. The woman had become a good friend and at times like these, a good friend was worth her weight in mithril.

"It is a blessed and beautiful thing when all is well, Indis. And most times, all is well. Morwen is strong and will be able to deliver this babe. And Adanedhel is a skilled healer, the best in the kingdom. She will be fine and the babe will be fine."

Indis flinched at the term Elleth had used - the 'kingdom.' Rarely had anyone in the present age called Gondor a kingdom. It sent chills through her. Turgon was Steward. Her father would be next in line and then Denethor would succeed him. This is the way it had always been as long as Indis could remember. Ecthelion spoke now and again of the return of the king, but Indis had no such confidence. The Stewards ruled Gondor. She shivered again. Why this dread upon her? There was no king; there was no one left in that bloodline. What did Elleth mean? Was a usurper present that she did not know of? Were the people speaking of the return of the king? It was a common saying, used by all, 'When the king returns,' 'The return of the king will,' but none had come forth and it was now just a saying, no more. Indis shook the feeling aside. It must be this birth; she was not thinking straight. There was no need for alarm. There was no usurper and she was placing too many suspicions upon her poor friend; looking for double meanings when there were none.

The wait was long. Thengel walked the escarpment, assured by Indis that, as soon as there was news, she herself would come and get him. Hours seemed to pass and no word. Ecthelion had come and stayed with him for a time, but then left. Turgon himself came and slowly walked with him, seemingly unaware of what was happening. He was telling Thengel tales of times long past as if the events were happening as he spoke. Thengel flinched in pain. So very sad to see such a man wasting away, his mind bereft of understanding. He felt guilty when Turgon left, but the sight had been disquieting. He wondered about his own father. Long had it been since he had seen him last. Perhaps, when the babe was old enough, he would visit Edoras again with Morwen and the child. Was his father at the wedding? Ah, yes. He remembered now and all he spoke of was her dowry and the good prospect Morwen was. Thengel shook his head in disdain. He wondered where Denethor was. They had not heard from him in over a month. He smiled at the thought of the child grown into a man. It was good to have such a friend as Denethor - faithful and true and wise for his years. He would calm Thengel's fears. He wished Denethor was beside him now as he had been in battle, in sport, and in fun. He remembered the fishing trip they took to Lossarnach and the camaraderie they had. But that remembrance drew his thoughts to what had happened at the end of that trip - Morwen had lost their first child. He looked towards the Steward's quarters. No sign of anyone. How long would this last?

"We are from Emyn Arnen. And my father before me. Long have we waited for assistance, my Lord."

"Then we must be cousins in some fashion, for my family is from Emyn Arnen, both mother and father." Denethor ignored the mild, though truthful rebuke. "A fine land it is, beautiful still, though the scars of battle and neglect lay upon it. A time will come when that will change. People will return to our land and children will run in play. I promise you that. In fact, that is one of the reasons for this foray into North Ithilien. It is the first step in recapturing our land from evil."

Amdir smiled as he sat by his friend and listened. The passion in his voice always stirred Amdir's heart. The love of Gondor flowed strongly through Denethor and inspired the same love in his men. They would succeed with Denethor at the helm of the country; Amdir was confident.

Findegon smiled also. "My Lord, long has it been since anyone gave thought to Ithilien. I am most grateful that you have finally come. Long have the Rangers labored here. None know of the many battles we have fought in stealth and unassisted. We longed for the days when help would come."

"Well, it has come now and you have my word that you will not be forgotten again. I will leave twenty men with you for the moment. I wish I could leave more, but I have orders to leave a full contingent to rebuild Cair Andros. When I return to Minas Tirith, I am sure Ecthelion will send reinforcements. It is time you and your men were given some respite from the duty you have shown Gondor. Seventeen years you have been here? You have done well and will be rewarded. All your men will be rewarded for this service to Gondor. Damrod here will stay with you and will instruct you in the history of Gondor during the last few years. I see by your reaction that you have no inkling as to whom Ecthelion is?"

"Ecthelion II is son of Turgon II, grandson of Turin II. You must have a thousand other questions and they will be answered, but now, I must see to my men."

He wondered where Denethor was. They had not heard from him in over a month. He smiled at the thought of the child grown into a man. It was good to have such a friend as Denethor, faithful, true and wise beyond his years. He would help calm Thengel's fears. He wished Denethor was beside him now as he had been in battle, in sport, and in fun. He remembered the fishing trip they took to Lossarnach and the camaraderie they had. But that remembrance drew his thoughts to what had happened at the end of that trip - Morwen had lost their first child. He looked towards the Steward's quarters. No sign of anyone. How long would this last? How much could his beloved stand? Thengel could stand it no longer. He strode towards the Citadel only to be stopped by Elleth. He could not read her face - weariness was upon it, but what else?

"My Lord, it is time to rejoice! You have a daughter. Healthy, sweet as sugar beets and full of laughter already!"

"She is fine - very tired, but fine. She asks for you. Indis sent me to fetch you. I will..."

He was five leaps ahead of her and making his way towards the Steward's quarters.

Elleth laughed. 'Twas a good day. A grand day. 'Gondor needed this,' she thought as she turned towards her own home. 'Gondor needed this.'

"Nay, there were many times when we took turns, left this area and went to our homes in Emyn Arnen, to visit our wives and to see our children. Yes, there are some still there," Findegon said as he saw the look of surprise on Denethor's face, "guarded by our younger men. But always we came back here. We waited for missives from Minas Tirith, but none came. We knew she still stood, for the morning light shone upon her. So we did our duty and protected her."

"You will be rewarded for this service, be sure of that," Denethor told the Rangers, for that is what he now called them. "But now we must work to fortify this position. The entrance that I came down must be blocked off. We will put rocks and dirt into the opening, create a wall to block the inside of the cave with brick, mud, and stone from the shattered monuments in the area. Then we will alter the landscape where the opening had been. It will soon stay silent as to what it had once been."

They worked steadily for a week, filling the upper entrance, enlarging the inside of the cave, creating a false front on the only remaining entrance into their make-shift fortress. And every night, when possible, they would sit at the lip of the cavern that overlooked a pool some eighty feet below, and watch the waterfall catch the sunlight and spill it back into the cave in a rainbow of colors. At times like that, Denethor and the men about him knew that there was purpose for what they did, and Denethor realized how these men could have kept their commitment so long, with the beauty of Ithilien spilling at their feet. Once the sun set and the glory of the moment was but a breath in their minds, they would stay and share tales of long ago - most were spell-bound by the knowledge of the young lieutenant. He tried to sing them some of the songs that he had learned during his times in the Great Library. Mostly, he asked Amdir to do the singing. Amdir's voice was clear and strong and he could keep a tune. Then the Rangers would tell of their own time here in the forests and glades of Ithilien. They were humble men and had to be coaxed into telling their tales, but Denethor insisted that everything was important and must be written down. They would finally fall into their beds exhausted, and wake with an eagerness in their hearts flamed by their young leader and mirrored by the land that they so loved.

It was difficult to leave this fair land, just now touched by the evil of the One they do not name. It was more difficult to leave the Rangers. Denethor was still in wonderment at what these men had accomplished. He was loath to leave them alone again. Most of the men were approaching their later years. He hugged each man and pledged that replacements would be sent directly. A month at the most, he promised them. Then they were away towards Cair Andros. They helped refurbish the fortress on the island and left the seventy-five men as ordered by Ecthelion. At last, they were away for home and Denethor could not have been happier nor more at peace. Much had been done these past months to safeguard Gondor. Much was still to be done, but he had almost given up hope that there ever would be this building up of fortifications towards its defense. Now there was hope.

Morwen had born Thengel a daughter, they discovered when they returned from their sortie. The child had come much too early and Adanedhel had striven mightily day and night to save the babe and the mother. There had been too much death and dying of late, he told Denethor, and the old healer was sick of it. At last, all had turned out well. Denethor was glad that he and Amdir had been away for the birth. He could just imagine it. Indis and Listöwel running around shouting orders at everyone and Thengel pacing the Great Hall. The one regret Denethor had was not being there for his friend, but he knew that Thengel would not even have been aware of his absence - the horror of what could have been sat hard on him. He was taken aback when Thengel hugged him tightly upon their return. He happily returned the hug, heartily congratulating his friend.

The child was beautiful, marked with the light skin and dark hair of Númenor and a slight disconcerting, all-knowing look in her eyes. Thengel had made him hold her, much to Denethor's discomfiture. There had not been a babe in the Steward's Hall all of Denethor's life and it seemed most strange to have one now. Because of Thengel's status as Prince of Rohan, it had long ago been decided that he and Morwen would live in the Steward's quarters. A sigh passed Denethor's lips and his brow creased in thought. Long ago the Hall had been built with the thought of many descendants filling it with joy and laughter. Reality, this last age, had not fulfilled the hope of her builders. Slowly, as in the rest of Gondor, the population had declined. During the Second Age, fear had driven many to the south-westernmost reaches of the land. Famine and fever in this age had decimated it further. Consideration and knowledge were directed towards increasing the lifespan of the populace, not towards filling her empty homes. Slowly, monuments were being built in memory of those from the past, whilst thoughts of future generations were put off. Many buildings lay abandoned; the people who had once lived there were long forgotten. 'All for Gondor,' had been Ecthelion's creed for as long as Denethor could remember, but standing here, holding this sweet child in his arms, Denethor began to think of his own future. Perhaps he could still have children and keep Gondor's weal his own.

"You will obey me!" Ecthelion had stormed. "There will be no replacements sent to Henneth Annûn. Those men have been stationed there and there they will stay."

"Father!" Denethor almost shouted. "I promised them they would be relieved. I promised them!"

"You will, in the future, wait until you have consulted with me before making promises you cannot keep."

"Did you know that there were still soldiers garrisoned there?" he asked in amaze.

Ecthelion paused. "I was not sure. I have had no reports and neither has your grandsire. Still, our men are stretched too thin as it is. The Rangers themselves are not ready to be sent. They would be marching to their deaths. I will not abandon Henneth Annûn now that it has been fortified, that I promise you, but I will not send untried troops to the front line."

Denethor shook his head. It was a death warrant for his Rangers. They were too few and too old to defend North Ithilien much longer. All their work in restoring the post had been for naught for the men guarding it. Findegon's face rose before him. At their parting, the joy of knowing that they would soon be relieved shone on his face. Now, there would be no replacements and no joy. Denethor felt the pang of failure smite his heart. He knew that Ecthelion spoke wisely, but something had to be done for his Rangers.

"Father," he took a deep breath. "What say you to Captain Inlach and I and the Rangers in his charge going to Ithilien and training the men there? Findegon and his men know well the ways of the forest and will be able to teach the Rangers better than anyone here in Minas Tirith. The training will progress faster with experienced Rangers teaching them and with them learning in the field." There was no reply: Denethor had his moment of hope dashed quickly.

"I will not speak of this again. We will commence training here, with the Rangers in the City under Inlach's tutelage. There is naught further to discuss."

Trying to walk out of the Steward's Hall with dignity was difficult. His shoulders felt as heavy as lead and his heart was wrung with sorrow. He had never felt so helpless. He had never felt such rage. Amdir greeted him at the door, but the look on Denethor's face was such that Amdir knew what the answer was before asking. The two men walked in silence towards the Sixth Level and their barracks.

Thengel greeted them at the door, anxious to hear everything about their expedition. Seeing the look of despair on his men's faces, he drew them aside. "Come, we will go to 'The Three Fishermen.' I have details I want to discuss with you concerning your next assignment." He had not even thought about a next assignment for them, but it was a good excuse to take them away from other's ears, and give them a secure place to tell him what lay so grievously upon their hearts.

"Father will send no replacements," he finished his report to Thengel and slumped in his familiar chair in the inn.

Thengel sat back himself, bewildered by Ecthelion's response to Denethor's report. "I... I do not know what to say."

"I had such hopes, Thengel. Cair Andros and Henneth Annûn refortified; the eastern edge of Gondor primed to slow an attack and warn Minas Tirith. I believed that is why I was sent. I do not understand this." He placed his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. "I cannot leave the men there. At the least, I must go and impart Ecthelion's orders. I cannot let another take this command to them. I promised. I know that sounds absurd, but if the men cannot rely upon my promise, what are they left? What am I left?"

Thengel placed his hand on Denethor's shoulder. "You and I will go. We will go to Cair Andros and you will show me what has been done. We will review the men and then, we will take a small troop to investigate other areas in North Ithilien. Was not that your original order - to find the cave, yes, but to find other fortifications for Gondor's use? We will then find the cave and Findegon and relay Ecthelion's orders. It is a bitter pill to swallow, but going yourself is necessary."

"Of course. We will leave in three days time. I will speak with Ecthelion and request written orders for Findegon and his men. Denethor, it will be a swift expedition. I cannot stay too long away from Morwen, though Indis hovers ever o'er her like a hawk. I must return as quickly as possible for she is still weak."

But this hope was shattered almost as quickly as Denethor's first hope. There were no explanations. An errand-rider would be sent. No more. And Denethor was left with a bitter lesson learnt at the cost of his honor.

A/N – From the Appendixes: 2901 Most of the remaining inhabitants of Ithilien desert it owing to the attacks of Uruks of Mordor. The secret refuge of Henneth Annûn is built.

Dancing, that is when Amdir fell in love with her, when he saw her dancing in the moonlight in Dol Amroth. He had discovered her as he searched for Thengel - but the quest for Thengel was immediately forgotten in the beauty of this woman before him. And now, now he would dance with her himself, wrap her in his arms, and find joy at the closeness of her. They were to be wed. His mind reeled at the prospect of it, the total unbelievably blessed thought of it. Ecthelion had given his approval. Early spring, when the flowers in the gardens of his mother blossomed and spread their fragrance in the air, that was the time granted for the troth pledge. How could he ever endure the wait? They were no longer able to spend time alone together. Tradition dictated a time of separation, a time of preparation, for love to be tested by distance. If only he could go on patrol somewhere far away from the City, perhaps it would help ease the pain, the tightness in his chest as he contemplated the months apart. But Thengel would not allow it. He was relegated to constant training, schooling and practice. He had twice been cut by blade when his mind had wandered to the thought of her face, her smile, and been reprimanded vehemently by the swordmaster. Yet no physical pain erased the pain in his heart. He would see her now and again on the City's streets, walking with Indis or Morwen; she would look the other way following the law of Gondor, causing his heart to tear into tiny bits. This could not be for the good. What kind of tradition would keep two such as they apart for so long?

Denethor, helpless in the face of his friend's distress, was as morose as he. There was naught he could do to cheer him, though he had taken him to 'The Three Fishermen' on various occasions trying to lift his spirits, take his mind off the woman he loved. Naught was gained; Amdir was lost in his despair. Finally, Denethor went to Thengel.

"Please, I ask you as friend, may I take a company or a half company to the North Gate and beyond or perhaps Cair Andros on the pretense of patrol for Amdir's sake? We will only be gone for a month, no more, but I cannot abide looking at his visage, wracked with pain as it is."

Thengel sighed. He did not understand the traditions of Gondor, but was foresworn to uphold them. He was well aware of the suffering of Amdir. He had hoped the training would be enough to take his friend's mind off his love, but then he smiled to himself. Had training ever given him surcease from thoughts of Morwen when they were separated?

"You will have orders in the morning," he said and was quickly engulfed in a fervent embrace.

Their orders were for two months; their destination was to be Cair Andros. Denethor rejoiced at his good fortune. His mind tried to envision an excuse that might take him towards Henneth Annûn. The thoughts of the men there, waiting for relief, and the anger of his father if he knew he contemplated disobeying his orders, were dismissed as quickly as they came. He would not lose this opportunity. Who knew that his needs would be fulfilled at the same time as Amdir's? A full company was to be at his command. Never before had he been given a full company. When last he had been to Cair Andros he had a full company, but most were left to garrison the island. Now, they would be his. The thrill of command ran through him at this unexpected grace.

One week later, the company rode out of the City, with the Steward's banner flying in the hands of Denethor's aide, Dúinhir of Blackroot Vale, newly come to Minas Tirith as a recruit. Denethor's face shone from the thrill of it - his own company, the Steward's banner flying, and his friend at his side. Could life be any better? The only thorn in this was his decision to contravene his father's orders. It could not be helped. He had given his word to Findegon. Hot blood coursed through his veins at the thought of his shame at the breaking of his promise. He would have to be careful; he would have to devise a way to meet with Findegon. How would he tell him of the refusal by Ecthelion to relieve them of their post at Henneth Annûn? Tears pricked at his eyes at the thought of it - brave men, left to rot in that cave, when replacements were available. Anger burned him afresh. He could not bring replacements, but he could offer his deepest regrets. There was naught more he could do.

Amdir, too deeply engrossed in his own thoughts to notice the agitation of his friend, rode in silence. His thoughts, as ever, were upon his beloved. A slight smile creased his eyes as he thought of his use of Thengel's term for Morwen. Appropriate, wonderful term - beloved. His eyes shone with the memory of her. This march was doing naught to relieve his need to be near Listöwel, but he knew that Denethor had risked much to take him from the City, to take his mind from the forced separation. He rode closer to him and touched his arm.

"For what, Amdir? We are obeying orders, that is all," Denethor said with a laugh.

"Nay, my friend. I know that is not all. You saw my distress and you have used this patrol as a diversion. I know Thengel was against it. I know that you put your friendship with him at risk. I cannot thank you enough."

"Amdir, you are friend to Thengel also. It was not difficult to remind him of that. He values your friendship, as do I. We three are stronger when we are of one mind. Today, we are of one mind. We will spend this time building up Cair Andros along with our friendship, and when we return, we will take Thengel to 'The Three Fishermen' and amuse him with tales of our adventure. I look forward to that more than anything."

"You speak of us being of one mind. I feel there is more upon your heart than Cair Andros, my friend. Tell me, before you bring sorrow or shame upon yourself. What other action are you planning?"

Denethor took a deep breath. "I am being foolish, Thengel would think, but I cannot, have not, been able to forgive my father for making me break my promise to Findegon and his men. I cannot do this thing. I cannot live with myself. I must go to Henneth Annûn and explain what has happened. I cannot relieve them, but I can at least... Amdir, how am I to endure this shame? I was foolish, yes, by saying that they would be relieved before I had father's permission. But it seemed so apparent to me that there was such need. How could I have ever known that father would stay his hand in helping them? They have been there too long. And Damrod is now relegated to banishment, unbeknownst to him." His shoulders slumped and Rochallor slowed his pace as his master's hand loosened his grip.

Appalled at Denethor's statement, Amdir pulled his own horse up. "I believe it is time for us to set camp, my Lord." He turned to Dúinhir and commanded the lad to set Denethor's tent. The rest of the company dissembled and set up camp for the night.

They sat next to each other in front of the fire, all discussion stayed by the enormity of Denethor's plan. Amdir set aside thoughts of Listöwel; he now feared too much for his friend. The course of action that Denethor contemplated would spell disaster for him. Amdir could not understand Denethor's compulsion to destroy himself for the men of Henneth Annûn. They were soldiers; they had foresworn themselves to Gondor's care. How would he be able to persuade Denethor to set aside this action? Was his pride such that he would invite punishment and perhaps demotion? Fear for his friend blazed in his heart.

"By the Valar, Denethor, if you do this thing, you will surely... Do you not remember when your father banished you from his household? If you do this thing, you risk banishment again. Is your pride worth this price? These men are soldiers. They do not expect you to disobey an order on their account. They would be ashamed to have you challenge the orders of their Captain-General. Please, I beg you, do not do this thing. Not only will you have to bear this, but I will have to bear the shame and regret, knowing that your concern for me led you to a path that would cause your destruction."

The air crackled with the vehemence of Amdir's plea. Denethor sat in stunned silence. "You speak wisely," he said at last. A shake of his head and an arm around his friend's shoulder told Amdir that his words had hit home. "I... I would turn from your words of caution and concern, if I could, but the words you speak hold only truth in them. What price pride? Surely pride would be destroyed by disobedience. How could I have thought to do such a thing? This shame has gnawed at my heart these past months and has pushed aside thoughts of my duty to my liege lord. You are right about Findegon. He will understand - and endure. I owe you much, Amdir."

The weeks passed quickly and Amdir breathed a sigh of relief as they finally turned towards Minas Tirith. He had not slept well since he had discovered Denethor's scheme. Every morning, he had quickly scanned the company to make sure Denethor was still with them and had not run off in pursuit of his lost honor. He would never tell Thengel how close they had come to losing their friend. The horror of it still shook Amdir when he considered what might have been.

When they returned, they found Morwen was again with child and Thengel quite beside himself, near bursting with pride. The joy that shone in his face spread to all who came anywhere near him. His laughter filled the air. Denethor loved being around him though he did not understand this compulsion to continue begetting offspring. It was not the way of Gondor. Indis was taking it all in stride, rejoicing at the tasks set before her, and loving every moment of caring for Morwen, ordering clothing, and all the myriad tasks associated with the birth of another child. Forgotten were the long labor, the struggle and the fear that attended the birth of Hild. It was different this time, she told herself. Though it had only been months since Morwen had given birth to the dead babe, Indis was sure Morwen's body was ready for another. She yearned to share in the thrill of this time before them and Thengel was not above wrapping his arms around her, swinging her in a small dance movement, and sharing the joy of the new life with her. Indis so loved this man and his joy of life. That he would include her in his family's happiness was beyond her understanding. And her gratitude was deep.

Denethor was going to introduce Thengel to a carpenter of renown. The two friends were oft seen in the barrack's dining hall, heads bent together over sketches of cradles for the little one. Thengel had a small knowledge of woods and insisted that the babe's cot be made of oak. The finest oak, Denethor knew, grew in southern Ithilien. They would gather a half company of the Horse Guard and make a sortie into that land in two days time. Hild had been placed in a cradle made for Denethor, but there were none other available that Denethor felt worthy enough for Thengel's newest addition.

The farewells lasted overlong, from Denethor's point of view. They would only be gone a few days, yet the farewells were such one would think they were leaving for two years! Listöwel, Morwen and Indis all gathered around the soldiers and Denethor's face burned with shame at the ruckus made. Would Thengel never call the men to task and take them away from this noise? At last, they were on their way. The smell of horses, the snap of the banners as they rode out of the Great Gate, set Denethor's heart skipping. He had finally been able to put away his despondency over Henneth Annûn and concentrate on his training again. But this sortie would be a blessed relief to the dull routine of that training. Perhaps, he would be able to stop at Emyn Arnen and speak with Findegon's kin. Ecthelion had said naught of that. He smiled a little at the thought. Some measure of honor might yet be saved.

The ride towards Ithilien was full of soldiers' banter, horses' hooves throwing dust into riders' faces, and the smell of fresh air, herbs, and trees starting their spring bloom. A perfect day for a soldier - except for this soldier. It had been almost two years since Denethor had left Findegon. Why would that name not leave him? Why did the visage of that man keep rising to greet him at the beginning of the day and sleep with him at night? Why? Was it guilt? He knew he was of a melancholy nature, but this was beyond melancholy. It was a fixation. Perhaps Findegon reminded him of Cranthir - they would both be of the same age, of the same Ithilien legacy, if Cranthir had lived. How was he to free himself from this shadow that haunted him?

Amdir guided Hros next to Denethor and smiled ruefully at the sight of the scowl on his friend's face. 'What could be bothering him, now,' he wondered? "Hallo, have you gotten us lost?" he laughed.

Denethor's scowl grew deeper. "Not in my charge today are you, so you have no fear of being lost."

"You have so little..." A sigh escaped Denethor's lips. "It is because of me that Thengel is traveling this path. I was the one who told him of the oaks in Ithilien. Would I offer such of Gondor's wealth if I had not expected Thengel to take the company himself?" he spat out.

"You are in some mood today, my friend, but it will do naught to take away my joy at traveling at your side." For a moment, the grin left his face as he thought of what he had left behind in Minas Tirith. Then he shook himself and smiled again. "My Lord, will you not tell Thengel of our adventures in the wilds of Ithilien chasing flowers?" He outright laughed now and Denethor was hard-pressed not to join him. Finally, after these many long years, the shame of that adventure was mellowing and becoming a favored tale.

"You yourself may tell the saga tonight, my friend," Denethor did laugh. "We will be very near to the spot at our crossing this day. Perhaps we two could turn and find the field. I wonder, much as your mother loves the irises we brought back, perhaps we should dig up a bunch or two more for her."

"We would not even be able to find them," Amdir said. "They will not bloom for another two months. Neither of us would have much luck locating that field. If you remember, we almost didn't find them then and the field was fully bloomed!"

"Nay, it was your constant chatter that kept my mind from focusing on our quest. You forget how often I begged you to restrain yourself. You were so loud the birds flew from us. Any hope I had of concentrating was lost every time you opened your mouth."

"I did not open my mouth for naught, my friend. If you remember, you were frightened near out of your wits and it was my merry mouth that kept our spirits lifted. And I would do it again for you - any time!" He sidestepped Hros away from the arm that flailed towards him and beat a path towards Thengel's side. He had accomplished what he had set out to do - put a smile on Denethor's lips.

The company was passing the way to Emyn Arnen on their right as they approached the Harad Road. Denethor brought Rochallor next to Thengel, put his hand on Thengel's arm and asked if they might stop for nuncheon. Thengel was surprised. He had planned on eating on the road; the men had plenty of dried meat and water to keep them until they set camp. But Denethor's look told him there was more in the simple request than thoughts of food. The mission they were on was mostly personal and could be delayed for a time.

He turned towards the men and ordered a halt. Then, "Come, while the men tend the horses. I need to speak with you," he said, giving his friend an excuse for their leaving the company, and a moment to collect his thoughts once they had dismounted.

"My Lord. You have been our captain for many a long year. And I have learned much from you during this time. You have been kind to share your thoughts with me, your burdens on leading the men. I now have a question that I cannot answer myself. I am distraught with pondering it. May I... may I share my concern with you?"

"Denethor," Thengel put a hand on his friend's shoulder, "you have only to ask." He walked forward in silence, waiting.

"Ecthelion says that I must not contact Findegon." The sigh was torn from his lips. "I have always obeyed my father. Well, most of the time," he groaned as he saw the look in Thengel's eyes. "But now, this is... I must ask you. When does a soldier have the right to disobey?"

Thengel drew in his breath slowly, trying desperately to answer his friend truthfully without being treasonous himself. He lowered his head, tied his golden hair back, and sat on a rock cropping. He motioned for Denethor to sit next to him. "I have questioned your father's orders myself," he said at last, knowing Denethor spoke of Findegon and the Rangers. "To leave the men there, after seventeen years of service with no respite, is reprehensible enough, but to not send further orders? I do not understand it.

"There may come a time when a soldier must disobey. However, there must be a grave breach in the laws of Gondor before a soldier may even consider such a thing. Now, we must deliberate - has there been a grave breach? Is it right to leave men to die with no knowledge that they are being left to die?" Thengel shook his head. "Is that what Ecthelion is doing - leaving them to die? I am not sure. He said the Rangers of Minas Tirith are not yet ready to be sent to man Henneth Annûn. That does not establish a reason for not sending orders to the men already there. We are bound to obey Ecthelion, but we are also bound to obey our hearts. My heart says we must honor our fellow soldiers. But my heart also says we must obey our Captain-General. I believe he has valid reasons for doing this; I believe it is not a grave breach of the law, but I do believe it is a breach nonetheless. I cannot tell you what to do, my friend. But I myself will obey Ecthelion in this. I will promise you, though, once we are finished with this business, I will again approach him and strongly urge him to send errand-riders with new orders. What say you to that?"

Denethor lifted his head. "Yes, my Captain," he said, grief momentarily lifting from him, "I will abide by your decision. And I will hope mightily that Ecthelion will change his mind. Or grace us with the knowledge of why he is doing what he is doing. I must tell you this, though; we are near to Emyn Arnen. The families of those very men are living here. May we go through the woods instead of the Harad Road, find their encampment and make sure all is well with them?"

The smell of fires burning reached Denethor's nose before he saw the encampment. It smelt almost like venison being cooked, but he was unsure. 'It is nuncheon; all is well,' he thought. But all was not well. The fire he smelt was of burning cottages mixed with the pungent odor of burning flesh - not deer. His mind suddenly recognized the smell for what it was, as did his companions'. Thengel quickly stopped the company and drew his men close. "Denethor," he hissed, "take a quarter of the company towards the east, circle the camp and wait for my signal. Amdir, you do the same on the west but follow through to come up from the south. Ciramir, you take the last quarter and guard my flank. Now, go, quietly."

It took only moments to encircle the small encampment and Denethor waited. The signal came and the men charged, not able to see through the thick trees what they were about to do battle with. Fear lay cold on their minds; righteousness blazed in their hearts. As they burst through, they found no enemy; only the dead lay to tell of the cruelty of the attack.

Thengel sobbed as he saw little bodies lying next to cruelly hacked women. There were only a few bodies of men strewn about - young men at that, none with the knowledge of how to protect their charges. Denethor remembered that Findegon had said their sons were guarding their homes. He had made a fatal error in not leaving some of his veterans in the camp. The only blessing about the camp was its size; too little for a full scale attack. The casualties would be few. It seemed the enemy was a small band - but of what. Orcs, Corsairs, Haradrim? Who had come to this corner of Gondor and brought death? The defense had been so poor that none of the enemy lay slain.

Thengel set pickets outside the camp; Ciramir took a scouting party to make sure that none of their foe were left in the area; Amdir and Denethor were assigned the duty of searching for any left alive - friend or foe - in the burning huts, while the rest of the men were given grave duty. Bodies were still warm and fear held the soldiers as they watched their backs while digging the burial holes. Denethor and Amdir wrapped cloths around their faces and braved the flames. There could be little ones alive in any of the smoldering buildings. Denethor shook as he entered the first shelter. It was empty, much to his relief. The next three were empty, but he heard cries as he approached the fourth one. The flames were beyond the thatched roof and pieces of it were falling into it. He called Amdir and they both ran in. On the floor under a cot was a tiny child, dark from the soot falling around it. The only reason Denethor saw him was because of the eyes, which shone brightly with tears. His mother must have hidden him in a blanket under the cot in the hopes of saving his life. Denethor quickly scooped the babe up and ran out; Amdir stayed to make sure there were none others left behind. The roof started to collapse around him and he cried out shrilly.

Listöwel and Indis were laughing at Morwen's discomfiture. "If you think you feel awkward now, remember how you will feel in just a few months time," Elleth laughed. Morwen grimaced. Of course she remembered. How could she forget the large abdomen, the swollen feet, the... "Nay, I will think on it no longer. Nor will I grumble again," she said sheepishly. "At least for this day," she laughed and all four women began giggling. They all spoke at once of how difficult it would be for Morwen not to complain and tripped over each other's words in the delight of their friendship. Elleth brought more tea into the little sewing room and the scent of orange blossoms filled the air. "I believe next time we get together we must try some of the wine Thengel gave Ingold."

"Ah," Indis laughed, "if we did that we would surely sew two arms on one side of our dresses and end up looking like Orcs. I can just see Lord Ecthelion's expression!"

Elleth cried with laughter. The sight of the four of them entering the Great Hall dressed as Orcs was too much for her. Her friends saw the look on her face and broke out in laughter too; their fear of Orcs overshadowed by the absurdity of the vision Indis had brought to mind.

Morwen cried out, "We must get on with our sewing. There is so little time left to us and I really do not want to be bending over such fine work as my stomach grows!"

Indis smiled and hugged her friend. "We will not even consider your helping us in your later days."

For all the laughter, the sewing was going well, she thought. They were concentrating on Listöwel's attire for the moment. They had many months to prepare for the babe, but only a few for the troth pledge. It was to be in May. Indis took great delight in knowing the couple had unwittingly chosen the day of her own birth for their special day. Minas Tirith would be covered in flowers; that was all the decoration that Listöwel would allow, the natural beauty of the gardens of the City in full bloom.

"Here, look at the color of this flower," Listöwel teased. "Is it not perfect for my attendants' dresses?"

Morwen looked in horror at the bright orange chrysanthemum in the drawing Listöwel held up. She could just imagine herself in such a color, looking like a mûmak. She had said this out loud and the others howled their delight.

The dresses were not going to be finished this day, Indis thought to herself. But of what matter was that when friendship was being sewn.

"Amdir!" Denethor screamed the name as he watched in horror as the roof collapsed upon his friend.

Thengel, still mounted, drove Nahar towards the hut, dismounted and ran into the burning building. Denethor passed the child to a startled soldier and was right behind his captain. The stunned men watched as one of the side walls of the hut collapsed. Flames and smoke billowed from the open door as the remaining walls tilted crazily. No sound could be heard in the encampment - no sound but the crackling of fire and the crashing of roofs, walls and trees caught too near the conflagration to be saved.

One of the men quickly grabbed a bucket, ran to the well in the center of the encampment, filled the bucket and ran to toss its contents on the flames. Others followed his lead. Buckets, carrying too little for the task, were quickly filled, emptied, and filled again. The men worked furiously, always with their eyes upon the door - waiting. Near to seventy men kept up the work, those closest to the flames being relieved every few moments by those closer to the well. They were making headway - the flames were lessening, but the smoke was increasing, making it more difficult to see as they dumped bucket after bucket on the fire. The smoke changed from deep black to white and the men knew their battle was almost over. And still - no one came through the door.

Ciramir's patrol returned upon sighting the billowing smoke. He feared the enemy had swung around behind them and were attacking the company. They rode fast and hard back to the camp. He could not understand the chaos that greeted him as they came out of the forest into the clearing. What were the men doing? What was the haste? And where was his captain? He jumped off his horse and grabbed the nearest man by the collar.

"Men are caught in that hut. We are unable to rescue them." He pulled himself away from the hand gripping him, picked up his bucket and ran to the well.

Ciramir's heart froze. Where was Captain Thengel? He motioned for his men to join the bucket brigade and ran towards the hut. His eyes searched the site. Where was Denethor, Amdir, Thengel?

"Soldier," he screamed. The flames were crackling as they swept through the dry wood of the hut and drowned out all other sounds. "Where is Captain Thengel?"

"My Lord, he is inside the hut along with Lord Denethor. I know not who else is with them."

But the man could not hear him, or did not wish to answer, or was too heartsick to reply.

Ciramir saw that the fire was slowly being extinguished. But it would still be sometime before it was totally out. 'We must do something,' he thought; 'we cannot wait like this.' He ran towards his own patrol and motioned for his men to follow him. They ran to some nearby fallen trees and started pulling them towards the hut. An axe was found and branches were struck from the trunks. Then they ran towards the fallen wall of the hut. Ciramir stopped his men.

"Listen to me. We cannot wait for the flames to subside. We must venture a rescue now. Who will volunteer to help me?" All hands went up and the men ran ever closer to the hut dragging the shorn trees behind them. It was desperate work and Ciramir had little hope of success; but hope was all that was left to them.

It was only mid-morning, but Morwen was starting to feel the pangs of hunger. When she mentioned it, her friends giggled. "Eating for two, this one is," said Elleth. "Come, let us to the kitchen. I started bread this morning. It has proofed twice and should be ready to put into the oven." She had punched the dough down an hour ago and placed it into two greased baking pans. "There are cheeses on the sideboard. Listöwel, why don't you bring them to the table and cube them. Indis, there are fresh vegetables in the cooling bin. We shall have a lovely meal. Oh, and some herbs from the garden. And bring some chamomile leaves in too. That should help our dear Morwen's tummy so she can eat with ease."

The women, starting about the business of preparing nuncheon, were stopped suddenly by a moan from Morwen. "What is it?" they all cried at once.

"Nay, nay it is not I." Shivers ran through her body and Indis ran to her and sat her in a chair by the table.

"It is said that night oft brings news to near kindred. Oh dear Indis, I fear for Thengel. Even though it is full day, something in my heart tells me that night has settled on him whom I love."

The flames were not as strong on the open side of the hut. The men took the tree trunks and braced them against the front and back walls as close as they could get. The fire seemed to be concentrated at the other end where the walls were conjoined and dried firewood had been piled for the occupant's winter heat. Part of the patrol held back the walls with the tree trunks while others started dragging out cots, chairs, clothes, anything that was burning. Their gloves were soon smoldering. Others climbed over the broken furniture and shards of the fallen roof, still ablaze in this area. They shouted Thengel's name and then Denethor's as they pushed aside debris in a desperate hunt for their comrades. The noise of the fire, the smoke blinding them, and the shouts of the bucket brigade all conspired to keep them from finding the lost. Their throats were raw from yelling, from smoke, and from flame.

Dúinhir, Denethor's aide, upon seeing what Ciramir's men were about, ran into the hut himself, pulling aside everything in his way like a Wose of the Drúadan Forest. His head moved to and fro, from right to left in his frantic search. At last, he cried out so loud that all in the burning building could hear, "My Lord!" and tugged at a cot near the door. Pulling a body from under it, he swung it over his shoulder and ran for the opening. Ciramir was next to him immediately and tried to take the body from him, but the lad would not let go. Dúinhir ran towards the center of the square and then gently laid his burden down. Arciryas, waiting to do something, anything to help, ran to his side and bent down to look at the man. He drew his breath in sharply. The blackened face was indeed Denethor's. Sobs racked Dúinhir's body.

Ciramir, finding new hope in the discovery, ran back into the hut towards the place where Denethor was found. Nothing there. He turned towards the other side of the door and his heart stopped in pain and swelled in hope all at the same time. It was Thengel. He gently picked his captain up and ran into the open. Running towards the spot where Denethor lay, he placed his captain down before the healer. Arciryas stopped for a moment and turned towards Thengel. He laid his head upon the Thengel's chest and listened. Noise was everywhere. He pled with Ciramir to quiet the troops; Ciramir stood and bellowed, "Silence!" Immediately, all quieted, but the buckets continued to be passed from hand to hand. There was one still left in the hut.

Arciryas looked up at Ciramir. "They both live, but are sorely burned. I must have men. I have brought no unguents for burns; only salves and creams for wounds. We must send the men to find aloe plants and lavender. Oh, and Comfrey root, we must find some for their lungs."

Ciramir looked at him as if he spoke Dwarvish. "My Lord, I have no idea as to what these plants are or what they look like. How are we to find them?"

"My Lord," a soldier stepped up close. "I know these plants. I will help find them, if I may."

"Ciramir, send ten of your men with this man. All these plants grow here in Ithilien. Even though it be winter's end and many lie dormant, still their medicinal qualities will not be diluted. Baranor," he turned toward the soldier, "go as quickly as possible. Haste is our greatest weapon now. Please!"

Ciramir sent off ten men with the soldier and another ten towards Osgiliath for reinforcements and for a cart to carry the wounded back to Minas Tirith. Then he turned towards the hut. Amdir was still missing. Thengel would never forgive him if they found him too late.

By now the conflagration was diminished to small fires here and there. The hut itself looked wretchedly despoiled. The roof was gone, a wall was missing. Men were pulling out the last of the rubble. Still, there was no sign of Amdir. Ciramir shook his head. Where could he be? A soldier came up to him.

"My Lord, the men are looking in the wrong places. Amdir was already in the hut when the roof collapsed. It was only then that Denethor and Thengel moved to rescue him. He cannot be near the door."

Ciramir shoved the man aside and ran towards the back of the hut. The last of the furniture was still here. He pushed a cot aside and knelt in the soot. Tears sprang to his eyes. Only nineteen and to be wed this spring. Gently, he lifted Amdir and strode towards the square. The men all stood back, buckets hanging useless at their sides. One or two of the men kicked their buckets in anger and frustration. "All for naught," he heard one man say. He looked up. "Our captain is alive," he said loudly, "and Lord Denethor also. There may still be hope for this one. Start a fire and boil water. I want clean cloth found and cots set up. Get them from the other huts and place them next to the healer. Then finish your burial duty. Dúinhir?"

"I am raising you to the rank of lieutenant. I need you to take two squads and sweep the area. We are most vulnerable now. We must not be attacked unawares. The pickets are still out, are they not?"

"Yes, my Lord. They know their duty. They have not left their posts, though some are great friends of the wounded."

"We all are great friends of the wounded, Dúinhir; you also," he put his hand on the lad's shoulder. "I wish I did not have to put this burden upon you, but fate has happened that you are next in command of those left able to fight." A small humorless smile touched his lips.

Dúinhir placed his hand upon his chest and bowed. "My Lord, we will do as you bid," and walked off. In short order, the patrol road off into the woods. Ciramir shook his head. Almost as soon as men were recruited, they were either dead or promoted.

His mind stirred and bits of a wizard's words trickled through the darkness. "You will die in fire and ash." He wanted to go back into nothingness, to hide from that voice. Not only was his mind torturing him, but also the faint touch of wakefulness brought incredible pain with it. His body trembled. Someone was pressing a cool cloth to his forehead, but his hands were on fire. Fire - now he remembered and his eyes flew open. "Amdir," he tried to cry, but only a whimper came from his cracked, bleeding lips.

"Shh," a voice whispered in his ear as his eyes, too tired to stay open, fell shut again. "All is well, my Lord Denethor. Rest now," and a cool draught, made from the herbs brought back by the patrol, was poured down his throat. The world drifted away again. Gratefully, he sank into its darkness.

Ciramir stood. How would they ever get back to the City? They could move none of the injured. And yet, fear lingered in the back of his mind. Osgiliath had yet to answer his call. Where was Húrin? Was this massacre a ruse by the enemy? Perhaps the foe was even now attacking Osgiliath, or worse yet, Minas Tirith? He shook his head. 'I must stay calm,' he thought. 'There is naught more to fear. The pickets are out, Dúinhir is patrolling the land, and I am tired.' He walked towards his captain. Thengel sat propped against a tree; he had refused the offered cot. Ciramir squatted down next to him.

"My Lord, should I send others to Osgiliath? Night has fallen and still no reply. Five leagues are not that far. Someone in Osgiliath should have seen the smoke and sent a patrol out long before our errand-riders even left here."

Thengel looked at him; the tiredness in his eyes was cruel to see. "You should rest yourself. How long has it been now - you say we have been here the better part of eight hours - most of it with you and the men fighting the fires? You have worked tirelessly. Sit, here beside me, and rest."

"It hurts to take a breath and my head aches, but Arciryas says if I keep drinking the comfrey tea, I should feel better soon." A fit of coughing racked his body. After a few moments, which increasingly alarmed Ciramir, the hacking ceased. "Please, sit with me."

Trying to sit as cautiously as possible so as not to cause his captain further pain, Ciramir positioned himself on the ground next to Thengel. He laid his head back against the tree's harsh bark and closed his eyes. He told himself it would only be for a moment.

Baranor was finally relieved by another. Arciryas heaped thanks upon him for finding the herbs needed. He shook his head in denial. "I am glad I was here to help." He walked up to the two men leaning against the tree to report in to Ciramir. Seeing him asleep, he turned to Thengel, "My Lord Thengel," he whispered, "you should sleep yourself. Arciryas has prepared this draught of Valerian tea for you. It should help you sleep, and you must needs sleep now. Please drink it."

"In a moment," Thengel said, the thought of the pungent smelling tea almost nauseated him. "Tell me, how is Denethor?"

"He woke for a few moments but is asleep again. He is restless. The Valerian seems to do naught for him. I believe he worries for Amdir. He calls his name. Arciryas says he will recover. It will just take time."

Thengel looked at the lad. "Dúinhir has been promoted; he will no longer be Denethor's aide. Will you now take that post?"

"It is my command. You have shown yourself well this day." He was afraid to ask the next question. "And Amdir? Is there hope for Amdir?"

"Arciryas has not stopped his ministrations. He had the men place him in a trough of water for a few moments as soon as they brought him out of the fire, as they did for Denethor and you, then he made a poultice of aloe and lavender. He has been reapplying it to his burns every few hours, then wrapping him in clean cloth."

Baranor shook his head. "His back is difficult to look upon, but it seems to be where the burn is the worst. Blisters are already forming. He must have tucked his hands under his stomach for they are unscathed. And, though much of his hair has been singed, the scalp does not seem to be badly burned. Arciryas is, nonetheless, very concerned." If the lad lived, Baranor did not tell Thengel, it would be a marvel.

The women insisted that Morwen be put to bed. They would call her when they had aught to report. Indis would go to Ecthelion and inquire as to any happenings in and about Gondor.

"All will be well, my dearest," she whispered to Morwen. "It is only the carrying of the babe that is giving you distress. Thengel, and all his company, are well. Now please rest. Listöwel will stay with you while Elleth and I go to my father." Listöwel looked at the two women - their heads bent together in discourse. She could see the love that flowed between them. And she wished with all her heart that one day she would be as close as they.

Elleth and Indis started to run as soon as they left Elleth's home. Both knew women with child were more susceptible to visions.

Ecthelion was just releasing Húrin and his troops as the women reached at last the High Court and the place of the Fountain before the feet of the White Tower.

Indis stood back for a moment, assessing what was happening. Then she stepped forward. "My Lord, why is the battalion from Osgiliath here? Has something untoward happened?"

Confused, Ecthelion looked at her. "What do you speak of? Húrin is here at my command. There is naught amiss."

"Forgive me, Lord. I... Morwen had a vision. I was concerned. Now, I see that all is well. Again, forgive me, my Lord, for interrupting." She made as if to turn away.

Indis turned back towards her father. "She saw Thengel, seeming unable to breathe and lying against a tree, my Lord. But if Captain Húrin is here, then she must have interpreted it incorrectly."

Ecthelion looked towards Ithilien. His face whitened and his hands clenched. "There is smoke rising from the forest. Húrin, take your men immediately and determine what is amiss. I will expect an errand-rider before dawn.

Arciryas himself walked over. "Thengel, you should be sleeping by now. Where is that draught I sent over?"

"It is here at my side, waiting for me to drink it. The smell would cause a mûmak to run for cover."

Arciryas quietly laughed. "It is sleep that seems to run from camp this night. No one is resting and I fear I will have more patients on the morrow if certain people do not rest." He looked at Ciramir. "Though I see one such has finally taken my advice."

Thengel gave a harsh laugh. "I myself would this night were over. Bitter has this day been. My heart gives me more pain than these burns. I would that we were here earlier to save these people, these children." A sob broke from his burned lips. "I grieve for them as I would for my own. Soldiers' children should not die in this manner; nor their homes turned into a battlefield."

Arciryas sat for a moment, bereft of words. "The men are very helpful," he finally said, trying to turn his captain's thoughts to easier matters. They are not used to doing healing work, but they are adapting well. I have two men keeping the fires burning and two more soaking cloth in the boiled water. I have another two stripping aloe leaves and crushing the lavender for my poultices. Those who are on 'tea duty' do not seem to realize you must cover the tea while it is brewing to keep the healing qualities potent, but they will learn." Arciryas' droning voice nearly put Thengel to sleep.

There was the clamor of horses' hooves and a horn rang out. Thengel's head snapped up and he tried to stand but could not. Arciryas held his shoulder. "Do not, my Lord, you will undo all the good we have done. It is Húrin. I can see him from here. Osgiliath has at last answered our call."

Húrin drove his horse towards where Thengel lay. "My Lord, forgive my lateness," he cried as he jumped off his horse. "We were called back to Minas Tirith. Ecthelion deemed Ithilien safe with your company here. Forgive me!"

Thengel acknowledged the bow and motioned for Húrin to sit by him. "I will not ask you the purpose of that summons. Suffice it to say, I am most grateful that you have arrived when you did. The men are exhausted. Dúinhir has been on patrol for too long. Our pickets need strengthening..."

Thengel glared at the healer. "We must decide what action to take now. I confess I am too tired to think." Another fit of coughing engulfed him.

Arciryas looked at him in dismay. Thengel stopped his retort with a look. "Denethor is badly hurt but will recover. I seem only to be burned on my hands and the poultice is cooling." He smiled at Arciryas. "Our healer is quite adept at his craft. However, Amdir is in need of additional remedies. He needs to be in the Houses of Healing."

"How is there no cart?" Thengel started in surprise. "The errand-riders were told to ask that a cart be brought."

Silence engulfed the camp, as the few who were awake understood what Húrin's statement meant.

"How long have I slept? Nay, wait, it was about an hour before I came to your side."

"The errand-riders never made it to Osgiliath. We should have sent more than two men."

The healer saw the sudden chill that swept Thengel. He quickly took another blanket and threw it over Thengel's shoulders.

Húrin sat down next to Thengel, more to keep the captain still than for easier discourse. "I have brought half the battalion with me. If you would allow, I will send two companies out to relieve Dúinhir and another two towards Osgiliath to search for the errand-riders and to return with a cart. That leaves your company and my last one to guard this area. Granted, your men are tired, but we will place extra pickets. My men will take first duty while yours rest."

"We seem stretched too thin," Thengel said more to himself than Húrin, "but it will have to do."

"Of course you could not. I was not suggesting that," Thengel snapped and then immediately apologized. "Forgive me."

"Yes, the sooner the better," Thengel said. "I would know what further danger we may yet face."

Arciryas stepped forward. "My Lord Húrin, I must beg you to use your influence upon Captain Thengel. He must rest. He is grievously wounded and has yet to close his eyes."

Thengel once again found himself glaring at Arciryas, but naught would stop the healer from taking care of his captain.

In the midst of this, and at the sound of the horn, Denethor awoke. His head ached terribly and his mouth tasted of soot. He tried to will away the pain in his hands and to concentrate upon the talk around him. He did not understand why, but he knew they were in serious trouble. None heard his moan, he thought, and for that he was thankful. The question he had tried to ask went unanswered. Baranor had heard though and went immediately to his side.

"Yes, my Lord. He brought half Osgiliath's battalion. They are relieving our men now. Here is some more tea, my Lord. Please drink it."

Denethor tried to brush the cup aside, but found he could not control his own limbs. Shaking his head to clear it only made it ache more. "Baranor, that is your name, is it not, what is happening?"

"It is as I told you, my Lord. We are being relieved. Please, drink the healer's tea."

Denethor lay back, exhausted. His mind whirled trying to make some sense of where he was at and what had happened. Finally willing it, he raised his bandaged hand and tried to touch Baranor's face. "Baranor, please tell me. Is Amdir...?" He found he could not ask it.

"My Lord, Amdir lives. He is badly burned, but a cart is being sent for and Arciryas is tending him."

"Too many words with too little meaning." Tears of exhaustion and grief sprang up in Denethor's eyes. "Is there any hope for him? Nay, do not answer that. I am sorry I asked. Go and do your duty."

"My duty is to help you drink this tea and to stay by your side," he said as Denethor finally ceased his struggling and drank the tea.

Dúinhir's patrol returned shortly after and was relieved, pickets were exchanged, and Húrin sat by Denethor's cot. Thengel had at last fallen into a troubled sleep. But it was sleep nonetheless. Arciryas was tending Amdir. Húrin's duty to Ecthelion had brought him to Denethor's side. 'Only eighteen years,' he mused. 'I remember him when he played with frogs and things. How could time have passed so quickly? Is there ever to be peace so that children may grow up carefree with a real future before them - not death and destruction?' The lad stirred and Húrin picked up the moist cloth, wiping the sweat from Denethor's brow. The gray eyes flew open and Húrin was struck by the depth of those eyes. He had seen portraits of the Kings of Westernesse, and, if ever a man of Gondor looked like one of those kings, this one did. Those eyes now burned into him and he found he could do naught but answer the unspoken questions.

"We still do not know the enemy we face nor the extent of the damage done. This village has been wiped out. The only survivor is the boy you found. The patrol sent to Osgiliath is surly lost, probably ambushed. New pickets have been... " He was interrupted by an old man who pushed him out of the way.

Findegon stood before Denethor, his sun-darkened face contorted with pain. "Denethor," he hissed, "what has happened here? Where are my people?"

Tears welled up in Denethor's eyes. "Your people are all lost. I am sorry, Findegon. The village was attacked early this morning. We do not yet know the enemies name. We came too late. Only one child was found alive. He is over by the third tent."

Findegon turned and moved towards the tent. Baranor was instantly at his side, bidden by a sign from Denethor. The Ranger bent over the sleeping child and a cry of joy and despair escaped his lips. "Damrod! Damrod," he cried and hugged the babe to his chest. Baranor walked him to a stool and helped him sit. A few moments passed. Húrin made as if to speak, but Denethor motioned to him for silence. At last, Findegon rose, placed the babe back in the cot, walked over to Denethor, placed his hand on his chest and bowed.

Denethor hung his head. Fate was so strange. Out of all those lost this day... The burden was too great, he thought, his heart breaking for Findegon.

"My son was one of those guarding this camp. Would you know where he is?" Findegon asked.

"Findegon," Denethor sighed, "we have buried the dead already. If your son was here, he did not survive. I am so very sorry. We have swept the land hoping to find survivors. There were none."

"Not only my son, but all my kin lost as well. My wife, the wife of my son - all gone. If only we had seen the smoke earlier, or if I had... Nay, there was no warning, no time for ought but grief."

Silence and sorrow engulfed the men. None were untouched by the horror of the day. For a fleeting moment, Denethor felt the fight was not worth the price. Perhaps they should desert this area and move west. But as quickly as the thought came, it passed. He could never leave Gondor nor Minas Tirith. Again, the memory of the White Tower as they had returned from Lossarnach swept through his mind and the feeling of joy and awe as he looked upon it encompassed him. Nay, never could he leave her - not alive.

The next morning dawned bright and beautiful. Birds sang and still the huts smoldered. Denethor introduced Findegon to Húrin and Thengel. The men sat around Denethor's cot.

Thengel turned and spoke to Findegon. "I believe you should return to Henneth Annûn and bring your men back here. We will abandon that place for the moment." The look of grief on Findegon's face caused Thengel to pause and he put his hand on the Ranger's shoulder. "You have done everything you could to protect Gondor. Now, we must collect our forces and report to Lord Ecthelion. I will not leave the few men you have left here alone."

"My Lord is wise in all things, I see. We will do as you command. Our hearts will leave this place with a heaviness that I had not thought possible to bear. All I have loved and honored were in this land!"

"We will be back!" Denethor interjected passionately and the coughing started anew. Baranor stepped to his side, a steaming cup of comfrey tea in his hand. He held it to Denethor's lips and Denethor tried to swallow sips between the coughing.

"Yes," Thengel said, "we will be back. Your men will be refitted with new uniforms and weapons and reinforcements. You will again be Rangers of Ithilien."

"Nay, my Lord," Findegon turned towards Denethor and bowed his head. "I will not return here. I ask your leave to return to Minas Tirith and serve Gondor there."

"It is not my right to accept or reject your request, Findegon," Denethor said. "Your fate is in my father's hands, but I will do everything in my power to make this happen, if that is your wish." The men sat in silence.

Two companies of men, full one hundred forty soldiers rode into the camp, a horse-drawn cart following behind them. Húrin went to speak with his men and returned shortly. "I now believe it was Orcs who attacked this camp. The remains of the patrol have been found. It appears to me that a band came out of the mountains and attacked this village. They had begun their feasting when your company was discovered coming towards them. They fled and hid nearby, saw the errand-riders sent out, followed and attacked them. The band was small but there was little hope. Where the Orcs have gone, I do not know, but I do believe they have left the area. It was not a large enough band to attack against our strength."

Denethor remembered the state of the bodies of his Uncle Cranthir's company so long ago. Will we never be free, he wondered?

"We will leave tomorrow morning for Osgiliath," Thengel stated. "We will send four companies out today, west, east, north and south for one last survey of the area. Then we will head back to Minas Tirith."

"Nay, I will not risk a patrol. It has proven too dangerous unless I send an entire company and that I will not do. I have better uses for our men than to send them off thusly."

Denethor sighed. His father would be ill pleased to have his orders countermanded. Another sigh escaped his lips and Thengel looked up, questioning. When Denethor said naught, he turned towards Ciramir.

Húrin interrupted him. "My Lord, if I might, I would take a company out myself?"

Thengel nodded, weariness suddenly overtaking him. "Ciramir, take Findegon's men and one company of ours, go to Henneth Annûn and bring the remaining Rangers back here."

"My Lord," both Húrin and Ciramir brought their hands to their chests, bowed their heads, and walked away.

"Well, Denethor, it seems you are having your way at last. The Rangers of Ithilien have been relieved! Now tell me, what are your thoughts? Your sighs were loud enough to wake the dead."

Denethor's face turned as red as his burned hands. He shook his head. "I would ask your pardon, Captain Thengel. My mind has been in a thousand places, least not Minas Tirith. My... Ecthelion will be most displeased. Húrin should have sent errand-riders as soon as he reached our camp. You know this would have been my father's order. Now, a full day and a night have passed and still Ecthelion waits."

Thengel moved his stool closer to the cot. His eyes were heavy with fatigue and pain. "You would question me?" he asked gently.

Denethor shook his head. "Nay, I know you are wise, as Findegon noted, but in the ways of diplomacy...? Know you not that my father stands waiting? What do you gain by not obeying him?"

"What do I gain? How can you ask that? Do you not see the need for conserving our strength?"

Again Denethor sighed. "My friend and counselor. What have you taught me about obedience? You are commanding Húrin to disobey his Captain-General. We could survive with one less company. Would it not be better to send one of the more worn companies at a gentle gait to the City? Show Ecthelion the respect he is due. The men know he waits."

Thengel let his head drop and finally Denethor realized his friend's need for rest. He motioned to Baranor, ever close at hand, who stepped forward. "Please ask Arciryas to attend me if he has a moment." Baranor nodded and swiftly left.

"Thengel?" he touched a bandaged hand to his friend's cheek. Thengel looked up in surprise. "It is very near to nuncheon. Your orders are being carried out as we speak. Would you join me for the meal?"

Arciryas arrived and, at a look from Denethor, turned his attention to Thengel. The bandages on his captain's hands were removed, new salve was gently spread over the burns, and fresh cloth was applied.

Thengel looked surprised at Arciryas' request, saw Denethor's concerned smile, and laughed quietly. "Your invitation for nuncheon was a ruse I see, to keep me by your side until our healer could arrive. Diplomacy!"

Denethor's smile widened. "Perhaps you will join me in a cup of that foul-smelling Valerian tea and an hour's rest?"

Baranor brought a cot and placed it next to Denethor's. The two friends laughed quietly.

Morwen had been moved to Thengel's quarters in the Steward's Hall and Adanedhel had given her a gentle sleeping draught. Indis sat at her side while Listöwel paced outside in the garden. Elleth brought in tea.

"A day and a night have passed since the vision. Do you think it was real?" Elleth asked.

Indis sighed. "Yes, I believe it was real and that our men are in danger. I would that it were not so."

Listöwel had overheard them, came into the room, and sat at Indis' feet. Indis laid her hand on the girl's head. "This is a fine way to make wedding preparations," she smiled gently at the girl. "Our men are strong, dearest, and when joined as they are, the three of them are strongest. I do not feel that any of them will ever fall when they are together."

Listöwel smiled through the tears that now fell at Indis' words. She had sensed the friendship, courage and strength that bound these three men together. The gentle words of Indis gave her much hope.

Elleth poured the tea and the three women grew in their own strength and courage.

In the morning, preparations were underway for the battalion's departure. The fires had all been put out, the dead were buried and the cart had been prepared. Amdir was placed next to Denethor and Thengel. No sound had passed his lips, nor was there any movement from the burnt body. They had laid him on his stomach and in so doing, part of the bandage became dislodged and Denethor caught a glimpse of the damaged back. He cried out in horror, "Amdir!" but there was no answer. Thengel took Denethor into his arms and held him close as his friend wept over the wreckage before them. Arciryas quickly jumped into the cart and rearranged the bandages.

"This is an order. You will both drink this before we begin our journey or we will not begin it." Authority rang in his voice. Húrin stood by the side of the cart. Thengel and Denethor drank the draught and lay back. The grim procession started towards Osgiliath and soon sleep overcame the two friends.

It took a full day to reach Osgiliath. The cart rode slowly with its precious cargo. Three times Arciryas called for rest. He changed bandages, heated prepared tea, and administered it to his charges. Then they started forward again.

When they reached Osgiliath, they found Ecthelion waiting for them. He permitted Arciryas to take the wounded to the battalion's barracks. He allowed no one to tell Denethor or Thengel that he was there. Húrin brought him to his own quarters, ordered dinner to be brought, and closed the door, telling his aide they were not to be disturbed. Ecthelion gave him a moment to lave his hands and face and prepare tea. When Húrin finally sat before his Captain-General, he found a very angry man across from him.

"First, tell me how it is that no errand-riders were sent to me as I had ordered?"

"My Lord, I have disobeyed you. May I give my full report before you pass judgment against me?"

"It matters not what caused this disregard for my orders, Húrin. You know yourself that obedience is everything in service to Gondor. There must be punishment for this."

Ecthelion gave a soft smile. "Perhaps if you would offer your Captain-General a cup of tea, punishment could be stayed?"

Húrin jumped up, chagrin written plainly upon his face; Ecthelion laughed warmly.

"Nay, dear Húrin, I will serve myself. And while I am doing so, please tell me what you have found."

So Húrin sat and told of the village, the wounded, the lost patrol, and all the while Ecthelion feigned being thoroughly engrossed in the making of tea. At the end of Húrin's report, he went to the door and ordered the aide to bring Arciryas to him, if he was not needed. Húrin started to speak again, but Ecthelion held his hand up for silence. The two men sat, both deep in thought. At last, the gentle steps of the healer broke the silence.

"My Lord," Arciryas said as he bowed his head and placed his hand on his chest. Ecthelion nodded and Arciryas reported on his movements during the battle and afterwards, the state of his patients, and what the recovery for each would entail.

Húrin sat in wonder. At last Ecthelion spoke. "This has been a hard few days for us all, has it not?" Húrin knew he was not required to answer.

Both men jumped as Denethor burst into the room. "Father!" he cried, hugging him close. Ecthelion, startled, remembered Cranthir's burial day, the day he and Denethor had been reconciled. He held him at arm's length. "My son," he said warmly, "it is good to see you. Here, sit at my side. Arciryas said you were resting."

"I was, Father, but I knew you were here. I... I had to see you." He suddenly blushed at the remembrance of the exuberance of his greeting.

Húrin stood as if to leave. "Nay, please stay. Our greetings are done. You have relieved the Rangers?"

"Yes, it would seem so. Yet now Ithilien is empty of her soldiers and those who live there are unguarded. I cannot leave Ithilien unprotected."

Ecthelion looked up, sharply. "That will not happen! Ithilien is part of Gondor and will be under the protection of Gondor." Vehemence sharpened his voice.

"Father, Captain Inlach has been preparing the Rangers in Minas Tirith for the last year. He has five full companies, well trained. Two companies - one hundred and forty men - can be sent to Henneth Annûn. It will be a tight fit, but the men are stalwart. Another two companies may be stationed at Emyn Arnen and another company at Cair Andros. The forces at Pelargir will be able to patrol South Ithilien. If we could devise a long-distance signaling system, like the one Captain Vëantur had for his ships." Excitement tinged Denethor's words as his thoughts raced to the great sea captain of Númenor. "They used a system of flags, Father, dipped a certain number of times for words. We could make shields, perhaps coat their surface with mithril, or put polished crystals on them - anything to reflect the light of Anor - then device some code to communicate between the three garrisons. Well... I have not thought it all out, but it would work."

Húrin clapped Denethor on the shoulder. "I do believe it will work. Where did you read about this code?"

Denethor blushed. "As a youth, I spent quite some time reading of the sailors of Númenor. The accounts are all in the Great Library."

Ecthelion sat back; Denethor could not tell if he was angry or interested. He held his breath. His father stood, poured tea, and set it before Denethor who looked up in surprise. "Drink this," Ecthelion said. "Arciryas left it for you. And then retire for the night."

Walking back to his barracks, Denethor did not know whether to laugh or cry. He knew they could devise a system. The captains of the ships out of Pelargir used a system that was close to what they needed. It should be easy enough. And Ithilien must not be abandoned. It was now too dangerous for errand-riders. What would Ecthelion do, he wondered as he fell into bed? His heart was still racing at the joy of the challenge, but his body succumbed to sleep almost immediately.

"Why are they not back yet? Why were no errand-riders sent? Where is Ecthelion?" Morwen wrung her hands. Dawn had found her pacing the little garden of their apartments. Indis stood by, waiting patiently, letting her friend spend her anguish in words and motion. Finally, Morwen looked at her, and smiled apologetically. "I am sorry, Indis. I know Ecthelion is doing all he can. I just need word."

"I know you do. Word will come when it is time. I believe we should go to the Houses of Healing after our meal and help prepare for the wounded. The battalion will probably have spent the night in Osgiliath. They should arrive here around noon. Father did send an errand-rider with word that there were wounded, but no other word did he send."

Morwen blanched. "My heart tells me that all is well, but the vision stays with me. I will go with you to the Houses."

After breaking their fast, the women walked slowly down to the Sixth Level where Adanedhel met them.

"We have come to help," Indis answered his unasked question. "Morwen will take her time and do only tasks that require sitting. I myself, along with Listöwel and Elleth when they come, will prepare salves, unguents, and teas, with your instruction, of course."

Adanedhel sighed. "There are only three wounded and a babe, orphaned. Perhaps you will deign to take the child?"

"I know none of the details. Nor the names of the wounded," he said as he noted Indis' open mouth. "You will have to wait, as I must."

"I believe I can speak for Elleth. She will take the child. Know you not its parentage?"

"Nay, as I have told you, my Lady, I have no further details. We must needs wait."

Morwen and Indis left the Houses with no clear idea as to what they would do next.

By late afternoon, Indis and Morwen were sitting by the escarpment on the Seventh Level watching and waiting. Dust became visible in the distance and they knew a great company was approaching from the direction of Osgiliath. A quick hug and then they ran to Elleth's home, found Listöwel with her, shared their news, and proceeded towards the First Level and the Great Gate. They paced their steps to assure Morwen did not tax herself beyond endurance; they must protect the babe. Sober were they and quiet. Each woman walked silently, engrossed in her own thoughts, afraid of what each would find. At last they reached the Great Gate, which was opening as they approached. Holding hands in solidarity, supporting each other through their touch, they searched the faces of the soldiers. Morwen crumpled into Elleth's arms as her eyes told her Thengel was not with the riders. Indis ran to the cart. The entourage was so long, the cart had yet to pass through the gates.

Denethor smiled wearily up at her. She cried out in relief. Though the ride had been long and hard for the wounded, it was a joy to see her face, in all its state of worry. "Your hair is a mess," he laughed quietly and held her hand. Tears sprang into both pairs of eyes as she gently took the bandaged hand. Denethor loved this woman so dearly. Always, he could rely upon her for support, love and counsel. Did she know of his love for her? Life was so short, he had discovered. He must tell her. He would pick a night and meet with her, share a meal and remember times, friends and family. He would be in Minas Tirith for awhile. He could not hold a sword and was useless to his company until he was healed. He would use this time to spend with her. He started to tell her of Amdir when she caught sight of Thengel, seated behind him.

"Thengel," she cried. Immediately she turned towards Morwen. The smile on Indis' face told her friend all she needed to know. Morwen pulled herself out of Elleth's arms and ran towards the cart, with Elleth running after her trying to make her slow down. The driver by this time realized he must stop or run over the group of women descending upon him. Listöwel made her way past her friends, a smile upon her face. She knew Amdir was safe if he was with Denethor and Thengel. She cried his name as she ran forward.

Indis stopped her. "Just a moment, dear one, let me help you up." She had seen the small nod of Denethor's head towards the body lying next to him. She knew whom it was and that the injuries were serious by the pain in her brother's eyes. How was she to help her friend? She stepped down from the running board and turned to Listöwel, gently taking her in her arms. "Amdir is seriously injured, Listöwel. I will help you up to him, but you must not touch him," she whispered in her ear. Tears started streaming down both women's faces.

"Yes, I understand," Listöwel whispered, scarce able to breathe and hugged her friend. Two soldiers took her arms as she reached up and helped swing her into the cart next to Amdir. She bent low, found a clear space on the burned forehead, kissed it gently, then sat down next to him and waited for the cart to continue its journey to the Houses of Healing, his hand in hers.

Indis turned towards the people in the square as the contingent of soldiers hurried up the street, Morwen and Elleth beside her. "My people, another battle has been waged for good by the men of Gondor. The enemy is at bay again, fearful of our strength. It is now our turn to come together under our beloved Steward and stand firm. There is no need for fear or panic. Return to your homes, prepare the evening meal, and commit yourselves again to Gondor's defense." She turned, gathered her friends and followed the entourage. Thengel looked back at her in amaze.

Firieth hushed Denethor for the tenth time. "You will sit here until I deem your wounds are fully cleaned, bandaged, and you have drunk the teas prepared for you. I have just now finished your hands. The burns on your back still need unguents poured upon them. Then they must be covered with clean bandages..."

"Please, Firieth. I must to Amdir's side. At least stop your chattering, do quickly what you must, and release me!" He chafed at every word she spoke, every movement she made. He grew tired of the constant ministrations. He had been treated by Arciryas; was that not enough? He hated the Houses of Healing - always they seemed to him a prison. This time, of all times, he must be with Amdir. He knew secret ways that would take him to the room where his friend lay, but the woman seemed aware of his thoughts of escape and would not leave him alone for a moment, always using others to fetch supplies, teas and unguents.

Suddenly, tears filled his eyes. He grabbed her arm. "Firieth, I do not know if my friend lives or is dead. I promise you, I will remain here, quietly, and endure your ministrations, but please," with his freshly bandaged hand he turned her face towards his, "send one of your drudges for news, please!"

Thengel stood with the women in the little courtyard off the main door of the Houses. Morwen was seated on a marble bench near the hedge of aloe that protected this recess from the wind. The smell was soothing; she had not noticed that a small peace had descended upon her. Indis sat next to her, holding her hand. She was grateful, more than words could tell, that Thengel had not been burned too badly. Yet her heart was broken for Listöwel as she stood clinging to Elleth. Thengel had told them in glowing words of Amdir's bravery but the women were not concerned with bravery. Bravery was becoming a euphemism for death in Gondor. Now they looked for a word of hope from him, but Thengel had none to offer. He had seen Amdir's back as the healer had stripped the bandages off, one by one, had seen the look of horror in Ecthelion's eyes, and had to leave the room to empty his stomach. When he had returned, Ecthelion had motioned him out. Now he found himself here with the women, looked upon for strength and feeling weak.

"I will go to Denethor," he said quietly. "The healers must be finished with him by now. We will then go to Amdir. As soon as I am able, I promise, I will return with news." He bowed his head, gave Indis and Morwen quick hugs and strode through the main doors.

As he walked towards Denethor's room, he shook his head. How were the women of Gondor able to endure this constant contact with death? They were the brave ones, left to send their men to war, left at home to raise the children, make the bandages, and keep a measure of sanity to lead the people by their example. He knew the four women he had just left were leaders in the City, unbeknownst to themselves and others, but at times like this, when fear ran rampant through the streets, he knew these four leaned upon each other and became an example for all the women of Gondor. He had seen Indis grow from a terrified child, at last standing up to her father, to a strong woman whom others turned to for comfort and courage. He remembered the sight of her in the square and he shook his head, wonder filling him.

"There are three places that greatly concern me," Adanedhel said pointing them out to Arciryas. "These two spots on the flesh that cover the bones of his lower shoulders and this one further down on the left side of his back. These are different burns than the rest and these will be the burns that will kill him, if we do not treat them vigorously."

"Nay, though their look is not pleasant, they are not as serious as these three places, and will heal in time. This is your first burn patient, is it not?"

"I wish it were your last, but alas, the enemy appears to grow bolder each day." He turned to Ecthelion. "What say you to this now? Is it not time to override the Steward's Council and protect our people?"

"You speak unwisely for an old man," Ecthelion stated, surprised at the healer's boldness.

"I am old - yes. I have no more purpose in life than to care for Gondor's people. I can no longer hold my tongue. Would you cause more of our people to suffer this and also death? A whole village wiped out, my Lord. The defenses in Ithilien are weak and the soldiers too few. You continue to throw lives away by your cowardice."

Ecthelion froze. He breathed in slowly and deeply. He would have struck the healer, though his words rang bitter and true in his heart. "I would have you remember," he hissed, trying to keep from shouting, "your function is to care for the wounded. You are not on the Steward's Council nor are you a soldier. You do not know all that pertains to these matters. I will speak of it no more."

"And that has been the problem," Adanedhel spat out. "No one speaks of what must be spoken to. Not only are the soldiers, the Council, and the Steward affected by the paths our Steward leads us on. It is the people themselves. And it will not stop in Ithilien. Are you too blind to see that? The evil will spread. Next will be Osgiliath, then Minas Tirith and the whole of Gondor. Orcs run rampant through our land and naught is done to stop them. Remember when the Corsairs attacked Thengel's company in Lossarnach? There was no reprisal. None of our enemies fear us. We are looked upon as weak. And I am forced to care for more and more of our people and the underandfónd bury more and more of our dead."

"What would you have me do?" he whispered curtly as he pulled Adanedhel away from the bed. "I have no authority. I have spoken to my father. I have placed my thoughts before the Council and I am rebuffed at every turn. Go back to your patient, which is where your responsibility lies. Leave me to my father." He strode from the room.

Denethor and Thengel heard the angry voices as they approached Amdir's room. They stood with mouths wide, watching as Ecthelion stormed out. Had they heard right? Had Adanedhel not just berated their Captain-General? Denethor's face burned with shame. How dare he? How did his father not strike the man? Then he shook his head. Was violence his only recourse when he was angry? And why was he angry? Did not a citizen of Gondor have the right to question? Did not he have the right to question? Yet he knew the obstacles that faced Ecthelion and pondered what could be done. He glanced at Amdir, quiet and unmoving on the bed. He turned to Adanedhel.

"My Lord, you speak wrongly to my father." He said quietly. "He has tried, seriously tried for years now to open Turgon's eyes to the dangers present. The Council seems to be more afraid of war than protecting Gondor. These lords have been too long from the battlefield. Their memories cloud their judgment. They forget that all will die if this evil is left to grow. I do not know the answers, but father needs your support now. You are his healer, Master Healer for all of Gondor. If others hear you speaking thus..."

"Well am I aware of your father's words, but no deeds have sprung from those words. Denethor, this cannot continue." He paused, "I am tired," he wiped a bloodied hand across his forehead. "I spoke in the heat of my grief over the villagers. I... my sister-son had family there."

"Nay, 'tis I who am sorry. I will go to your father. There is naught I can do for Amdir. He must fight this battle alone. I will return in one hour. Please send someone to me if his condition changes. I will be in the Steward's Hall." Denethor watched the healer retreat, shoulders bowed. His heart ached. So much death, so much sorrow.

The men stood at the foot of the bed. Adanedhel had left an attendant to sit and watch over Amdir. Denethor did not understand why there had been no movement from him, no sound issuing from his lips since they had found him. What kind of death was this? The attendant moved at Denethor's request and he sat and took his friend's hand.

"Amdir. It is I, Denethor. Thengel and I are here with you. Do not lose hope, my friend. We will stay and fight this battle with you. You are not alone. Amdir? Amdir, please, do not give up. Do not leave us. We have much to share yet, many adventures and battles and drinking and dancing and laughing. Why - Listöwel is waiting for you as we speak. They have started to make her gown. Is not that true, Thengel?

Thengel stepped closer to the bed. "Yes, Amdir. I just left the women. Your mother and Listöwel have been quite busy with the preparations for your troth taking. You have much yet to do, my friend. Please wake up."

"Perhaps he is waiting for his captaincy, Thengel; I am sure we can do something about that after his deeds in Emyn Arnen." He tried to keep his voice light, the fear from it.

"Amdir?" he tried again and was rewarded by a stirring, a low moan. "Amdir!" he bent low and put his mouth near his friend's ear. "Amdir, it is I, Denethor. We are here for you."

Another moan and the eyelids flickered in the pale face before him. He held the hand tighter, the pain in his own negated by his concern for his friend. He kissed Amdir's brow and called his name again. At last, the eyes opened and pain flashed across them. The moan turned to a cry and Denethor wished with all his heart that he had not awakened his friend.

The attendant quickly came forward and pressed liquid to Amdir's lips. Through his thrashing, Amdir swallowed some of the drought. Fear flickered in his eyes and Denethor forced his face in front of him.

"Amdir, you will recover. You have been injured, but you are mending. Drink what the healer is giving you. It will help ease the pain."

Amdir's eyes did not convey recognition and Denethor took his friend's face into his hands. "Amdir, I am here. Drink this," he had taken the cup from the healer, "It will help ease your pain. You will be well soon," he kept repeating as some of the liquid made its way into Amdir's mouth. The fear seemed to lessen.

"Send for Adanedhel," Thengel demanded and the attendant ran from the room as Thengel knelt by the bed. "Amdir, we are here. Do not give into despair and fear. Your friends are with you."

There was recognition - Denethor was sure of it. The thrashing had lessened and the eyes were focusing, no longer rolling wildly. Once again Denethor gave him the cup and Amdir drank of it, slowly. His eyes were wide now, but clear.

"Do not speak, my friend. Lie still and rest. We will not leave you." Amdir's eyes closed, then opened and a smile, small, touched his face. The eyes closed again and the breathing became slower, quieter. Denethor sat back, relief flooding his entire body. He turned towards Thengel. Through tears, both men smiled.

"How do I say this without you thinking me mad?" he said to the still figure on the bed. The others had left the room, their ministrations done for the moment. "How do I say this and retain your friendship, your love. You will hear it and only hear the words - not what my heart is speaking, but I must say it, if only in the hope that one meaning will seep through the words, the hurt."

He had begun to weep openly. "Amdir, my friend, my brother. You must not die. You must not. Gondor has need of you, of your courage, your goodness, if only to tame me, to keep me in check, my pride, my stubbornness, my anger. You know of what I speak. Ever have you been the gentling agent in this mass that sits here before you. I ask not for myself, that you live, but for Gondor, for it is my fate that I will one day rule Gondor as her Steward. I see things before me that terrify me. Things that I will do if you are not with me."

He could hardly speak for the sobs that wracked his body. "If all else fails, I will fail. I can see it, Amdir, in my mind's eye." Fear constricted his throat. He found it painful to continue speaking, but he pushed through the pain. "I fear Isildur's Bain." There! He had said it. "Is it real? Is it in the hands of our enemies; is it as terrible a weapon as I imagine it? Will Gondor fall because of it?"

He wet his lips. "There is a presence in Mordor; I can feel it. It is thoroughly evil. It will destroy Gondor and I know of no way to stop it. Yet, left unhindered as it now is, it will only grow and feed on us. And it feeds on my fears. Amdir, I want desperately to have you live for me, for our friendship, for our love. But it has gone beyond that now. You are Gondor's hope - not I. I will be the one who sits on the Steward's Chair, but you will be the one behind me, guiding me, controlling me, softening what I do so that I will rule in wisdom, not in frailty. I know my faults. I know they are many and I will fail without you. Amdir, you must not die." He buried his head in the blankets that covered his friend, sobbing uncontrollably, fatigue and fear overcoming him, until sleep took him.

Ecthelion sat alone in his study. The words of the healer burnt him. His face was flushed though he had laved it as soon as he had come into the room. 'I am at a loss,' he thought. 'I have tried every conceivable approach to change Turgon's mind. Yet all for naught. Our defenses are useless; our men die upon the battlefield; our people suffer daily. None of this has changed his mind. He lives in a dream world. And his counselors with him. I have just reprimanded Húrin for his disobedience. Disobedience, no matter by what disguise or name I would use, would still be disobedience. But I must to do something. Mordor - there is now an evil presence there.' Denethor had told him such and he knew the gift that Denethor had been given - some sense of events unknown to other men, some sense of the future. 'How am I to defend Gondor while not Steward? And now my men look askance at me, those in authority distrust me, and I sit, weak and incapable of doing what must be done. My hands shackled.'

Indis had quietly entered the room. "My Lord," she said, "is there ought I can do to help? I notice your disquiet."

He stood and walked towards her. Fiercely he took her into his arms and hugged her. "I am most in need of your comfort, your support." A chill ran through her. "Nay, Denethor is healing. I have heard no news of Amdir as of this morning. It is Turgon who causes me this pain. Well you know his state of mind. You have become my helper, my right hand in the affairs of Gondor, unbeknownst to others, and I have need of your counsel. I believe the time has come for drastic measures, measures which some would say were treasonable. Yet, where Gondor's weal is involved, I must consider all alternatives. I will call my captains to me. We will meet in secret. But where? Osgiliath." He gave her no opportunity for comment. "Will you come with me and act as servant, listening to all that is spoken of?"

"Of course, my Lord. Will you send missives today? When do you propose this meeting? I would spend some time with Denethor before we leave, if that is possible? As it concerns him, will Denethor be one of those commanded to attend? He is only a lieutenant, but he is your heir."

Firieth heard the cries of the Steward's heir and ran to find the healer. Adanedhel knocked gently on the door. When there was no answer, he pushed it open and found Denethor slumped over the foot of the bed. 'At last, he sleeps,' he thought, 'at last.' He moved towards Amdir and noted the pale, glossy skin, the shallow breathing. His forehead was hot to the touch. He understood why Denethor had cried out. Amdir was failing. It had been four days since the company had returned from Ithilien. Adanedhel had seen signs of recovery and been heartened by them. Now, all seemed lost. He sent for Arciryas and unguents, herbs and fresh bandages. And Thengel. He had been sleeping in a room nearby and was with him in an instant.

"Thengel, help me move Denethor - but gently. I do not want him to wake. If I am correct, this is the first time he has slept since your return."

"Yes, Thengel shook his head. "I have never seen anyone with such will. He would not leave Amdir's side."

"We will place him on this cot. Then you must help me with Amdir. Fever has taken his body. We have a new enemy to fight, besides the burns."

Quickly and quietly the two men undid Amdir's bandages. The sight of the ruined back once again made Thengel ill. "Be strong, Captain! I have need of you. Breathe through your mouth. That will help. You cannot tell, but the burns are indeed healing. One of the three most severe has changed for the better. I had truly hoped we were well on the path to recovery. "

Seeing his men injured was difficult, painful for Thengel, but to see his friend like this took everything out of him. Flashes of memories of other warriors brought low by the evil that surrounded Gondor caused him to lower his head in grief. He marveled at Adanedhel and said so aloud.

"Nay, my Lord, I do naught special. I have a talent for healing and must use it, just as you have a talent for leading men. You would not be happy doing anything else, as I would not." The gentle words of the healer, Thengel discovered, helped give him the strength to continue aiding him. Arciryas had come into the room and moved swiftly towards the unguents set by Firieth on the sideboard, mixing them with honey, dissolving herbs in hot water, and preparing healing tea. All the while, Adanedhel spoke of bravery and duty and men. He had long ago discovered that words could also be used for healing and some sense told him Thengel needed healing at this moment. As soon as the last bandage was removed, Arciryas scooped the unguent and lavished it upon the burns.

"There is fever," Thengel heard the healer tell Arciryas and noted the grave looks that passed between them. "It is time for harsher measures."

Arciryas nodded and left the room. He soon returned with drudges carrying a large tub. Others followed carrying buckets of water. The tub was placed in the center of the room and filled with the water and Thengel wondered what the old man was doing. Next, buckets of ice from the ice chests in the kitchen were brought in and dumped into the water. The drudges left. Adanedhel wrapped a sheet of cloth around Amdir and he and Arciryas started to lift him from the bed. Thengel quickly stepped in to help, but, as they started to lower Amdir into the tub, he cried out in concern.

"Hush!" Adanedhel whispered. "The fever will kill him. We must needs stop it. This will reduce the fever quickly. It is a harsh treatment, for other risks become involved, but it must be done."

It seemed only a moment that they left Amdir in the frigid water, and then quickly they stripped the wet cloth off him, and wrapped him in a blanket made of soft fleece. They laid him in the bed and Adanedhel felt his forehead.

"A little cooler," he said with satisfaction. "We will wait a quarter hour. If the fever rises, we will do the same again. If not, there is possibility for recovery."

Arciryas took the tea he had prepared, checked to ensure it was cool, and sat with Amdir, gently forcing drops into the cracked lips. The silence in the room was oppressive - Denethor, making no sound in a sleep of exhaustion and Amdir, making no sound, his breath so shallow none could hear it. The vigil continued.

"If we are not allowed to visit, at least they must tell us what is happening," Elleth hissed between clenched teeth. "I will go mad with this silence."

Listöwel looked at her in amaze. None of the women had been told of the progress of Amdir. Twice Thengel had come and spoken with them, saying all would be well, but there was an undercurrent in his speech that did not assuage their fears. They were gathered in Morwen's chambers, trying to sew, trying to uplift each other, but as the days passed, fear gripped them. Denethor was well on the way to recovery, according to Thengel, but the healer had forbidden them to visit either man. Their only contact was through Thengel and his guarded tongue did them no good.

"Where is Indis?" Morwen asked. "I have not seen her since we broke fast this morning. She could go to her father and demand that we be allowed to visit the Houses of Healing. I was under the impression that we were to help in the care of our men?" Her embroidery sat in her lap, untouched for the last hour.

"She was going to Ecthelion. She said she would plead our case before him, but she has not returned," Elleth said. "If he had not allowed her an audience, she would have returned by now. Her absence gives me hope."

"She has changed this last year. Have you not noticed? She seems stronger and yet more distant, as if she knows things she will not share with us," Morwen whispered. "I miss our times of laughter and... silliness. She does not laugh as often nor as warmly as was her wont. What do you suppose has happened, Elleth?"

"She spends more time with Ecthelion than she used to. I do not think she is any longer taking care of the physical work as Lady of Gondor, but more she spends her time with him. I find it strange. He will not give his time to Denethor, yet he will to Indis."

"That is because she is a strong and wise woman and besides, Denethor is off with his company. He has other duties that take him away from Minas Tirith. There is no opportunity for him to spend time with Ecthelion," Morwen stated.

"If Ecthelion wished it, Denethor would be stationed here in the City learning what he must as future Steward. Has there been some disagreement between the two?" Elleth asked.

"I think that is not our concern," Morwen said flatly, then smiled. "The plotting of the Steward's family is legend. Has been for eons. There is naught we can do, dear friend, to... What are you doing?" she asked, her eyes wide as Listöwel took up Thengel's practice sword.

"It is heavy, heavier than I thought," she giggled nervously. "Do you honestly think, if the battle comes to Minas Tirith, that we will be allowed to stay?"

Silence greeted her. Morwen and Elleth looked at each other. Indis had come in and they rushed to her side.

Listöwel flushed. "Do you seriously believe that I will leave Amdir?" She looked pointedly at Indis, a challenge in her eyes. "If he lives," she faltered.

"He lives," Indis said, "though the battle being waged is deadly. His friends are at his side. So - you would let us leave Minas Tirith and you would stay?"

"I would not stop you and I would stay, but I would stay with a sword in my hand. I have discovered a secret, Morwen," she looked hard at her friend, "Your maidservant is from Rohan and knows how to wield a sword. One word from you and she will teach me. What say you?"

Morwen's mouth opened in surprise. "Yes, she is from Rohan, a sister of one of Thengel's friends, but I know naught of her training."

Morwen blanched. "It is a name for a woman who has renounced relations with men to become a warrior for her people. Shieldmaidens are specially trained in the art of self-defense and war." A gleam shone in Morwen's eye. "If only I were not with child..."

"Because I can see it in your eyes. You are all lusting after such training. Therefore, I will be sent from Gondor with the other useless women and children and you will stay and fight for Gondor."

At last, Adanedhel could contain his anger no longer. "Why does not Ecthelion give Denethor some task to keep him busy. I have told him of Denethor's recovery. Light duty would not harm him. But this vigil is killing his spirit. He needs to be elsewhere for a part of the day. Yes, his mind will be here, but activity is needed - some surcease from the fear that is tormenting him. I did not know the two were so close - almost as brothers."

Thengel looked up in surprise. He had almost been asleep himself in the quiet of the room. "Yes, they have been like brothers for a long time. And they have fought together, even as young as they are, and seen friends die on the battlefield. But this was a different kind of battle. It had already been waged and lost by the time our company arrived."

He thought of the babes and children's bodies strewn upon the ground, the half-eaten... Nay! He pushed the memory from his mind and started pacing the floor. "These two are hardened soldiers, even at their young age. They have battled the enemy for many a year. And yet, any hardened soldier would need healing from the memory of the sights we saw that day. You are correct, Adanedhel. Denethor needs to be doing something to take his mind off that carnage and the desperate illness that now assails his friend. I will speak with Ecthelion himself. But not until Amdir passes this crisis."

"That might be quite some time. Come," Adanedhel sighed, "we must needs try the remedy again. The fever returns."

"According to Adanedhel, you will be fit and able to join the company shortly. You must be tired of the honeysuckle mist. Granted, it smells lovely, but to have to breathe it every day to clear the lungs? Pure torture. I myself was very glad when that part of my treatment was done with." Denethor smiled as Amdir groaned at the thought. "Thengel and I have become tired of waiting for you to join us. We have missed you. I believe you linger here in the Houses to be nearer to Listöwel." Denethor shook his head. "I do not understand how being with her could possibly cause such a rapid recovery. Is it perhaps the thought of your troth taking?"

"And stays all day. Thengel and I never have time alone with you anymore. What you speak of during such long visits, I cannot imagine."

Amdir's blush turned a brighter red. "Just things. Plans. Hopes and dreams. Just things."

Denethor walked towards the window. He did not understand this whole process. Women were meant to take care of the home, the children, the affairs of their men while they were away at war. Or if called to service, then work in the Houses of Healing, or the kitchens, or the shops. What was there to speak of? And yet many a night he had seen Thengel and Morwen sitting by the parapet in deep conversation. Now Amdir and Listöwel did the same thing in the gardens adjacent to the Houses. It made him nervous. He had his friends to share with, his sister, when she had a moment. Why would he want to share with anyone else?

"How are your hands?" Amdir asked, mistaking the uncertainty in his friend's face.

"I am frustrated! I still have trouble grasping my sword. Arciryas says the strength will return in time." He shook his head. "I do the exercises daily, yet the hand seems slow to heal. My left one has no difficulty holding the shield, which I should be grateful for. The fire caused more damage than I thought."

"You have had too many brushes with fire, my friend. I am starting to think fire is Denethor's Bane," Amdir laughed as he gently hit Denethor's arm.

"Nat, it is not," Denethor snarled. "Twice now, it has tried to engulf me and twice now I have won over it. I will not die in fire." Again his thoughts flew to Curunír's words the last time they had met.

Immediately, Amdir regretted his words. "What causes you to such anger over such a little jest, my friend?"

Had he never told Amdir of that meeting? The skin prickled on his arms. He tried to quell the fear and nausea that assailed his stomach. It was - what? Only a year ago. When Amdir and Thengel were in Dol Amroth. The same year Amdir had met Listöwel. That is why he had never discussed it with his friend. Amdir had returned from Dol Amroth a changed man. All he talked of was this vision of charm that he had met. How he wanted her to be his forever. Denethor had given up trying to talk with him about anything that mattered.

To Amdir's credit, Denethor himself had been caught up in trying to find Henneth Annûn at the time. It had been early spring; he had returned from Ithilien. He had returned to the City very much ashamed. Húrin had surprised him in the forest and Denethor was still smarting from the chastisement in front of Osgiliath's battalion. He needed to find the old manuscripts; he needed more definite directions as to where the cave lay. He had gone to the Great Library, the first time since Thengel's troth pledging. He had heard no word that the wizard was in Gondor, so he had steeled himself and gone, for great was his sense of urgency. He found the manuscripts almost immediately and should have brought them with him to his room, but he had been fascinated by the very first passage he read and had sat down, oblivious to everything around him.

"My Lord Denethor," the whispered voice caused Denethor to jump from his chair and face the wizard. "You are studying late this night." Denethor looked at the candles; they had burnt down almost to their ends. He started gathering up the material around him and tried to head for the door. The wizard stood in front of him - Denethor could not recall him moving. "I understand you have been allowed to run free through the fields of Ithilien?" His voice dripped with scorn. "What have you found there, my friend?"

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Finally he was able to squeak out, "I found naught but herbs and soldiers."

"Ah, but that is not what you went looking for, was it?" The wizard moved towards him. "You were looking for things that do not concern you. There is another who is close to becoming Lord of Ithilien, One whom you would do well not to cross. I would warn you to stay away, but you are yet headstrong and proud. That pride will cause you great sorrow in the future. It might even cause your death." He paused, turned and moved away. After a moment, he turned back towards Denethor. He held out his hand and there was a ball in it, round and obsidian black, yet beautiful, dark and baffling. It seemed to shimmer as if it had a life of its own. Denethor felt strangely called to it. "Perhaps you should be looking for other things. Tools that will help you know what people refuse to tell you. You might even be able to see into their hearts."

"Yes, and so you do. I have noted the gifts of Númenor that have been given to you. You might consider developing them further, just as you have developed your military skills. There are tools available from the ancient ones that, as future Steward, are your right to use."

"Is that... Is that a Palantír?" Denethor asked in amaze. Fear was gone and intense curiosity filled him.

Denethor suddenly felt weak. He knew he had been tricked. "You see much, Wizard," he snarled and was surprised at his tone. "What do you know of me? Of my fate?"

The wizard laughed, loud and long. "What is your fate? I see fire and ash and soldiers with flames mirrored in their helms. I see a man lying on a byre with a dead black stone in his hands, flames licking those hands, that stone. I see despair and death."

Denethor smiled bleakly, rubbing the sweat from his forehead. At least after this last encounter, he had not hidden under his bed! "Of course I am well. It is just... I do not like to think about that fire."

However the rest of Minas Tirith might have felt, there was one who was terrified. And that one was Morwen of Lossarnach. When first she suspected, she went to Adanedhel and tried to explain her fears to him. He waved them aside, telling her she was strong and young and built to bear children. She next turned to Indis, but Indis was totally taken in the affairs of state - Ecthelion leaned more and more upon her for counsel.

She was afraid to go to Thengel. She remembered his white face as he stood beside her during the long wait for Hild's birth. Besides, there was no use in speaking with Thengel. He and Denethor spent most of their time in the Houses of Healing with Amdir, or planning which rooms to move the ever-increasing family into, what toys needed to be made. Morwen felt miserable, frightened and alone.

As she sat in the garden of the Houses, 'Wen came to her. She was startled. She had not seen Denethor's older sister for some months. When she had, the woman had quietly glided past with only a nod of her head. Thengel had told her that 'Wen spent all of her time caring for the old Steward.

"My Lady," Denethor's sister started to speak. "Forgive me. You do not look well. Is there ought I may do for you?"

Morwen looked at the kind face and burst into tears. "I am frightened, my Lady Morwen. I..."

"Please, call me 'Wen, it is the name my brother uses when speaking to me and I hold its sound tenderly in my heart. If we are going to share as friends, we should address each other as such. Now - what frightens you, Morwen?"

The tone of the voice, the kind hand gently laid upon hers, all lent strength to the words of friendship and Morwen found herself pouring out her heart, her fears, her foibles to the calm woman beside her. "I feel so very foolish. I am no longer a child, but I would cower under my covers if I might. Mayhap if life had moved in a different path, I would not now be so fearful. To lose my child at the Crossings broke my heart. And the pain... I could barely stand it. Then Hild was not an easy child to birth. The pain and fear of her coming are still branded into my mind and my stomach. I do not want to go through that again. I have spoken with Adanedhel and he bids me be quiet. As if I am a wayward child." She wiped the tears from her eyes. "I feel like a wayward child. Lost and alone. Forgive me, My... 'Wen, forgive me, I am whining. I am wife to the Captain of the Horse Guard who is confidant to the Steward's heir. How do I learn courage? How do I learn patience?"

'Wen moved closer to her. "You are most courageous, my dear Morwen. Everyday you take up the challenge of living in Gondor, when you could have stayed in Lossarnach with the green fields all about you and peace and soft rains and joy. Yet, you follow your lord and live in this city - a city some love with a passion, but a city nonetheless, dirty, smelly, noisy, with untended gardens and abandoned homes looking out at us. You do it for love of your lord. You will birth this child in the same way. Do not be ashamed of these feelings. It is good to share them - bring them out into the open where we may dispel them. Adanedhel is old and has forgotten the ways of women. He is now ever consumed with tending battle wounds. His duties have changed from physician to surgeon. The women of Gondor rarely give birth. Those in the lower halls use midwives and those in these halls... Do you not notice that it is only your babe that runs through the halls of the Citadel? Gondor is failing. Her men look to creating statues in remembrance of themselves before they have even passed beyond; they think not of creating children. The women are left to their own devices." Her face turned hard as she spoke. "It is now the custom of the men of Gondor to wait until they are well into their prime before they even consider taking a wife. By that time, the women are weak and spent and have lost all hope. Nay, my sweet Lady, you are most courageous. I am proud to know you."

Morwen burst into tears. "You are too kind. You know not what you speak of. I am..."

"You are the beloved of the next King of Rohan!" 'Wen chided her. "You will remember Gondor and make certain that Rohan and Gondor are always joined in friendship and fealty."

"Yes, My Lady, my friend. I will remember your words and your kindness and the kindness that we have ever felt here in Minas Tirith. Thengel will not leave Gondor, even when his father passes beyond. His love and loyalty to Denethor run deep in his heart. So you will not be rid of me soon, 'Wen." She smiled. "And for that I am grateful."

She leaned her head against 'Wen's shoulder and sighed. "Thank you. I am no longer afraid. What were you doing here in the Houses of Healing? I have not seen you here before."

"My adadhron, Turgon, has a slight chill and I had come for a remedy. Now, I see I had other reasons for coming. I am pleased that I was here at this moment. The Valar protect us in our needs."

Morwen sighed and closed her eyes. Gently, 'Wen kissed her forehead as the dark haired woman fell into sleep. "Tears often cause fatigue. I must speak with Arciryas. He will be able to help her."

"Three months and still the sword feels foreign in my hand. My knitting needles fit better."

"Ah, perhaps that is our problem, Listöwel. Perhaps we should go to the armorer and request swords made that fit us?" Elleth wondered.

"If we go to the armorer, questions will be asked. And how do we respond? I need a sword for slicing the turkey. I need a sword for cutting my thread. I need a sword..."

"Be still," Morwen laughed. "Someone will hear our giggles and inquire as to why."

"We have giggled so much this past month, ever since Amdir started to recover, that I doubt anyone has any questions left for us. And it has been most good to laugh, has it not?" Elleth asked. "By the way, where is Indis? Did not she say would meet us here at this hour?"

"She did and she is not here, which means she is probably with Ecthelion - again," Morwen sighed. " I miss her. Have I said that before?"

"Yes, you have. But I wonder where our shieldmaiden is? I am ready to begin practice. We have such little time for this. Morwen, should you really be lifting that sword in your condition?"

"I spoke with Arciryas," she blushed. None had known she had gone to him, pushed towards him by 'Wen and he had helped her. Helped mitigate her fear. She could not share this with her friends; they thought her strong. "He said he will advise me as to when I should stop doing this."

"Of course I told him. Did you think I would enter upon such an undertaking, something that might harm my child, without counsel?"

Eledhwen strolled into the courtyard, her sword swinging back and forth in front of her. Slowly at first, and then faster, and the women gaped.

"I believe I have been lax in your training. You still hold your swords like women," the shieldmaiden sneered. "And where is your erstwhile captain. Does she think she is ready for what lies ahead?"

She was delirious with joy. Arciryas had watched over her like a pelican with her brood; Morwen felt well and rested and calm. This birth would be different; she felt it. She had given up training a week ago, but the sinews in her arms and legs felt strong and ready for any battle. She would still train with her sister-friends, but without sword. Arciryas had been adamant; Morwen had been respectful, and they had come to an understanding. She would obey his wishes and not use the sword, but he would allow her to continue the less strenuous fighting exercises that Eledhwen was teaching them. She would dearly miss the feel of the sword in her hand, but she would at least be able to hear the clash of sword upon sword as Elleth, Indis and Listöwel battled each other.

A smile lit her already luminous face as she thought of Thengel. She did not know what he would think. Nay, she knew. He would be angry - and concerned. How could she train thusly whilst carrying a child, he would ask. She giggled guiltily at the thought. How wonderful it had been for her to pick up the sword. Eledhwen had said that she had a gift for it. She knew not if it was gift or no, but she relished every aspect of the training. It had been difficult, at first, for the women to train in secret. Thengel's company was still recovering from the sortie to Emyn Arnen and so, left the City rarely. Thankfully, Morwen and the others used the excuse of wedding preparations to cover their long absences. Indis had secured an old chamber in the very depths of the Citadel for their practice. None ever came so deep of late.

Morwen giggled as she raced towards the Citadel. Gondor's weal was not the only matter on Indis' mind these days. She did a little leap of joy as she remembered coming upon them unawares in the garden outside the Houses of Healing. Arciryas must have forgotten her appointment with him for there he sat, holding Indis' hand and speaking quietly to her. Indis had dismissed Morwen's queries with a wave of her hand, but Morwen had seen the light in her eyes, the flush of her cheek, and heard the faltering speech of Arciryas as she greeted them. She had told no one, for her friend's privacy was most important to her, but she wanted to shout it to the whole of Middle-earth. Nay - she wanted to share it with her friend, this special time, but, until Indis was ready, she would remain quiet, hoping her friend would one day trust her and come to her. A small sigh, half happy, half sad, escaped her lips.

"We will meet at 'The Three Fishermen' at the setting of the sun. I will bring Amdir with me. I will feign a sadness, and as ever, he will suggest that we go and I will go - reluctantly." Denethor laughed. "What a night this will be. But remember," he turned serious for a moment, "we may be late. Amdir still does not have his full strength back. I will have to walk at his pace."

Thengel smiled. "But he is healing well. I could not deny him by putting off his troth pledge any longer."

"Have we orders yet?" Denethor asked. "It has been six months since we left Ithilien unguarded. My father shares none of his plans with me," he said bitterly, "mayhap he has said something to you?"

"Nay, he has not." Thengel sat next to his friend and laid a hand on Denethor's knee. "I understand your frustration for I myself feel it. It would have been easy enough for Inlach's men to be stationed at Henneth Annûn or at least sent to swell the ranks in Cair Andros. He was not happy when we brought Findegon's Rangers with us, yet, now he waits. Is Turgon still the problem?"

"I have not seen the Steward in months, but I do not believe my father goes to him any longer. I think Turgon is Steward in name only." He stood up, strode back and forth, gripping the pommel of his sword in anger.

Thengel stood up and advanced upon him, clutching his arm and forcing him to stop and look at him. "You are still young, my friend. Do not take this to heart nor as a sign of disrespect. Your father loves you and values your counsel."

"Hah!" Denethor laughed bitterly. "Little do you know." He sat again; his shoulders slumped. "I feel as if I am trapped on a child's seesaw. One moment he listens, even seems to want my views, and then he changes and keeps me away, turns to ice! I do not understand any of this."

"That is not all that is causing you distress, my friend. What else is there?" He sat down again next to Denethor.

"The ceremony! My coming of age. It is in two years time." He stopped; bitterness contorted his face. "The only ceremony he has ever held was the giving of the Horn at my seventh year. I want this ceremony. I need this ceremony. Every Steward has held it since the line of the Steward's began. And the Kings of Númenor before that held it with their sons. I fear that he will again disregard tradition. But more than that, this ceremony is the most important, more so than even the conferring of the Stewardship, for it signifies the heir. With this ceremony, I will receive my final sword; I will receive the Horn of Gondor; I will receive instruction into the ways of Gondor and the secrets of Númenor. Without it, I am nothing."

"Feign sadness!" Thengel laughed warmly. "You do not need to feign it; it fairly leaks from you!"

"Nay, friend, I am glad you shared this with me. Would you tell me more of this ceremony? Why it is so crucial?"

"It started when my people first came to this land as fugitives. All we loved and cherished had been lost. The very land even, disappeared from under our feet. If Elendil had not been aware of what Ar-Pharazôn's sailing westward meant, if he had not prepared the fleet, Gondor would not be as you see it now and only a few Númenóreans would still live in this land. The rest would all be at the bottom of the sea."

"The Valar had gifted us with the island of Westernesse with one restriction - we must never sail to the Undying Lands. My people lived there - free from fear, protected, and happy. But the Dark Lord was brought, as prisoner, to our land. Slowly he twisted the mind of the kings and pride engulfed them. Then the king, spurred on by the Dark Lord, took the fleet westward and broke the Ban. As Ar-Pharazôn's fleet headed west, Elendil boarded ships on the easternmost side of the island and waited. After more than thirty days, the mountain exploded, the wind roared, the waves grew to great heights - higher than mountains - and all in our boats were afraid. Would Ulmo himself come against us? Those who looked behind saw unspeakable horror. Our homeland, our cherished island, sank before our very eyes and was lost forever. Ever eastward our little fleet was thrown, struggling against the wrath of the Valar." Denethor started to sob.

"Nay, I was not," Denethor took a shuddering breath. "I have read many accounts of that time, written in pain and sorrow and tears. And I have dreamt. The message has been branded, white-hot, upon my heart. The saddest time in our history - though I fear worse is yet to come. Will we again lose our adopted homeland? The evil that encompasses us seems of the same ilk as that which assailed Númenor. Do you not see why, do you not understand the terror I feel from the east?"

They sat together - silent. At last, Denethor shook his head. "Tis a sad subject to be telling on such a momentous day."

"Ah yes. When my people landed, they were disconsolate. But Elendil was resolute. 'We will not lose our memories. Númenor will live in our hearts.' He made it law that the king, when his heir was of age, would take him to a revered place and there speak of Númenor, the duties of the king, and many other secret things. At this time, the keys to the Royal Treasury, the Great Library, and other places that I do not yet know of, were given to him. Before King Eärnur left for Mordor to foolishly answer the Dark Lord's challenge, he took the Steward, Mardil Voronwë, my ancestor, to the revered place, gave him the keys, told him the secrets and rode away, nevermore to return. The Stewards took up the tradition." He looked at Thengel. "Perhaps Ecthelion truly believes the king will return. Perhaps that is why there is no mention of the ceremony. There would be no need, if the king returns. Perhaps he has some foresight in this. I do know not."

"My friend," Thengel said, "Why distress yourself over this? There is still time. Your father knows the importance of the ceremony. He will not break this tradition, of that I am sure."

"Then your surety will be mine! Let us go. I promised Amdir I would visit this morning. Listöwel is busy with the final preparations for the troth pledge."

"Nay, I will leave you two alone. I have errands for tonight that must be completed." And then Thengel, sensing the need for tradition, farewell'd Denethor with the Gondorian hand to chest. Denethor smiled, returned it and walked away, his heart lightened.

Indis finally decided that preparation for war was needed. As she and Ecthelion poured over maps and missives from Gondor and beyond, she realized the depths of evil in their land. She glimpsed a small portion of what Denethor had spoken of all these long years, and she was finally feeling the horror that she perceived in his eyes when he left himself unguarded. Her poor brother. The gift of foresight that was growing in him was a bitter gift indeed, and coupled with his years of knowledge of their past, gleaned from his many hours studying the books from the Great Library, perhaps were too much for him. She pushed that thought away. As Listöwel had said, she too did not mean to be sent off with the women and children, if the time every came to defend Minas Tirith. She would stay and fight next to her father, her lord. She was not as adept at the sword as Morwen was, but she was learning nonetheless.

"There will be no training today," Listöwel wailed. "Indis has an appointment, she cannot break it, and Elleth says we must sew. The troth pledge is too close."

Morwen laughed. "Then come, sister-friend, and we will sew and sing and enjoy this day."

"What has made you so happy?" Listöwel demanded and then blushed. 'Ah, the babe. Have you felt it?"

"Yes, oh yes! Many times now, Listöwel,' Her face glowed. 'I am so happy. Would you like to feel him?"

"Yes, I know not why, but I am sure. I have more to tell, but let us wait till we reach Elleth's."

Morwen fairly skipped as they turned towards the Sixth Level. Listöwel laughed and the women held hands and sang an old tune rejoicing in their friendship.

"Ah to be a' walking
A' walking in Gondor
And ah to be a' singing
In this fair land.

Land of sweet beauty
Land of rivers flowing
Land of mountains rising high
As a' walking we go by.

Ah to be a' laughing
A' laughing in Gondor
And ah to be a' playing
A friend held hand in hand.

Sweet Minas Tirith
Slender spike of pearl
Pure and bright your tower glows
In my loving heart."

They arrived at Elleth's breathless and laughing. She quickly ushered them into the parlor and held her fingers to her lips. "I believe I have a secret," she exclaimed mischievously. "Indis is in love!"

"Hush now! I saw her with Arciryas in the garden by the Houses." Elleth's eyes brimmed with tears. "I have said naught of this to anyone, but my heart is so very glad for her. She knows I saw her and has said naught. Therefore, I feel I may tell you, as her dearest friends."

Morwen smiled. "I have seen them too." She started to cry. "Is not this most wondrous?"

The noise was deafening - howls of laughter, flagons clinking, chairs scraping. Denethor sat back, bemused. Life was good! He watched as his friends competed in arm wrestling, shouts of encouragement ringing in his ears. This lot of soldiers was a valiant group; he was glad to name them among his friends. Smiling, he shook his head. Soon enough they would be going out to battle, mayhap to death, but that did not deter them from enthusiastically encouraging Amdir in his forthcoming nuptials. Denethor laughed as he watched his friend, eyes slightly glazed, huge smile on his face; Amdir would have to be walked home, or mayhap, carried. Denethor himself remembered the time he had taken too much and almost burnt himself and the Steward's House down. He would not be so foolish this night. This ritual, was it brought from Númenor or adopted from the folk of these lands? His mind could not envision the Númenórean Kings doing such things. He grew more thoughtful and shivered. He remembered the tales of the kings of old, the last ones before the great wave engulfed Westernesse, sacrificing their children to... to what? Some dark force. He could not remember. But he knew there had been human sacrifice. What would drive a man, nay a king, to such an action?

There was a hint of sorrow assailing Denethor and he was not quite sure what elicited it. They all looked the same, these comrades of his, stalwart and brave, those married and those not. There seemed to be no difference. Why would one want to pledge to a woman with all the attendant problems, when there seemed to be no difference in countenance? Yet, he knew this to be untrue for a select few. He marveled at Thengel and Morwen. They seemed uncommonly close. Spoke often together. Missed each other when they were separated. Peculiar. He wondered about Ecthelion and his mother. Were they as his friends? His father's moments of melancholy - were they to be attributed to Rían's loss? He wished, not for the first time, that he had known her. Always, Indis had been his mother, but now, with the thought of pledging to a woman, he wished he knew more. He thought he understood the courting time - the body had a tendency to need certain things when a man came of age and appetites were whetted. Once the troth pledge took place, though, he noticed ardor seemed to fade for most. Yet, not with Thengel and Morwen. Would it be the same for Amdir and Listöwel? A far corner of his mind wished it would be for them as it was for Thengel and Morwen.

His chair was knocked out from under him as one of the combatants went flying, to the uproarious laughter of the others. Laughing, Denethor hailed the maid, took another mug to replace the broken one, and found a quieter corner a little further from the merriment. Just as he sat, Thengel joined him, pushed his chair slightly to the side, and straddled one across from him.

"'Tis better than a good thing to see. You should be there with the wrestlers. Your arm is strong now. Get yourself up and join the battle."

"Nay, the left arm is strong, but the right... It will be strong soon. I do not see you offering your body for torture?"

"I am Captain," Thengel snorted. "Do you think one of them would not let me win?"

Denethor laughed. "Nay, it is not that you are captain, but that you would conquer in a thrice. They may be full of ale, but they are no fools."

Thengel started laughing in earnest. "Look. They are now showing each other their battle scars. Should we join them? We have a few here and there."

Just as Denethor moved to stand up, Findegon entered. Thengel's laughter caught in his throat. Here was a man who had the right to show off battles scars. His face - battle worn with tough, hardened skin, wrinkles everywhere - showed pride and courage and rock-solid strength. A doughty man. Life shone from his eyes. They did not quiver; they did not turn away. Focused and steady, they looked at Denethor and Thengel. Denethor immediately gestured for the man to join them and hailed the maid. The friends felt embarrassed at the thought of showing of their paltry scars. The man that stood before them was scarred both mind and body. Both men stared at this soldier and realized that Findegon was a man worthy to emulate. His face still bore the sorrow of his lost family. He waved aside the ale, but Denethor insisted.

Denethor stood, scraping the chair back in his fervor. There were things that should be said, that should have been said before the night started, but better late than never. His heart blazed within him. Such was his presence at this moment, unbeknownst to him a shade of the kings shone in his face, that the room quieted immediately.

"My friends," he raised his flagon, "Today we celebrate many things, friendship, good times, and most especially, the upcoming troth pledge of our friend and comrade, Amdir. Time has been set aside later in the night to lift our cups to that event. For now, I would bid you stand and remember with me the fallen dead, our comrades who have passed. Almost, we had lost our friend that day, but others fell. Their doom was such. Not only soldiers, schooled and ready for death, nay, innocent women and children. None deserving of such a death." There was silence. He lifted his flagon higher. "To the fallen of Gondor!" he raised and emptied his cup and all the men with him.

Hard enough to put aside such thoughts, but another day would be upon them, while this day was a day for celebration. "Now," Denethor bellowed, "let us sing of Gondor!"

"Hail, Gondor!
Beloved land we sing
Realms bright honor
Cherished soil, to thee we cling.

Hail, Dome of Stars
Osgiliath the fair
Jewel of this realm of ours
Watched o'er with loving care.

Minas Ithil, Hail the strong
All salute her blazen'd sky
Her banners ever unfurled long
Among the crags so high.

Hail, Minas Arnor
Fortress mountain-hewn
Clothed in marble armor
Spike'd tower shining in the moon.

Hail, Gondor!
Beloved land we sing
Realms bright honor
Cherished soil, to thee we cling.

At long last, they all sat, tears in the eyes of some, pride shining forth. Quietly, Amdir walked to Denethor's table and began to sing another tune, long and low.

I will find her
I will hold her ever close
In her ears I much prefer
To whisper sweet and tender prose.

She is precious, oh most cherished
To no other love I'll turn
I will love her till I perish
For her alone my being yearns.

How I ache to touch her raven hair
How I long to see her face
In the light of the fire's glare
Full of beauty and of grace.

As the battle rages round me
Still I hear her gentle voice
She would comfort and console me
At her touch I would rejoice.

As an arrow struck deep into me
Through the flesh it gently tore
Yet so softly did my love tear me
I will love her evermore.

Now the light of day is leaving
Final breath my body makes
She will wither and go to grieving
That fair maid who my heart takes.

The old soldier's song hung over the air long after Amdir finished. He sat at table with Thengel, Denethor and Findegon. None spoke for some time. At last, Denethor turned to Amdir.

"You have always sung well, my friend. However, tonight you sang exceptionally well. It was from your heart, was it not?"

Amdir blushed. "My heart is taken, truly. I would have it no other way. She... she fills me. She gives me breath. She..." He went to drink, then set his cup down. "I think I will go back to the Houses now. Would you accompany me?"

"Of course you will not go alone; I will accompany you. It is early though and your friends have come to prepare you for the event. Would you not stay a little longer?"

Amdir laughed. "Nay, I am well. I think the pace up the hill will be a little slower tonight, though." He stood and Denethor watched, anxiously.

Thengel stood and hugged him. "Sleep well, my friend. We will see you on the morrow."

Denethor had hoped to spend time with Findegon. He desperately wanted to speak about the Rangers and Ithilien, but Amdir came first. "Mayhap tomorrow, Captain Findegon, we may meet?"

"Yes. I am staying in the Rangers quarters on the First Level. I am at your disposal."

Walking up the road to the Sixth Level, silence enveloped the two. Denethor's thoughts were awhirl with the song. The sentiment held him spellbound. A thousand times before he had heard it, yet, tonight, it held a different quality about it. His thoughts again went to Amdir and Thengel. He had no jealousy, but a feeling of discontent filled him. He tried to wish it away. All he needed was to get out of Minas Tirith, to feel his horse under him, his sword in his hand.

"Yes, the Company will. Alas, I am sorry to say, dear friend, you will not. Arciryas will surely not give approval for you to return yet. You are still staying in the Houses. Another month? Perhaps two? Though you are sorely missed. The barracks have been silent and cold. Laughter is rare."

"There has been naught to laugh about. Who is Ecthelion sending to replace the men Captain Húrin lost?"

"He has said naught to me. There was a captain and a lieutenant, besides the men." Denethor shook his head, visions of the dead patrol swimming before his eyes. "It would seem that only a full company will be safe on any of our roads from now on. This is a hard thing. There are not enough men - never enough men. I would lay it at the feet of the kings. Even before their line fell, they did naught to encourage planning for Gondor's defense." Bitter was his tone. "Now, we pay with our lives, and the lives of our people.

"But let us put our thoughts to merrier matters. Tomorrow is the last day of Yavannië and your troth pledge day. I will come for you at the sixth bell. We will meet Thengel and Ingold at the Citadel and have nuncheon. After that, we will go to your home where we will meet Listöwel and Elleth. We will meet Indis and Morwen in the White Tower. Do you have everything you require for the morrow?"

Denethor heaved a sigh. This would not be an easy task. Indis had offered the garden for the ceremony, but would not ask Ecthelion's permission. Denethor thought it a mistake. Amdir had no inkling as to what they were about. 'May the Valar protect us,' Denethor thought. Ecthelion was busy with preparations for the harvest-feast day, Yáviérë, and would remain in seclusion with his advisors the entire day. He was surprised Indis could get away for the day. But, their little party would be long gone 'ere he came back to the White Tower. A shiver ran up Denethor's back. Amdir looked at him quizzically as his body betrayed him.

"This will be a good day, my friend. You and Listöwel will be pledged, we will laugh, eat and drink, and all will be right with the world." They had reached the Houses. Denethor gave Amdir a quick hug and turned to leave.

"My Lord," he heard a voice calling him. As he turned back, Arciryas stepped from the shadows of the doorway. "My Lord," he repeated, "may I have a moment?" Amdir had gone into the Houses.

"Nay, my Lord, all is well. I have a... a personal matter I wish to discuss with you. Is this an inappropriate time?"

'What could Arciryas possibly want?' Denethor mused. Arciryas was Thengel's company healer. All Denethor's dealings were with Adanedhel, Healer to the Steward. The only concern between them was Amdir's health. Was there something wrong? Perhaps Amdir was not strong enough for tomorrow's ceremony. His heart raced a little faster and he wished they had sat on one of the benches by the entryway. At last they reached the little compartment that was Arciryas' and entered. Hot water was already bubbling on the fire in the corner as Arciryas motioned Denethor to the only good chair in the room. Denethor's frustration was starting to mount at the silence from Arciryas, but he tried to hold his tongue.

As Arciryas passed him a cup of tea, Denethor could contain himself no longer. He tried to be civil, but anxiety coated his words. "Amdir is well?"

"Oh, yes, my Lord," Arciryas looked startled. "Amdir is healing well. Not at the speed that he would wish, but better than I had thought. I am quite pleased with his recovery. Of course, he will have scars but we are using blueberry, grape and wild pansy extract on the burns. That will help minimize the scarring." Arciryas stopped and took a deep breath. "I asked to speak with you on a personal matter, as I have said." He stopped again and took another breath. Denethor almost laughed at the healer's discomfiture. 'What matter could be so grave...?' Denethor's breath caught. Not Ecthelion? There could be naught wrong with his father!

"I beg of you, Arciryas, please do not hesitate. Tell me what it is that is causing you such distress." He tried to keep his voice even.

"Please sit, my Lord. I am doing this very badly. Indis and I," he plunged forward, "we would, we want... we are seeing one another. She has been most kind and accepted my feelings towards her; I would that you would know before..." Arciryas had never felt so tongue-tied in his entire life, not even during his testing by Adanedhel when he had applied to become a healer. "I love your sister very much." His face turned various shades of red. "I know I am younger than she is, and that she is of the House of Húrin, but my forebears' lineage is of some worth."

Denethor sat back, his hand brushing his hair from his forehead in hopes to hide the smile upon his face. He had not known, had not surmised anything of this sort. Indis! He could contain himself no longer. He jumped back up, grabbed Arciryas by the arms, and gave the man a mighty hug. Arciryas' gray eyes widened in surprise.

The sigh that escaped Denethor's lips could not be hidden. He sat back down. How could he tell Arciryas that Ecthelion would never give his approval? How could he himself have even given the poor man a moment's hope by his exuberance?

Arciryas noted the change of countenance. He was a healer after all. Was not he trained in such observation? So this would be harder than he had thought. Once Denethor had responded so positively, his heart had swelled with joy. Now, the pallor on the lieutenant's face told more than words. "There is a problem," he stated flatly.

"My father... How can I say this? He has come to rely heavily upon my sister. She is, and has been for some time now, the Lady of Gondor. You look very high in this pursuit." He tried to keep his tone flat. He valued Arciryas as friend and healer. His blood was Númenórean. Yet, he was not a Lord of the Court, nor was his family high placed.

Arciryas nodded, miserably. Even the sweet thought of Indis did naught to allay his torment. There did not seem to be much hope for their future.

"There must be something we can do," Denethor groaned. "If Indis loves you... But I cannot see a way out of this. Even as Master Healer you would not be deemed worthy enough for her."

"I am not worthy of her, of that I am certain," Arciryas cried, "but I love her nonetheless."

He was a fool. The thought slapped him in the face, hard, as he grit his teeth. How long had this been going on? How long had he been blinded to his own sister's anguish? On the road from Emyn Arnen, he had vowed that he would spend more time with her, listen to her, and now, further evidence of his disregard, his selfishness. He could hear the labored breathing of Arciryas behind him, but Denethor could not slow his steps as he made his way towards 'The Three Fishermen.' He had put himself before all those he loved, and now that his eyes were no longer blinded, he would put things to right, if he could. 'How do I begin to notice? How do I school myself to pay attention to others' needs, others' wants? How do I become wise in things other than battle?'

"We will do what...?" Thengel exploded. He quickly lowered his voice as half the company still in the inn stared at them. "We cannot. What fey mood has you in its sway that you would even consider such a thing?" he hissed, and then turned towards Arciryas in frustration, but the poor healer's face was as white and drawn as he imagined his own to be. "Do you have some remedy to heal him of this madness?"

Denethor's lips quirked into a small smile. "I am not ill. There is no other way. I have pondered it from the Sixth Level to here; there is no other way. Ecthelion will not hear of it; that way is shut. So, we must find a new path, a new way. I believe this is our only course." He sat back, holding the flagon in his hand. It was the only thing that felt solid as his mind tried to pull itself together from the whirl it had been in. The course he had suggested was madness, he knew, but there was no other way. The consequences for him would be terrible, but too long had he allowed his sister to bear the weight, the fury of their father. He remembered how she had brought them together after Cranthir's death. She had stood up to Ecthelion. Now he was going to crush any repair that had been done.

"It is the only way," he stated again, the smile now wiped from his face. "I will bear the brunt of my father's displeasure, nay, anger. Too long has Indis loved me with no recompense. Too long has she suffered for Gondor, given all of herself to its affairs, to my father, to our family. I will not let this continue. I know I speak madness," he paused, "If I could, I would go to Ecthelion, plead her case before him, but he will not listen. Thengel," he put his hand on his friend's shoulder, "you know I speak the truth."

Thengel sat back; the horror of the action planned was almost too much to bear. "If you do this, you will be banished from Gondor, not Arciryas, not Indis."

Silence deafened Denethor. "I know too well, but am I not accustomed to this kind of treatment? Nay, I will not be banished from Gondor. Mayhap I will be banished to some odious garrison, some unwelcome duty. I can bear that. In time, he will reconsider and order me home." He paused as the remembrance of his three-year banishment when he was a mere lad assailed him. The loneliness, the shame of that time was almost too much to bear, but he was a man now. Would he be banished that long? Or mayhap longer? He tried to hide the shiver that ran through him, but Arciryas' healer's eyes caught it.

Another slight smile played on Denethor's lips. "It is for me, too, my friend. Too long have I listened to my sister weep alone, too long have I seen my sister's drawn, sad face. If what you say is true, that happiness has come to her, then it is my duty to help her."

"Then let us go find her," Thengel said. "Let us see what she thinks of this madness."

They walked slowly towards the White Tower, all three ensconced in their own thoughts. As they approached, Denethor saw that there was no light in Indis' quarters. 'She cannot have retired yet,' he thought. 'Nay, she is at Elleth's.'

"Come, we are at the wrong place. She is with Elleth, Morwen, and Listöwel at Captain Ingold's home. They must still be preparing for the morrow."

As they walked through the door, the fire swept its warmth and light into Denethor's heart and he knew what he contemplated was only right. Indis ran to him, questions in her eyes, but he hugged her tightly and whispered in her ear, "I love you, my sister." She pulled herself away, sudden tears spilling down her face.

"Hah," he whispered softly. "I am the fool even more, if you think I come to you only in time of danger or in time of need."

"Thengel, what has come over my brother?" She turned and saw Arciryas behind them and her eyes widened. "Amdir?" she whispered.

"Nay," Denethor said quietly. "But I must speak with you alone." He turned towards Elleth. "May we?"

The group went out of the parlor and left brother and sister to themselves. Denethor could hear the whispers as they went into the kitchen. He was grateful that Thengel would explain his plan to the others. He did not have the strength to even think that far.

"Sit, my love," he said and walked to the settle. She sat next to him, wonderment still upon her face. "Indis. I need you to be forthright with me. I need you to answer my questions truthfully."

She was silent and bowed her head. 'What could he want of me? What questions?' She wondered.

Her head flew up, mouth opening, cheeks flaming red, and he knew. He put his fingers to her lips. "Nay, say not a word. I understand now." They sat in silence. "You have ever been my help, my comfort, my support, Indis, and now I would make it up to you." She tried to interrupt, but his fingers flew again to her lips. "Please, let me say what must be said. When I returned from the carnage of Emyn Arnen, I vowed that I would place you before me, your needs and your wants. You became - nay, you always were - all that I hold dear in this world. Now, I wish to repay you. I have an idea that might seem foolhardy to you. But you will see the wisdom in it, once you consider it fully."

He sat back, put his arm around her shoulders, and held her close. "Tomorrow is the troth pledge for Amdir and Listöwel. Tomorrow, if you agree, I would make it your troth pledge to Arciryas." She tried to pull away, but he clung tightly to her. The fear in her eyes burnt him as much as the fire in the hut. "There is naught to fear. Father will be able to do naught, once the formalities have been accomplished, once the pledge has been made. You and Arciryas will slip into Morwen's suite to complete the pledge. After that, there is naught even the Valar could do to separate you."

A smile creased the corners of Denethor's eyes, but no smile touched his lips. "I will, my dear sweet sister. And he will punish me for it. But it will be light and naught will be able to dim the joy I will feel at your happiness. Please, let me do this for you."

She hugged him closely, her tears wetting his tunic. He smiled. It would all be worth this moment.

The day dawned with the sun brilliant, even hurtful to the eyes. Warmth already filled the streets of Gondor; it would be hot for this time of year. Thengel met Denethor for breakfast in the barrack's dining room. Thengel was quiet and withdrawn. Denethor smiled. He had an inkling of the thoughts that raced through his friend's mind, but could do naught to assuage the fear he saw in his captain's eyes.

"I thought we were being brave using my mother's gardens for the ceremony. Such a little thing now compared to what we will be doing," he laughed.

Thengel shrugged and looked away. He was angry with Denethor, nay, furious. But he could think of naught to do or say to sway his resolve. He loved Indis too, but the cost of this enterprise seemed too much. Of all times when he needed his lieutenant by his side, this was it. They were scheduled to begin patrol immediately after the harvest-feast. Denethor would not be with them, of this he was sure, and neither would Amdir. 'A double blow. Arciryas? Would Arciryas even be allowed to go? What healer would Adanedhel send with our Company, if Arciryas is not allowed? Nay, Ecthelion will be eager to get Arciryas out of the City, away from Indis. Perhaps he will try to convince her to reject the pledge? Ah, she would not.'

They ate in silence; Denethor hurt by Thengel's turned back. There was naught to be done, however. All their plans, nay, his plans, were in place. Both ceremonies would take place today and tomorrow he would be sent off to who knew where. But his heart was light. Indis would be happy.

Many chores had lain before them, but the sixth bell finally rang. Denethor was at the door of the Houses. Amdir and Arciryas stood waiting for him. Amdir's eyes were bright and his cheeks were flushed. Denethor looked at Arciryas in alarm, but Arciryas smiled.

"Our friend Amdir is quite ready, methinks." He laughed and Amdir's cheeks become rosier still.

"Then it is time we met your father, Amdir. He waits in the Citadel with Thengel."

"My stomach is roiling and I do not believe I could eat anything. May we just, perhaps, sit by the parapet, look out on the fields of the Pelennor?"

"Whatever suits you, my friend. It is your day. They will find us when the need arises. We are to meet at the White Tower at the eighth bell."

Amdir had not been told what other event was going to be happening this day. Denethor had questioned whether or not to tell him, just let it happen and answer questions when the time came, but this appeared to be the opportunity he needed. And he would use it.

Once Amdir's mouth closed, Denethor smiled. "This does not take from the pleasure of your day, does it? I had not thought you would mind sharing this day?"

Denethor laughed. "None of us did. But the women did. They had no trouble changing Indis' gown into one more appropriate. They spent the night laughing and singing. To hear them, you would have thought all Gondor knew and rejoiced. In fact, I do believe all Gondor will rejoice when the news is released."

Amdir placed his hand on his friend's arm. "Yes, all Gondor will rejoice, except those lords who had hoped to advance their careers, or the careers of their sons, by a match between their houses. And what of Ecthelion? Do you seriously believe there will be rejoicing from the Steward's House?"

"Leave that to me, Amdir. All will be well." He gave a smile to Arciryas. "You both have much to rejoice at."

The garden was in full bloom. Flowers cascaded from the windows and the embrasures above, benches had been placed, and music floated through the air. Indis had done everything possible to make this day splendid for her friend. How strange that all the preparations had been for herself too. The dress fit well, but the alterations made her uncomfortable. It brought to mind exactly what she would be about this day, and the thought still took her breath away. Her love for Arciryas was strong, surprisingly sudden, but strong, and she blushed as she thought of it. He had been assigned to Denethor's Company only a year after he came to the Houses. When was that? Just two years ago. Rarely did they have opportunity to meet, until this year, these last few months when she took turns visiting Amdir. The blush deepened. She remembered when first they had sat in the garden on the vestibule outside the Houses. She had been concerned for Amdir. Denethor had been distraught and she needed to know whether Amdir would live or die. She had to be prepared to help Denethor if the answer was hard. He had taken her hand, purely in comfort, and the touch sent tingles down her spine. She saw his eyes widen at the same time and they were lost. Or found. A tear slipped down her face. She truly loved him. Yet, the course that Denethor was leading them on... She was still terrified. Denethor had promised there would be little repercussion to this action, but she did not believe him. How could she not hurt her brother and hurt her affianced? Or how could she not hurt her affianced and hurt her brother? She should run away. Or tell Arciryas she did not love him. Nay, he would not believe her. And running would do naught! Ecthelion would find her or she would die in the wild. Her frightened eyes swung right and left, looking for some escape.

'Wen stood before her, took her in her arms, and hugged her tightly. "My sister, you look like a frightened rabbit. What ails you on this day? Do you doubt yourself, or Arciryas?"

Indis sobbed. "I cannot save him, nor Denethor. This is madness. I should never have agreed to it.

"Yes, this is madness, a blessed, marvelous madness and I am most happy for you. Time enough you have given to Gondor, to father. Time now for your own happiness. I watch Turgon and I see life slipping from him. I would have life for our family. I will not give children to the line of Ecthelion, but you will; you must. I would see a sweet babe, laughing in your arms. Time now to put aside fear, my beloved sister. Time now to take the happiness given you." She wiped the tears from Indis' eyes as their friends entered the garden.

Sweet and precious were the words as each couple spoke the pledge. The music had been stilled, not a sound but the voices of each as they made their pledge, and then the kiss. Tears flowed and arms hugged and voices cracked in joy and love and friendship.

The trio played with flute, crumhorn, and harp, gentle music as the revelers ate the simple repast the women had prepared. Their talk turned to laughter, and laughter to dancing. Indis and Arciryas were pushed forward as was Amdir and Listöwel. The benches were moved out of the way and the pledge dance begun. Slow and rhythmic went the music and the dancers followed it. Their hands were held together above their heads, then brought down and around from left to right and then right to left. Their feet lightly marked the time in small circles. Then arms encircled waists and kisses were gently placed on foreheads. The dance lasted only a short time, yet all were enthralled. Slowly, each couple dropped their hands, turned and bowed towards their friends, smiling shyly.

Gracious clapping greeted the end of the dance, but the trio of musicians had other thoughts in mind and quickly started a livelier tune. All joined hands and started the circle dance. It had been so long, Thengel and Morwen's ceremony, since any had danced. Toes were stepped upon, groans were heard, but laughter covered the day. The circle started slowly, with hands again clasped and raised, then all swung in towards the middle and then out again, while the men started to stomp their feet and the women gently kicked out and back again. Denethor liked these dances. No partner was needed. All joined together and most made mistakes. He did not feel self-conscious. Amdir's smile was bright as he nodded towards him. It was good to see such laughter and joy. The twisting of his stomach had stopped as soon as the pledge had started. Morwen and Thengel sat for most of the activities. Arciryas' presence gave them both ease of mind. The babe was not due for another two months; Morwen would be fine. For more hours than Denethor had expected, they danced and sang and laughed. At last the sun was waning and Denethor gave thought to his father. It was time they left this garden. If Ecthelion came and saw them, he would be livid, but Denethor and Indis felt that their mother would be most happy to have it used for such a purpose. Too long it had lain unused - a testimony to naught. Now, fond memories trailed through their minds as they wandered out the door. Elleth called the servants and the area was cleaned 'ere the last guest left. She gave the garden a quick look, 'Wen came and hugged her, and they left, feeling a smile from Rían covering them.

"Esquire!" Denethor heard and turned around. He had recognized his father's voice, but wondered whom he was addressing. As he turned, his eyes met Ecthelion's and the storm in his father's eyes told him exactly whom he was addressing.

"My Lord," Denethor placed hand on chest and bowed. So this was the punishment, or a part of it. Ecthelion had finally discovered what had happened. It took him all of fifteen hours.

"Did you think naught would come of your total disregard for my wishes?" Ecthelion hissed so low none could hear but Denethor.

"Do not bandy words with me, you little..." He took a deep breath. "It does not stop here, either. When I call you, I would have you come to my chambers. There we will discuss your career." Ecthelion turned brusquely and headed for his place at the head of the festivities.

A silver trumpet called out for attention and all heads turned towards the temporary Steward's Chair, placed at the foot of the Great Hall's stairs. "Today is the feast of Yáviérë," Ecthelion began. "Today we rejoice in the bounty of our land. My deepest thanks to all for coming, for bringing their wares, their harvest, their friendship. Today we celebrate. And, as is traditional for this day, I will announce promotions within the ranks of the knights who protect us. First, bring forward Ingold, my Captain of the Tower Guard."

After an hour of announcements and congratulations, Ecthelion completed his work and left the Chair. He motioned towards Denethor, who bowed and started to leave his comrades. It was time to endure his father's wrath. Thengel put his hand on his shoulder to stop him. "I would come with you." Amdir and Ciramir stood behind him, resolute.

Denethor laughed. "You are now Captain of the Tower Guard. Is this part of your new duties or do you wish to be demoted as I am and spend your days in the stables? And, before another has the occasion, I would be the first to wish you congratulations. You also, Ciramir, for becoming Captain of the Horse Guard. Well you both deserve these positions. Gondor is strengthened by my father's wisdom in choosing you. Amdir, give your father my deepest regards on becoming Captain of the Armies. I would no other. Who would have thought those many years ago! This means your family will be moving into the White Tower! How delighted I am for Elleth too. She will finally have a casement that looks out onto the east and south. But she will have to leave the iris garden behind." Sorrow touched his voice.

"It will still be in the family, Denethor. Father is giving me their home. Listöwel and I will make sure the garden flourishes; you may come and visit those flowers anytime."

"And now I must take orders from you, Lieutenant! Will wonders never cease!" He laughed uproariously. Naught could take from him the joy of Amdir's promotion.

"We will meet at 'The Three Fishermen' at eight bells. If you are able, please join us," said Thengel and Denethor smiled. "I will be there, if I am able."

"You will never do such a thing again," Ecthelion shouted. "You have trod on my plans. You have placed yourself above me. You have placed yourself above Gondor." His father's wrath was tangible. His neck tensed as his hands clenched and unclenched. Never had Denethor seen him so angry. Spittle spewed from his mouth as he screamed.

Ecthelion spun around as if to strike him, but held his hand. His voice shook. "I will not allow such disrespect. Too often have you spoken of the Council in this same manner and I allowed it. I see now that was a mistake. Your disrespect has turned from the Council to me! You will leave immediately for the beacon of Amon Anwar. One of the tenders has passed. Another is needed. The head tender and his family will not know who you are, just a drudge sent from Minas Tirith to replace the one who was lost. You will leave your livery here. You will not need it where you are going. You will stay there until I bid you return. You will not show your face in Minas Tirith. Do you understand me? If I see you in the City, you will be banished from Gondor. Do I make myself clear?" All the pent up rage of years past exploded as his voice rose again to fever pitch. "Ega!"

"Yes, my Lord." Denethor bowed and walked from the Tower. The beacon-hill. There was no further outpost in all of Gondor, except perhaps the seaport at the mouth of the Lefnui! He felt a flush rising in his cheeks and tried to shake off the feeling of shame. He had never expected to be demoted. Nor had he expected being sent to one of the farthest outposts of Gondor, but neither had he expected better. His friends - he would send a note. Ecthelion, his fury enkindled to an extreme state, had sent a guard with him to escort him out of the Citadel and out of Minas Tirith. Thoughts of his last banishment flooded through him, and the shame of the ten-year old burned in the man's heart. Once again, an escort to sunder him from his City, his friends, his family. He was not allowed to send the note.

Silence cut through the inn like a sword through soft butter. None of the men smiled, nor spoke. Most of the others who frequented the inn had left, the feel of anger and alarm rank in the air. The bell had rung four times, the middle of the first watch, and still no sign of Denethor. "He is gone. I feel it. Ecthelion knew we would meet and he has sent him off with no chance for farewells." Amdir's voice was bitter.

"Yes, I believe you are right in that. Well, there is naught to do for it, but go back to our homes. Tomorrow, we will find where he has been sent. What happens after that I do not know."

"Well, at least you will be here for the birth of your child," Arciryas said. "Had you known you were to be promoted to Captain of the Tower Guard, Thengel?"

"Nay, Ecthelion said naught to me of this. I almost wish it were not so. At least as Captain of the Horse Guard I was able to leave Minas Tirith. I am now fixed to her and know not when I might be able to visit Denethor, wherever he is."

"I too will not be leaving Minas Tirith any time too soon. I have been appointed as permanent healer at the Houses. I will no longer go on patrol with our Company. I find this most disturbing. I... have enjoyed field learning. Though I cannot quite believe Ecthelion has allowed me to stay here. He has not announced Indis' marriage and I fear for that too."

"Nay, my father has not spoken to me since my troth pledge. He sees me in the halls and turns the other way. I am sore pressed to understand this. There was love for my mother during their life together. I had thought he would understand." She scuffed at a wisp of dust in front of Elleth's fireplace. "Arciryas has been forbidden from the Seventh Level and I am forbidden from the Sixth." Her laughter turned slightly hysterical. "I am held prisoner in all but name."

"Then it is time for us to continue our lessons. If you have naught to do, we must use this time. It is prized. Morwen will not be with us, but come, let us find Listöwel and Eledhwen and begin. Too soon will come other duties."

Their practice chamber was becoming cooler. The nights were shorter and the women suddenly determined that a new sense of urgency was needed. They practiced hard and long. Laughter was only found in short bursts as they focused more and more on the skills they were learning.

"How many times do I have to tell you, keep your hands below the crossguard. Otherwise you will find a finger missing! Your sword is too short for a ricasso; it is sharp blade down to the hilt."

Indis blushed. "I am sorry. I will try again." She held the sword by hilt and pommel and tried to raise it again. "This sword is too heavy."

Eledhwen scoffed at her. "This sword is too heavy,' she mocked. "The other was too light and would not cut a hare's head if you had tried. You speak of protecting Gondor, of guarding those you love, yet you refuse to obey me and train as I ask. What of your resolve?"

Listöwel giggled and Eledhwen turned to her in fury. "Who was it that let her sword fly from her hand last week? Who said the pommel was not wide enough to keep the sword in her hand? You are full of excuses, all of you. I am ashamed to be your teacher."

"Please, please do not say such a thing," Morwen begged. She had joined them this day, though the walk down the steep stairs had been difficult. "We are foolish women perhaps, but we know what gift you are giving us. Do not be discouraged. We will try harder." She looked pleadingly at her sister-friends. "Oh..."

Indis rushed to her side. One look at her drawn face and she ran to the stairs. "Lay her down and get her some water. I am fetching Arciryas."

Thengel took the cup of water offered by his aide and walked towards the window. Morwen's time was close and he found it disconcerting that she would disappear for hours. Where was she now? His aide had spread the roster for the coming week before him. This was not work that he enjoyed. He wanted to be on a horse, with his men, riding across the Pelennor. He snorted in disgust - a place of high honor, to be Captain of the Tower Guard. Why did he feel it was a bribe from Ecthelion for his service, nay his allegiance to Gondor? Gondor had his loyalty; did not Ecthelion realize that? He would not leave. There was naught in Rohan for him. His father's ways were not his own. He loved Gondor with a passion. He loved the people, the City, his friends, yes, even the language felt sweet upon his lips. Ah, Gondor. Now he must spend his time doing paperwork, not finding Denethor. "Where is Denethor?" he muttered under his breath. Two months had passed and not even a whisper of what had happened to him or where he had been stationed. Baranor had not been sent with him. This had stunned Thengel, but upon further thought, he realized a lowly ensign had no need of an aide. Baranor must be crushed.

A cry caught his attention. He saw Indis running across the escarpment, her skirts flying and her hair waving in the breeze. His heart flinched. "Morwen," he cried and ran from the room. Where could she be? He had seen Indis leave the White Tower, but had no idea where she might have come from. He could not go through the halls yelling Morwen's name. He ran to follow her; it was his only recourse. She had run into the Houses of Healing and was just reappearing as he came to the garden. "Indis!" he called.

"It is Morwen, Thengel. She is in one of the rooms at the bottom of the White Tower and I fear the babe is coming."

Arciryas pushed him aside. "Instruct the Guard to bring a litter," he shouted as he ran past him, "and quickly."

His knights had heard the screams and were already at his side. By the time he reached the White Tower, six men were close behind, one carrying a litter. Gratitude swelled at the discipline of these men. Ingold had done well. The Tower Guard was the brightest and boldest company of knights in all of Gondor. They reached the bottom of the steps and a cry greeted them. It was not a frail cry, but one filled with strength. His child! He ran into the room where the crying was coming from and saw the babe in Morwen's arms. Collapsing at her side, he pushed the hair from across her face, kissed her sweat-soaked forehead, and smiled in delight. She was smiling back at him, healthy and happy, though tired.

"It is a boy," Arciryas smiled as he wiped his hands. "Hail and fit. His lungs attest to that, do they not? And what name have you chosen for him?"

Thengel looked at Morwen. She smiled, turned her head towards the healer and said, "Théoden."

An errand-rider came with orders for Denethor to return to Minas Tirith. He had few possessions and none worth saving. He left them in the watcher's hut, swung up onto the horse the rider brought, and spurred it towards home. 'Home,' he thought. A shudder ran through him. Alas, he had begun to wonder if he would ever see his City again. The beacon watcher stared, mouth agape, as Denethor rode off.

The months had turned into years and frustration had grown into something akin to hatred. Denethor was at once ashamed and proud. He knew Ecthelion would have to send for him sooner or later, but five years! Early on, he learned how to make his body hard. He watched for the beacon light at night and, once relieved of this duty in the morning, started out walking. He walked till nuncheon, living off the land, returned to the hovel for a quick lie-down, then returned to his post as night settled. He would not succumb to lassitude nor despair. He was determined to know this land and to learn all he could from it. The watcher and his family were quite dull, knew naught of reading or writing, and contented themselves with games that would keep a youngster happy, but held no challenge for Denethor.

Watching for a signal was monotonous work, but he wrote during the long nights, when his body did not freeze in the winters nor roast in the summers. His mind tried to remember all that he learned during his eighteen plus years. He started a timeline at first, and then wrote the kings' names from Elendil forward and all that he could remember of their histories; then he concentrated on the line of Stewards. By the end of the second year, he began to fear for his sanity.

At last, one morning, as his path took him close to the border of Rohan, he was commanded by a hidden voice to give the password. Excitement filled his heart as he heard the language, not his own but that of Thengel's. He was delighted that he correctly interpreted the voice's question. 'Ah, men more of my own station than those I dwell with,' he thought. He held his hands in front of him and assured the voice, in halting Rohirric, that he was not a threat, but a beacon watcher. The voice came forward upon a magnificent horse. Denethor caught his breath at the beauty of the beast as it pranced impatiently in front of him, the sun shining on its ebony coat. The rider had a lance thrust before him, pointed at Denethor's throat.

"I am friend of Thengel, son of Fengel, lord of the horse-masters," Denethor said quietly. "I have been..." He paused in consternation. "I have been stationed here to learn obedience." Shame colored his face, but he would not lie.

"Obedience. Then you are no lowly beacon watcher." The stranger's eyes narrowed to slits. "You are high born. Lessons on obedience are only taught to those who are worthy of it. I would have your name and quickly." The lance moved closer to Denethor's throat.

The man drew in his breath. "Nay, not only of the line, but son of Ecthelion!" He lowered his lance, dismounted and strode forward. "My name is Walda, sister-son of Fengel and Third Marshal of the Riddermark. I know what it means to be taught obedience," and his smile burnt the sun.

Denethor smiled back. "'Tis good to meet one of Thengel's family. He and I are great friends." His face colored again. "He was my captain before this.... posting."

"Are you free at the moment? My camp is only two leagues from here; perhaps we might share 'obedience' stories?"

And so the friendship began. Denethor nearly wept that night as he sat under the stars - to finally have someone to talk to again - someone who had lived the same kind of life Denethor had. He added Walda's name to his log with a drawing of him and his great horse. They had sat together for many hours as old soldiers do. Denethor laughed at this thought. 'Old soldiers, indeed! I am just twenty-three and Walda is twenty-eight.' But the laughter was not in earnest for had not he fought many a battle against Orcs and such, and had not his new friend told him of the battles of the Rohirrim against the same?

Denethor shook his head. He must put aside reminiscing and discover what had been happening to Gondor during his long absence. Walda had given him some news, but there had been rare visits between the two countries, so his news was not current. Of this, Denethor had been mortified. He made another vow to himself and wrote it in his log. When he became Steward, he would open the borders between the two countries, allies from long past, and ensure that errand-riders would bring news to and from Rohan and Gondor. The errand-rider was loath to give any news to Denethor; he was, after all, only an errand-rider. But Denethor, having learned the ways of perception during his long years in the wild, bent his will to discover what he could from what the rider did not say. He grew cold as he saw fear flit in the man's eyes as he casually mentioned the Ephel Dúath. So, something had been happening there while he had been gone. Also, there seemed to have been a change in authority in Gondor. Of what, he could not be sure, but there was a hesitancy on the man's part whenever Denethor mentioned Ecthelion.

It was becoming maddening and Denethor was close to losing his patience. Three days now they had ridden at a fast pace and the Rammas Echor finally came into view. Denethor held his breath as they turned towards the North Gate. Minas Tirith lay before him. Three leagues and he would be in his City. Tears stung his eyes. It was beautiful, more so than he had remembered, though ever had it been before him, in his mind's eye, during his long banishment. He was home!

He heard his name called the moment he passed through the Great Gate. Running towards him was Amdir, fully healed, with a smile that threatened to break his face, so wide was it. "My brother, my friend!" he cried and tried to hug Denethor, but Denethor, as soon as he had recognized the voice, had swung down from his horse and pulled Amdir into his arms. "Amdir," he choked, his voice constricted with emotion. "Amdir, my dearest friend." Long moments passed 'ere either man let go. Finally, Denethor distanced himself from Amdir and looked him over. "You look well, my friend," he battled the tears that wrecked havoc behind his eyes. He had also learnt control whilst away and would not let them fall. "Are you? Well, that is?"

"Yes, and long healed. It is good fortune that has me in the City at this time. I have been stationed at Pelargir for the last year. But due to Turgon's death, I..."

Denethor's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. "What is this you speak of? Turgon is dead?"

Amdir stepped back a pace, stunned. "Yes, Denethor, your grandsire passed seven days ago. Did not the rider tell you? Did not your father send a missive with the news?"

His face turned hard and scarlet. "Nay," he said and jumped back up onto his horse.

"Denethor!" Amdir yelled, "Wait," as Denethor urged his horse forward. Amdir shook his head. 'The Steward's family is again in the midst of upheaval. Why do they not speak to each other?' he wondered as he hurried to follow his friend up the long road to the Citadel.

Denethor's chest hurt and his breath came in short bursts. Fury and grief drove him upwards and his horse, straining to obey his rider's will, stumbled at the Fourth Gate. Denethor jumped from the horse and immediately rubbed its leg. "I am sorry," he said to his mount. "My anger has caused me to hurt you," he spoke to the horse in the language he had learnt from Walda. He was sorely ashamed. The poor horse was not at fault. He took the halter and led the horse up the remaining levels. He tried to use the time to quell the shaking of his limbs and the racing of his heart. What was he going to say to Ecthelion? What could he say? He wanted to scream at him. He wanted to punch him. He wanted to put his sword through his heart. 'Stop this!' he reprimanded himself. 'I must be calm. I must hide all feeling from him.' Tears again threatened as he thought of the ill he had been done these past five years. Never to see Turgon again. It was almost too much to bear and brought remembrances of Cranthir, his uncle. 'How had Turgon died? When?' he wondered. 'Who was with him at the end?' Now he wished he had not ridden away from Amdir. He had many questions and would have preferred to have had them answered before he faced Ecthelion. Just as these thoughts came, Amdir caught up to him.

"I am glad you finally decided to walk. I have had a hard time catching you," his friend, always ready with a smile, beamed at him. "I am sorry for your loss, Denethor, but I am so very grateful that you have been called home. Is that selfish of me?"

Denethor stopped and turned towards Amdir. "Nay, friend, it is valued. Look! It is 'The Three Fishermen.' Let us stop for a moment. I have many questions, and I am afraid I must compromise our friendship by sating my curiosity. There is much I must know before my audience with Ecthelion." He pushed the door open and the familiar smell caught at his heart. He wondered where Thengel was as he sat down in his old chair. The mugs were cool and the ale was strong. Denethor sighed. Amdir sat quietly next to him.

"Amdir, I am sorry to ask again; my mind is still reeling. When did Turgon die?"

"Seven days. Ecthelion must have sent for me immediately," he refused to use the word, father in the same sentence as Ecthelion. He had long stopped thinking of him as that. Nay, that was not true. He still, in the far recesses of his mind, wished that Ecthelion had been his father, but no father would treat his son the way he had been treated. Bitterness welled up in his mouth and he washed it away with the ale. "Where is Indis? Are she and Arciryas still...?" He could not ask that question.

"Indis is living within the Citadel and Arciryas is living in the Houses. They see each other... infrequently." Amdir shook his head. "There has been no child," he said, his voice reflecting the pain he had heard in Indis' voice when last he saw her. "I have not been in the City, as I said, for quite sometime, but Indis came to dinner not three days ago and her pain was writ plainly on her face. We invited Arciryas also, but, of course, your father left orders that he was to be assigned to the Houses that evening. Your father knows everything that goes on. It is difficult to arrange a meeting between the two."

"Would you please refrain from calling him my 'father' in my presence, Amdir?" Denethor asked. His tone was soft, but his jaw was clenched.

Amdir's eyes widened. "Of course, Denethor, if that is your wish." He thought of Ingold and thanked the Valar for the father he had. Though Captain of Ecthelion's personal guard, the Steward's harshness had not transferred to Ingold. Whenever Amdir saw his father, they embraced. How strange to have a father like Ecthelion.

"He is my Lord and Steward now," Denethor hid the hurt in his voice. Amdir, who knew every nuance of his friend's voice five years go, was not now sure what he heard in it.

He finished his ale and stood. "Please do not come with me. This is something I must do myself. I will visit you and Listöwel when my audience is complete. Where are you staying whilst you are in the City?"

"My father's old house on the Sixth Level is still mine. We are there. And the iris still bloom," he smiled.

Amdir shivered. Those were the same words Denethor had used that fateful night five years ago.

Denethor entered the Great Hall's foyer. The Chamberlain gawked at him at first, and then, upon a curt command from Denethor, escorted him into the Hall. Denethor took a great gulp of air and walked towards the Steward's Chair. Ecthelion sat in it. 'This is almost too much to bear,' he thought. Officials swarmed around the Chair. The din of their voices was too much for Denethor, accustomed as he was to the silent sweep of the White Mountains. Ecthelion looked up as he heard the footsteps approach. His face blanched and his teeth clamped together.

"My son!" he said with a faint note of sarcasm running through it. "You come home at last." He turned and spoke to the men about him. "Leave me." They scurried away in fear.

"Come away from here and sit with me. It is almost time for the evening meal." As he said this, the sundown-bells rang. He walked towards his private chambers and Denethor, steeling himself for the upcoming interview, walked behind him to his study.

"You look well. A little too thin for my taste, but well, nonetheless." He walked towards a cabinet and pulled out a decanter of wine. "Please, sit," he motioned Denethor towards a hard-backed chair next to his desk. The Chamberlain entered, took the decanter from the Steward's hands and began pouring the wine. "Leave us," Ecthelion hissed.

'Ah, so this is how it will be - a gentle dance for control,' Denethor thought. Well, Ecthelion would be surprised. He had learned to dance this kind of dance.

"I am well, my Lord, if not for the ache in my heart at my long absence, although much has been learned. I am most grateful for your kindness in sending me off." He kept his tone flat and soft.

Ecthelion looked up, annoyance painting his face. "Are you making a complaint, my son?"

Denethor almost gagged at the word 'son' but held himself in control. "Nay, my Lord." He would not use the term 'father' if all the Orcs in the Ephel Dúath attacked him! "I am saying that I have missed your counsel." He raised the glass to his mouth and smiled into it.

"And I have missed your smile," and a part of him truly had. Ecthelion pushed that thought away. Did the ungrateful whelp think he had sent him off for his own purposes? Nay, he had sent him to teach him respect, obedience, order. And now this... this upstart thought to mince words with him! "You have spent your time wisely, I hope?"

"My Lord. I have spent every waking moment learning the things I believe you sent me to learn." Denethor's mind screamed the words - abandonment, treachery, malice, but his face only showed a tight smile.

"Obedience, my Lord, respect for authority, respect for the Steward, and above all, undying love for Gondor. To spill my blood for her and my Steward at the Steward's request."

Ecthelion smiled, so cold it burnt Denethor's heart. 'This man must never have loved me,' he thought bleakly. The truth scored his very being. "What would you have me do, my Lord, now that I have been allowed to re-enter the gates of the City?"

"I will send orders to you shortly. In the meantime, I would request that you go to your quarters, they have been made ready for you, and await my summons."

Denethor placed his hand to his chest, bowed low, and left the room. 'So, I am to be prisoner in my own quarters,' he thought. 'Again.'

He stood by the casement looking out upon the Court of the White Fountain. His tears finally fell. Too long held in, they scorched his face. Turgon was dead, buried, and he had not been here. Arciryas and Indis were all but separated. All of his planning had come to naught. It was now the second day since he arrived and still Ecthelion did not send for him. There was even a guard stationed outside his door. He praised the Valar that Amdir had been at the Great Gate upon his arrival, else they would not have seen each other. Even Indis had not come. Perhaps she did not know he was in the Citadel. But nay, Amdir must have told her. If he saw her. Things seemed so disjointed, so confused here. He almost wished he were back on the plains of Rohan, his horse under him, the men of Walda's éored around him. The last three years had been filled with laughter, friendship, hardship and joy. Walda was a natural leader and his men were devoted to him. Denethor's time with the men of Rohan made the nights at beacon watch bearable.

"The éored will assemble in one hour's time," Walda said. "Will you join us?" Pre-dawn fog hung over the foothills and made it difficult to see, but Walda had come purposefully to include him. Denethor's night watch was over. He almost laughed at the invitation, swinging onto the back of Walda's mare. To be on a horse again, in the thick of soldiers; the smile on the young man's face was answer enough for Walda. "Then come, pick out a horse and we will ride." And they did, directly into the camp and right up to the pen where the horses were kept.

For the horse-lord to give him the pick of the new herd! "The chestnut one, is he old enough?"

"A fine choice, yes, he is ready. And I see he likes you," Walda said as the horse nudged Denethor from behind.

"Where were the Orcs sighted, my Lord?" Denethor asked as he saddled his mount.

"Denethor, I am no more your lord than you are mine," Walda smiled; then he sobered. "The band was seen about two leagues to the north, in the foothills of the White Mountains. There is a village just east of that area. We will go there first and hope that..." He need not finish; Denethor knew his meaning.

The sun, poking intermittently through the clouds, warmed his face and the men of the éored warmed his heart. They were strong and stalwart, yet friendly and kind. To be among valiant men again! They rode quickly through the plain and turned into the foothills. Walda had given him a sword, not as fine as the one that was in his rooms in Minas Tirith, but a good sword nonetheless. It hung at his side and gave him a sense of completion. Too long had he been without one, and he wondered if he would be up to battle. He had kept his arms strong, but were his reflexes still swift? No further time to ponder as the Orc band appeared directly before them, running from the sun and the Rohirrim. It was a large band, a little larger than the éored and Denethor knew they were in for a fierce fight. He swung at the first one to attack him and the blade hewed an arm. Denethor grunted in satisfaction. His own arm still worked. Another came at him and his horse sidestepped as it lunged towards him. The blade of the Orc struck his mount on its left flank and Denethor was at a disadvantage trying to cross over the horse's head with his sword and swing down, but he twisted his body to the left and was able to just slay the beast before his horse fell. He scrambled to get out from under it as another Orc attacked from his right. The sword clashed with the Orc's spear and Denethor found the sword hewn in half. He jumped back, but the Orc pressed his attack, a sneering smile on its face in anticipation of the quick and painful death it would give its enemy. The snarl turned to a grimace and a howl as it lost its head to Walda's sword. Walda reached down and grasped Denethor's arm and Denethor swung up onto the horse behind him. Walda raced to the edge of the fray and quickly let Denethor down.

A warrior was standing at the edge with a sword and a spear, and he shoved the spear in Denethor's hand while flailing at Orcs as they assaulted them. Denethor had never used a spear in battle before, but war constantly teaches new skills and he lunged at an Orc as it pressed forward. The spear went through its neck and Denethor grimaced in surprise. He tried to pull the spear out, but it held firm. He pressed his foot to the Orc's forehead and pulled with all his might. It let loose and he fell backwards, almost to the ground. Another Orc saw its advantage and rushed him. Once again, the Rohirrim saved him. The man who had given him the spear was behind him and quickly severed the head of the Orc. He nodded curtly to Denethor and turned to slay another. Denethor turned towards the one that was coming behind him and the spear found another victim. He wished he had a sword. Another Orc was upon the Rohirrim and Denethor saw the man fall. He rushed forward, picked up the sword and decapitated the Orc, screaming his rage.

A riderless mare ran past him and Denethor rushed forward, grabbed the hanging bridle and pulled himself into the saddle. The horse's nostrils flared and fear enlarged its eyes, but Denethor held the reins firm and pulled the horse up. After getting control, he turned the horse back into the battle. Another Orc went down under his sword, and Denethor grunted in satisfaction. Too many they seemed but the courage of the Rohirrim ran the battle. The Orcs turned towards the mountains, but the éored would not let them escape. Screams streamed from their mouths as they killed the last remaining foe. Others of the éored rode slowly through the bodies and hewed the still-living ones. Some were walking through the corpses, kicking now and then to ensure the enemy was truly dead. Denethor stopped his horse and sat, stunned. These men fought with such anger.

Walda came up behind him clasped him on the arm and said, "I am glad you have come unscathed through that."

"Yes," Walda said, "I had not thought the band that large and my scouts were also killed. We have much to be grateful for though; the village was their prime target; we have saved it and those who live there."

"We will bury them here. We will burn the Orcs, as is our custom, and our dead mounts, though in a separate pyre. We would not sully the memory of our brave steeds by burning them with that foul lot."

They worked long and hard that day, stopping only for a quick wash and nuncheon, and then plunged back into the harsh task before them. As the smoke rose and the sun began to set, Denethor knew he had to return to his duty. It was hard to leave these men. The work of burying the dead had just begun. His heart wished to stay, to help with the task, but he knew he must return. A message would be sent to Ecthelion stating he was disobeying his... disobeying orders. Who knew what further punishment that would bring?

He rode towards Walda, deep in the mound of bodies, trying to sort out who was who, so that families could be given their effects. His face was hard as he pulled swords off bodies. "I must leave you now. I am sorry. I have lost the mount you gave me. I will leave this horse with you and walk back to Halifirien," he used the Rohirric name for the beacon. "I am sorry I cannot stay to help bury the dead, but duty calls me." He felt wretched at the thought of leaving these brave men with such sad work.

"I wish I could, Walda, but if I come back to the camp with this horse, the beacon watcher will know I have been about other things and might report back to Ecthelion. I dare not take that chance."

"Then let me send a rider with you. When you are in sight of the beacon-hill, you can dismount and he will take your horse and return it to me. Then you can walk into camp with no one the wiser."

"I cannot let you give up a man just to return me to Halifirien. You are in sore need of every able-bodied man to help bury your dead."

"One man, more or less, will make no difference. It is not the custom of my people to let a friend walk when a horse is at hand. Take it. I hope to see you again soon."

Walda smiled. "That would be good. We will camp near the same place I brought you yesterday." He clasped Denethor on the arm. "You fought well today. I am glad you have joined my company."

There was a shout in the courtyard below. Denethor looked out the casement and spied Indis speaking frantically with Amdir. A guard stood by, brandishing his sword. What could possibly be happening? Would one of the Tower Guard dare to draw a sword on Indis? He saw another guard running towards the three, drawing his sword as he ran. Denethor was dumbfounded. He ran to the door, opened it, and his guard stepped forward, sword drawn. Denethor stood, amazed. What had come over his City? He drew a deep breath.

"Listen to me," he said. "Something is wrong with my sister and I must go to her side. Kill me here or come with me. Either way, I am leaving this room."

The soldier blinked, sheathed his sword, and followed Denethor as he ran down the hall towards the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he descended, but not quickly enough for his purposes. His heart was in his mouth as he finally reached the door that opened onto the courtyard. He ran towards Indis and took her in his arms. "Sister, sister, what is wrong?"

Indis' eyes widened. "Denethor, you have returned," she sobbed and sank into his arms. He held her close and kept whispering her name till she calmed. "Denethor, Denethor, it is 'Wen. She is nowhere to be found and I fear for her."

"She has not been herself for weeks, not since Turgon started slipping away from us. She stayed in his room and would not eat, nor speak with anyone. When we laid him in the Steward's House, she wailed and wept. None could sooth her. Finally, Arciryas came and forced a draught into her. She succumbed to it and was carried into the Houses of Healing. She has been under constant watch since. But her maid has told me she has disappeared and I cannot find her." Indis started sobbing again and Denethor smoothed her hair, spoke her name and held her close.

"Shush," he said, "I am here now and we will find her. I promise." He kissed her forehead and hugged her tighter. Arciryas had run up to them by this time. Denethor gently passed her to him. "Take her to her quarters and stay with her."

"Nay, Denethor, please," Indis cried. "I must continue my search." Her eyes were wild.

"Nay, my sister. You will obey me and go to your room. When you have rested, Arciryas will bring you to me. In the meantime, I will go to Thengel and muster the armies."

"Denethor, have you not heard? Thengel is no longer in Minas Tirith!" Amdir whispered in his ear.

"What say you?" Denethor stood back, stunned. "What say you?" he repeated again, hardly aware he had asked it before.

Amdir stepped closer. "Arciryas, take Indis to her rooms. Denethor, come with me."

"Fengel has passed beyond this life. Thengel was called home. He left two days ago."

Denethor stopped, lowered his head, bent over and put his hands on his thighs. He tried to breathe, to take in everything that was happening. "This is not possible, that both the Steward and the King of Rohan should die so close to each other! Say it is not so, Amdir. Say that Thengel still is here." The anguish in his voice almost broke Amdir's heart.

"He is gone these past two days, against his will, but he is gone. And we must find 'Wen."

"Yes." Denethor straightened again, pain obvious on his mien. "Sent away on the day I arrived. He could have waited; Ecthelion could have held him one more day." He ran past the Seventh Gate and towards the stables. "Who is Captain of the Tower Guard?"

"Yes. And the company is here today. We should find them in the barracks." Amdir said just as they reached the stable doors.

Ciramir was brushing his steed. He turned as he heard his name shouted. "Denethor!" he grinned, taking a quick stride towards him, and then stopping as he saw his friend's face. "What is amiss?"

"'Wen is missing. A search must be made," Denethor said as he hugged Thengel's old aide. "Will you muster the Horse Guard?"

"You need not ask." He stepped to the doorway and furiously rang the old warning bell.

Chaos reigned for a few moments as the Horse Guard came at the call of the frantic bell. They quickly lined up, waiting for their captain to speak. To their surprise, and pleasure, they saw that Denethor stood next to him.

"The Lady Morwen is missing," Ciramir began. "She was last seen in the Houses of Healing. We will break into seven squads. One will away to Rath Dínen, another to the Houses of Healing... "

He droned on and on while Denethor bit his lip. Too much time was passing. 'When was she last seen?' he thought. He would take the squad to the Houses, with Ciramir's permission. He stepped forward.

"Of course," Ciramir stated when he heard Denethor's request. Amdir was already walking quickly with his squad towards Rath Dínen.

"Adanedhel!" Denethor shouted as he entered the front gate. A healer strode up to him, shushing him furiously. Denethor took the man's arms in both his hands and pulled him close. "I will speak with the Master Healer now!" he gritted the words out between clenched teeth. The man turned and raced down the hall. Denethor ordered his men to search the rooms and strode through the hall, following the man as quickly as he could. Suddenly, Adanedhel was standing in front of him. "My Lord?"

"When did Morwen leave her room?" Denethor asked, holding his temper in check. Was the man witless? What did he think Denethor wanted!

"My Lord, we have no knowledge of the time. I am sorry. She had been asleep and her attendant left her for a moment, I am told. We notified Indis as soon as her absence was discovered."

"So no one saw her leave? You have no idea which direction she went? Was anyone with her?"

"I am sorry. I have no answers to any of these questions. We have asked the staff and no one, it seems, saw her leave, no one went with her, no one knows where she went. We have searched every one of the Houses, all the hallways and storage areas, but she is no longer here."

Denethor saw genuine concern in the man's face and stepped back. It was not until this moment that he realized he had thrust himself close to the healer and had been poking him with his finger at each question asked. He shook his head. "Forgive me. If you hear of anything, any report at all of where she might be, or if anyone has seen her, please send a messenger to Indis or to me." He called his men to him as he strode back to the gate.

'Where could she be,' he wondered? And then a chill ran through him. 'Nay, it is not possible. She would not have gone there. She could not have gone there without someone seeing her leave the City.' He started running towards the Seventh Gate, the men following close behind. "Ciramir," he shouted as he came to the stables, "get someone to saddle a horse. We are searching in the wrong place."

"I cannot wait," Denethor hissed, "for the whole company to muster. Too much time has passed. She could be well away by now."

Ciramir pulled him aside. "My Lord, I beg you, tell me what you fear. Where do you think she has gone?"

"Nay," Denethor whispered again, leaning hard against the stable door. "She is going there. I do not know how I know it, but I do." He pulled himself up and started to run towards a saddled horse.

"Someone would have stopped her at the Great Gate. We would have heard the alarm sound if she had forced herself past the guards."

"You do not understand, Ciramir. Her mind is addled. She will find a way to get out without anyone seeing her. She is not herself."

"Then you and I shall ride immediately. I will leave instructions for the others to join us as each squad returns." He ran towards Dúinhir and gave him quick orders.

Denethor smiled. Dúinhir was still with the army and now a lieutenant in the Horse Guard. A long way from Henneth Annûn; Dúinhir had been his aide then. He called to Ciramir, "I would have Dúinhir join us."

Ciramir came to his side, leading two horses. "Yes, my Lord. We will find reinforcements in Osgiliath. Come." They mounted the horses and road towards the Sixth Gate, while stragglers hurried to follow them.

"I will not stay here. I must find Morwen, Arciryas. Please, help me," Indis cried.

"We will find Denethor and hear what information he has. That as is far as it will go. You heard him order you to rest."

"I will not rest until I know she is safe. Arciryas, I am strong. I had a moment's weakness in the courtyard, but I am better now. I have a terrible fear in my heart for her. Never have I felt such dread. Please help me find Denethor. Time is short for her; I can feel it in my entire being."

Arciryas shook his head. He was glad Amdir's wife had joined them. "We are going to the stables. Denethor should be there. Hopefully, he will have a report for us."

"I am strapping on my sword. It might come in use. Listöwel, you should probably get yours also."

"I have it, friend. And I am ready." She lifted her cloak and Indis saw the blade fastened at her side.

"What madness is this?" Arciryas almost shouted the question. "What do you think you are doing? You know not how to wield a sword."

Indis smile was crisp and cold. "You know not who you have standing before you, Arciryas. For six long years now, Listöwel and I have studied under the tutelage of a shieldmaiden of Rohan. Do you think we have been unaware of the evil that has come to Mordor? Did you think we would not prepare ourselves in any way for Gondor's defense? We are quite adept at swordplay. We know not what terror has befallen my sister and I will be ready for any situation. Come, we are wasting time. Let us to the stables."

They rode hard and reached Osgiliath before night fell. How they were ever to find her once the sun set, Denethor did not know. Would she still be alive? His heart burned with fear for his sister. 'I have not given report to... Ecthelion,' he thought. 'Well, perhaps another five years in banishment. She must be found.' They had stopped at the garrison to exchange horses. "Ciramir, we must send an errand-rider to Ecthelion. He must be notified of our actions."

"Nay," Denethor said. It was strangely comforting to have his old aide by his side. "Send another, but quickly. I would be away within the quarter hour."

Dúinhir strode forward leading three horses. "We are ready, my Lord. I have brought dried meat and water for you. Please take a moment to refresh yourself. Horses are not the only things needing rest."

"Are their no others from the Horse Guard with us yet? Have none caught up to us?"

"Nay, my Lord. You have pushed our mounts hard. It will take time for the others to reach us. Captain Húrin is preparing replacements for their horses and food for them, when they come. Would you not wait for one hour?"

Denethor wiped a hand across his forehead. He was very tired. "I cannot, Dúinhir. Do you remember Henneth Annûn? Do you remember when I knew we were close to the hidden entrance? I feel the same way now. I know Morwen is in Emyn Arnen. I know she is in danger. I cannot wait."

Húrin strode forward, two large torches in his hands. "We will need these. There will be neither moon nor stars tonight. The clouds are too dense. My company is at your command, Denethor. Are you ready to begin?"

"Very well, my Lord." And Húrin, Captain of Osgiliath, shouted the order for advancement. Denethor looked behind him and was comforted by the sight. The entire battalion had been called to muster. The torchlight made the company seem even larger. For the first time in many hours, hope flickered.

The rode was still in good condition. The company rode east, towards Mordor. Something was different and Denethor could not put his finger on what it was. He turned to Húrin. "Captain, has some event occurred recently with Mordor. I feel a heaviness in the air."

"The One we do not name has come to Barad-dûr. He has openly defied your father and is rebuilding the tower."

Denethor gasped. 'So all these years of waiting and watching; Ecthelion's greatest fears have been realized.'

"That is not the end of it either. The Corsairs of Umbar have allied themselves with him. We have been under attack from both the east and the south for more than two years. The great monument at the Havens has been destroyed." Húrin's shoulders seemed to sag.

"The great white pillar at the headland? The one that took the rays of the Sun and of the Moon and shone like a bright star? This cannot be true. They would dare to destroy Ar-Pharazôn's monument?"

"They dare not only that, my Lord. They send sorties to harass the few left in Southern Ithilien. The garrison at Pelargir is constantly on the alert. Evil times have come to Gondor."

Indis chafed at the slowness of Arciryas, yet her heart went out to him. He was a healer, after all, and not used to horses and such. Their pace was slowed by his inexperience; always, when with the Horse Guard, he had ridden in a wagon. She almost wished he had not come with them; they could be in Osgiliath by now. The band of seventy warriors surrounded her. It had taken some time for the various patrols to return to the stables, but once they had and Amdir had heard the orders that Ciramir had left for them, he had quickly ordered the rest of the horses saddled and the company set forth. They would reach Osgiliath well into the night. 'Why had Denethor gone to Osgiliath?' She wondered. And the fear that constricted her heart, once again squeezed tighter.

Amdir had not been surprised by Listöwel's carrying of a sword. They had been in Pelargir for nigh unto a year. Listöwel had refused to stop her training just because she had left Minas Tirith. She had come to him one evening, plying him with wine and cheese and a smile. Gently she had told him what the four women had been doing these past five years and requested assignment of a swordmaster to continue her training. Amdir had met with her the next morning and put her through a thorough test of the different techniques. He had been proud of her. She had done well. And so he had assigned her a swordmaster and she continued her practice. The year before, many terrible changes had befallen Gondor; her prowess with a sword lightened his heart. She would be able to protect herself, if the worst happened.

Now he was riding towards danger with her at his side. Indis would not be left behind and Listöwel would not leave Indis' side. The torches lit the old city in a macabre fashion. Eyes seemed to follow them as they passed the ruins and arrived at the garrison. Ciramir and his company had been gone for over three hours. They would surely be at Emyn Arnen by now. If only he could persuade Indis to remain here. But he knew that hope was forlorn. He helped Indis from her horse and she quickly hugged him, whispered in his ear, "Thank you," and walked towards the well. Listöwel had been helped by one of the men left behind to guard the garrison. Fresh horses were quickly saddled; meal was thrust into their hands along with water flasks. Haste was on everyone's mind. They remounted and rode over the bridge into Ithilien.

Húrin's battalion reached Emyn Arnen, passed through it quickly, and headed towards the resting place of the line of Húrin. It was three leagues south of the forest. Denethor hoped he was wrong. Perhaps 'Wen had gone to Lossarnach to visit Morwen's family? He should have thought of that before rushing out of the City. 'Nay, she is not there,' he thought. Here is where his heart was being dragged to and here is where he would find her. What end had his family come to? Drawn and quartered like cattle; cast out as silage for the masses of Gondor. His father's, there he had thought it, the one word he had vowed not to use again! Well, it was done. His father had spent the family in the hope of the king's return - denying Indis her happiness, shaming Denethor, and waiting on defensive preparations for that return. Perhaps that is why he had been sent in exile to Amon Anwar. Did Ecthelion think the king was returning now and that Denethor would not accept him? Nay, that was folly. Even if the king returned, he would need a Steward. All the kings before had Stewards. As for the defense of Gondor, would he not want to show the king that he had kept Gondor in good repair awaiting his arrival?

They were upon the monuments before he knew it. The dark of the night had hidden them from view and he quickly reined in his horse to prevent a collision with one of them. Ciramir halted his horse and strode forward, holding a torch high. Others of his company dismounted and came forward too. Some were sent to the east and some to the west while Ciramir, Dúinhir and Denethor strode straight ahead. Slowly, with bated breath, Denethor walked, hoping against hope that he was wrong. "She cannot be here," he kept whispering. A shout. 'Nay!' his mind screamed and the pain of the unuttered cry filled his head. "My Lord," one of the soldiers shouted. "Over here, my Lord Denethor." His legs would not move. Dúinhir grabbed his arm. "My Lord," he pretended Denethor had not heard. "You are needed over yonder." And gently forced him forward.

It was Cranthir's tomb. She sat at the edge of it. Her dress was spread out before her, as if arranged for a party, the red stains creeping along it. Her head... He turned, fell to his knees, retched, cried and screamed all in one breath. The blood rushed through his head and he could hear naught but a torrent of noise, unimaginable pain in his heart, and eyes that burnt like the fires of Mount Doom as the tears burst through them. Dúinhir collapsed next to him, holding his hand over his own mouth.

The Orcs' screams as they descended upon them, fractured the trees of Emyn Arnen, and shocked Indis. Never had she heard such a sound. She pulled her horse closer to Listöwel's and drew her sword from its sheath. Her hand trembled; but the arm was strong. She knew it was only fear that caused the sword to shake. She would have none of that. She drew in her breath, bit her lower lip and gave a quick smile to her friend. "This is what we have been preparing for these last years, is it not?" she screamed over the noise. Listöwel managed a small smile back at her; Indis could see that Listöwel had her sword in hand also. At that moment, she dearly wished that she had asked the smithy to make new ones for both of them. She would rectify that when they returned to Minas Tirith. 'When you return?' her heart questioned. 'When we return!' her mind answered.

The men tried to protect them, and for this, Indis was most sad. She did not want to have any of them dying to protect her; yet, she stayed within the circle the unit had set around them; she would be patient. As much as she wanted to join the fray, she would obey the unsaid command and wait. Sooner or later, the Orcs would break through. There were many, many more than this band of men. In the distance she could see Amdir and she was grateful that he was with them, but where was Arciryas? Her heart skipped a beat; he was not with Amdir. Gratefully, she felt a hand reach out and touch her shoulder. She knew that touch. He had pulled next to her when she was looking around, his heart burdened with the thought of what might happen. He did not care if he died. Yes, he did, but he did not want her dead. He thought of their short time together as man and wife. But the Orcs were coming closer. He stood taller in his saddle and fervently hoped he would not fall off.

Ecthelion received the errand-rider. The guards had already told him his daughter was missing. He had sent for Adanedhel and listened to what had transpired. He ordered a search to be made of the Citadel and the area around it. She would be found, he knew. When he read where the company was headed, he paused. He wondered why Denethor had raced to Osgiliath. What was Denethor about? He sat back in the cold black Steward's chair. The errand-rider was still there. Why did not the fool leave? There was naught in the note requiring a response. Brusquely, he waved the soldier off. He called for the Captain of the Horse Guard. The Chamberlain ran forward. "My Lord, the captain and the whole company went with Denethor to Osgiliath." Ecthelion's face turned bright red. "Denethor took the whole company with him?" he screamed. The lad was more arrogant and rebellious than he had thought. What further could he do to curb him? His rage made him shake. "Send for my personal guard." The Chamberlain scurried out of the Great Hall. Never had he seen his master angrier.

A thought, too terrible to imagine, crept into his mind as he sat waiting. She had gone there before, soon after Cranthir had died, but she had taken a squad of men with her. Did Denethor think she would go there again? It was impossible to think it; yet, she had acted strange, of late. He cursed himself for not visiting her. Why was he not told she was so very ill? He could sit no longer. He strode from the Hall and walked towards the stables. His guards rushed around him, encircling him as he walked.

"My Lord, I have been gathering the reports of those who are in charge of the search. Has aught been heard?"

Ingold stopped and stared. "Yes, my Lord," he quickly recovered. Shouting to his men, he ran towards the stables. After a few moments, he rode up to where Ecthelion had stopped. He held the saddled horse while Ecthelion mounted. Ecthelion turned the horse, snapped at it with the reins, and headed towards the Sixth Gate. The company scurried after, quickly gaining their mounts and weapons and joined their Captain-General.

Slowly, life crept back into Denethor's mind. His head still hurt dreadfully, but his breath was returning. Ciramir had been busy. He had wrapped her in a cloth, while sending searchers to find the head. He hoped with every fiber of his being, that it would be found. He ordered a fire started so that his company's healer, Siriondil, could prepare a draught for Denethor. He sorely needed something. This horror was even beyond the pain of Cranthir's death at the hands of Orcs so many years ago. There were signs of Haradrim. It would not bode well for the folk of the south once Denethor was told.

"Ciramir," the whisper came to him. He looked over and saw Denethor, still kneeling, looking towards him. "Water, please."

"I have something stronger for you, my Lord. Please drink this. Siriondil has prepared it for you."

"What is it?" Denethor asked, shaking his head to clear it. "I must be fully alert. We know not if the beasts who did this are still in the area."

"It is only mead, my Lord. And weak at that. It will give you a measure of strength and replace what you have lost."

Denethor drank it quickly, the sweet taste of it cleaning some of the foulness left in his mouth. As he stood, he swayed and Ciramir quickly held him up. "Dúinhir, your master has need of you," he barked at the man, still on his knees.

Dúinhir quickly rose and stepped closer to Denethor. "My Lord, there is a seat here. Please, for just a moment, until the mead takes effect and strengthens you."

Denethor sat and motioned for his aide to join him. Yes, if he were reinstated to his post, he would need an aide and Dúinhir would suffice. He shook his head. He could think of naught at the moment. He must erase the sight of her. Even that small thought brought nausea and pain with it. He leaned over and retched again. After, all he could do was gasp. His head reeled and he started to fall off the log they were sitting on. Dúinhir grabbed him by the shoulder and held him upright. He pressed his own flask against Denethor's lips. Denethor's eyes steadied and he drank deeply. 'I am useless in this state,' he thought. 'I must gather my wits. We must return to Minas Tirith as quickly as possible. We must gather our armies and find the creatures who have done this.' Again, he closed his eyes, but the nausea passed. He stood and was able to hold himself up. Ciramir approached him.

Ingold met his company, seventy strong, mustered and ready at the Great Gate. As soon as their captain and the Steward joined them, they started out across the Pelennor. Travelers stopped and stared as the Steward's own guard rode by. When they saw the Steward himself in the forefront, tongues wagged and distress flooded the City. Rare were the times the Steward left Minas Tirith in the company of his knights. The pace they set as they vanished from sight only furthered the alarm of the people. Farmers called out to their wives to come and see the spectacle before them as the men passed their farms and rode ever eastward.

They approached the Rammas, passed through the guarded gates, and rushed on towards Osgiliath. An errand-rider had been sent ahead and fresh mounts were ready for them at the old city's garrison. The lieutenant in charge of the remnant of Osgiliath's defenses told Ingold that Amdir's group had passed only a half hour before. Ecthelion was heartened. They were not in so great a hurry. Denethor must not be as sure of himself as Ecthelion had feared. As he stated this to Ingold, the lieutenant interrupted. "My Lord, Captain Húrin took the battalion and followed Denethor into Ithilien. They left more than three hours ago." Ingold stared at Ecthelion. His Steward had been misinformed. Denethor had not taken the Horse Guard. He had not waited for them to muster. The tightness of his Captain-General's jaw, the white sheen of his face, told him they must spur their horses on at an even faster pace. Night had fallen; they must hurry.

The Orcs' howls turned to cries of triumph as they saw the pitiful band of men standing in opposition to them. Though the men were on horses, the Orcs knew they had the advantage of number. And they were not afraid to die. This fact was all too apparent to Amdir as he watched more than three hundred of the enemy pour through the trees. "I should have sent an errand-rider," he swore, but his mind had been on Listöwel and the danger she was in, never mind that she would not hear of their staying behind. He looked wildly towards the middle of their party. His smile was bittersweet. They were there, his beloved and Indis, with swords drawn and heads held high. 'If she can keep her courage, she will survive the first onslaught,' he thought. After that, none of them would probably survive. He clenched his teeth and turned towards the hoard. It would be a swift death and for that he was grateful. His heart swelled for one moment. This would be a different battle than his first one, where he had turned and run. His cheeks flamed at the remembrance, but his heart told him he had ever since been true.

'They do not fight as we did during our practices,' Indis thought in dismay as the first of the Orcs broke through the line of men guarding them. It had almost taken her sword with its blow; she had clung to it desperately. Now, she raised it and swung down hard and was surprised to feel it connect. The Orc howled its shock as it looked at the gash in its arm. It did not stop but for a moment; Indis had to pull her horse back to avoid the swing of its weapon. A split second's thought, then she spurred her horse forward, lashed backwards with her sword, and missed entirely. The motion almost caused her to fall off. She clung to the mane and tried to right herself. As she did, the Orc grabbed the reins and pulled hard on her skirt, trying to pull her off the horse. Just as she started to slide off the saddle, the hand loosened itself. Arciryas had struck the miserable creature on its neck and it slumped to the ground. She had no time to thank him as another of the beasts came at her. Once again she swung her sword and this time it did more damage. The Orc fell to its knees and then face forward. She sat for a moment, stunned. She had actually done it. Her arms started to quiver and tears sprang to her eyes. Dead - she had killed it. She shook her head trying to persuade herself it was necessary. The point was moot though as another came through. 'Will they never stop,' she wondered? Again and again she was attacked and again and again she repulsed the attack until one of the men near her could finish the task, or until she herself had killed the enemy. Her hands were beginning to slip on the sword and she looked down, amazed that it was covered in a black, sticky substance. It took seconds before she realized it was Orc blood. She almost dropped the sword in horror. Her eyes lifted and as they did, she saw Listöwel fall from her own mount. Indis screamed.

Ecthelion's company reached the forest close to the mid night hour. He wondered whether to go by the Harad Road or to go through the forest. It would be safer, given the blackness of the night, to go by way of the road, but his heart misgave him and he felt he should make haste. Therefore, he turned at the path that led into the forest and his men followed. They had been traveling well over two hours since leaving Osgiliath. He would let the horses set their own pace, give them a small rest and then urge them on after a quarter hour.

The sound of battle reached his ears at the same moment that Ingold reined in his own horse. "I will send scouts, Lord Ecthelion," he said. "We cannot go in headlong. We are not many."

"Nay, if it is Denethor, we will still be needed, though his company is many, but if it is Amdir, I fear they will fail if the attackers are substantial. We must press forward." And he spurred his horse into the forest. His men followed. They reached the clearing. The enemy, indeed, were many. And there were few Gondorians left. He screamed his rage and urged his knights forward. Urging, however, was not needed as the knights poured into the clearing, their screams rising above the screams of the dying. His drawn sword meted out his punishment to the enemy for daring to trespass on the land of his fathers.

Denethor looked up at Ciramir. "We ride back to the City. I must report to the Steward. We must mount a full-scale attack. I will not bring us to war. That is the Steward's prerogative. If I am correct, it was men from Harad?"

"Yes, my Lord. All signs point to that. I will prepare the company." Ciramir walked away.

"We have a full battalion with us, five hundred men. Yet, I cannot risk going south with only a battalion. I would we had taken the full regiment." He turned towards Dúinhir. "Take a squad of men with you and ride as fast as you are able to the Steward. Do not tell him what has happened to Morwen..." He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed tightly, and opened them again. "Tell him we have been attacked by Haradrim and that I am returning to make my report. I will not wait till dawn."

"Yes, my Lord," Dúinhir said and strode towards a group of men. They mounted and headed north.

Denethor walked towards the healer. "My head is aching. Would you have something that might help?"

The healer quickly looked through his bags, pulled out a powder and mixed it with the mead, handed it to Denethor and asked him to sit.

"Nay, I have no time for sitting." He met Ciramir as the man was approaching him. Taking his shoulder, he took him away from the company. "Give the men time for a brief rest and then we will be off. There is naught we can do here. Though I would be away from this place as quickly as possible, the horses and the men need rest. After you have finished, please join me. I would discuss what our response might be. I must have a plan to present to the Steward when we return." He turned and walked back to the log. He had to sit; his legs were giving way under him. He must come to terms with what had happened. He could not face his father in this state.

They rested for more than an hour and Denethor was just ready to muster the men when Dúinhir rode madly into the camp. He swiftly looked around, spotted Denethor and galloped towards him. As he jumped from his horse he cried, "My Lord, Orcs are attacking a company of men in the Emyn Arnen!"

"Yes, my Lord. The rest of our squad stayed to fight. They are outnumbered and will fall soon. They are desperate."

Denethor ran to his horse and mounted. The rest of the battalion did the same and soon they were racing northward. Dúinhir was at his side, Ciramir on the other.

"I am sorry, my Lord, but I could not mistake her. She was there in the middle of the attack with our men surrounding her, but they are undermanned. I do not think..." His face turned bright red and he bit his lip.

Denethor spurred his horse on, not heeding the trees as they entered the forest. His mind reeled as they broke through to the clearing where the attack was taking place. So few left standing. He swung his eyes from side to side trying to see Indis, but she was nowhere in sight. A sob broke from his lips, but he drew his sword and charged into the battle. The Orcs tried to overwhelm them, but Denethor's numbers were too great. Denethor glimpsed Ecthelion to the north of the battle and realized his forces had just entered the fray also. The Orcs, beleaguered on two sides, started backing away, hacking at anything that was behind them as they tried to hide among the trees. The men of Gondor would have none of it. They pursued with scowls upon their faces, screams issuing from their mouths. They had seen too much already this night. They would tolerate no more.

"Where is she? I saw her fall; I thought it was here," Indis mumbled words bled through her sobs. She was kneeling in the midst of the carnage, clawing through it, digging into it, but to no avail. Arciryas had reached her by this time and was trying to help her to her feet, but she turned a tear-stained face towards him. "I cannot find her," she wailed.

Arciryas stopped trying to help her up and knelt next to her, pushing away an Orc arm with his knee. "We will find her, my love, we will," he said, shoving another body off the pile. He did not know why the Orcs suddenly retreated; he did not care. She was alive; his eyes were only on her. A hand touched his shoulder and he was stunned to hear Denethor's voice.

"Denethor," he stood and pulled him close in a great hug. "You are why the Orcs ran?"

"I suppose so; my errand-riders came upon your company and called for help. We were only a short distance away. But again, what are you looking for?"

"Listöwel. Indis saw her fall. She thought it was here." He turned again, knelt and pulled more bodies away.

Denethor gave a quick look around. Where was Amdir? Did he know his beloved was here? He thought he spotted him in the distance, sitting holding his head, but he was not sure. There was so much blood.

Denethor knelt next to Indis and helped move the corpses. Too many Gondorians lay dead here, only a few Orcs. Indis did not realize he was kneeling next to her, so great was her single-mindedness. He touched her hand. Still, she did not look. He pulled another body off, just then hearing Indis' anguished cry.

Arciryas and Denethor both stood and pulled the last bodies off the pile. Indis had recognized her friend's cloak hidden from the men's eyes. Gently Arciryas knelt again and looked for a sign of breath. He turned to Indis and said, "She lives." He picked Listöwel up and moved away from the battlefield. Others had started fires, boiled water, and assembled cots in readiness for the wounded. Siriondil was preparing salves, unguents and bandages. As they approached, the healer indicated a cot; Arciryas laid Listöwel on it. Indis hovered behind Arciryas as he tended her friend's wounds. Denethor moved to Indis side and held her close, though she had not eyes nor ears for him. Her whole being was directed to the body on the cot. It did not matter to him. He was content to support her in his arms. 'One sister left to hold,' he thought. He would not lightly let this one go. The tears fell, unbidden and he did naught to hide them. 'Better they fall now, when others are too busy to notice.'

Ecthelion saw Indis and his heart soared. She was well and so was Denethor. Who were they carrying though? Was it Morwen? He strode through the bloodbath and reached Denethor's side. It was not Morwen. Who? He did not recognize her, but knew it must be friend to Indis. He noted the tears in Denethor's eyes and started to rebuke him. But something stayed the words; time for that later.

Denethor jumped, dropped his arms from Indis' shoulders and stepped back. "Fa-" but the word would not be spoken. "My Lord. She is not here." How was he to tell him? "Please, speak with Indis. She has need of you."

Ecthelion reddened. The slight reprimand stung. "Of course I will speak with her." He turned towards his daughter and pulled her away from the cot. Indis' eyes were locked on her friend. Gently, he took her chin and turned her face towards his. "Indis. I have need of you," he said. She blinked twice. "Indis," he said again. "I have need of you."

Finally, she realized who was speaking. She drew in a deep breath. "Father, what may I do for you?"

"I need you to listen to me. A healer tends your friend. She will be well, I am sure. Now, tell me why you are here? What power caused you to leave the City? These are dangerous parts. I would not have you harmed."

"Morwen!" The name escaped her lips in a groan of despair. "It was Morwen, Father. She has gone and I am trying to find her."

Denethor slipped away. He was not ready to speak the unspeakable. He needed to find his friend. Amdir was being brought to the healing area. Denethor nodded to the soldier helping him towards it, took his place, and slowly walked with him.

Amdir looked up. A small smile crept across his face. Weariness and pain struggled across his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Thank you for coming." He tripped and Denethor put a hand under his arm.

"Nay. I must find Listöwel. She was fighting in the middle of the fray and I have lost sight of her."

Denethor's heart twinged. "She is alive, Amdir, but she was injured. I do not know the extent, but Arciryas is with her. He loves her as his own. He will tend her well. I think you should sit for a moment."

"Nay," Amdir shuddered. "I must to her then. She needs me." He tried to quicken his pace, but again faltered.

"Here, lean more upon me and slow your pace. We will reach her more quickly if you rely upon me." And with that, he put all his strength into half carrying, half walking his friend towards the cots.

By the time they reached the healing area, Listöwel was breathing easily. She was not awake, but her color was returning. Amdir fell forward trying to stoop beside her and Denethor quickly caught him, helped him to her side, and knelt next to him, gently holding him up.

Amdir caught her hand in his, stroked it and called her name. After a few moments, her eyelids fluttered and she woke. He placed his hand on her cheek and she looked at him in wonder. "I am alive? I did not think it possible. Indis?"

"I am here, sister-friend. All is well." Indis stepped to her other side, knelt and took her hand. She looked up at Denethor and nodded towards Amdir. The blood was seeping from his wound. He needed to be tended to.

"Amdir," Denethor spoke quietly. "You must come away. You are in need of care. You will not be able to help her if you are dead. Indis will stay by her side."

Amdir turned towards Denethor. His eyes were uncomprehending. 'He needs help and quickly,' Denethor thought. He took his arm and started to lift him, but Amdir balked and moved closer to Listöwel. She looked at him and gasped in dismay. "My husband, you are injured!"

He tried to shake his head, but the pain caused him to reel slightly. "Soldier," Denethor commanded. "You are to come with me." Amdir nodded, tried to stand and both Arciryas and Denethor took his arms and helped him to the cot next to Listöwel's.

Ecthelion's hard hand gripping his shoulder broke Denethor's concentration and he turned in surprise. "My Lord?"

"Where is Morwen?" The fury in his voice made Denethor cringe. He remembered the slight rebuke and realized he would pay for it later.

Father and son moved away and Indis, though she wanted to remain at her friend's side, knew she must force herself into their presence. She had suddenly realized that Denethor was there and yet Morwen was not. Her father scowled at her as she approached them, but she would not let this prevent her from listening.

Denethor would have kept walking, but Ecthelion, impatient and angry pulled him up short. "Speak now!" he commanded.

"Morwen..." he started and then stopped, turned towards Indis and said, "Indis, please sit here next to me." He showed her to an oak limb fallen in their path. She paled, but obeyed. He sat next to her, took her hands in his, and brushed the hair from her eyes. He flinched at the Orc's blood streaking the left side of her face. "Indis, Morwen is dead." She nodded. His heart rose in pride. She was so strong, this sister of his. Her eyes asked further questions. "We found her by Cranthir's tomb." He hung his head. How was he to tell her what state they found Morwen in? What could he say that would soften the blow? He must tell her the truth. It would be found out in the end. "All signs point to an attack by a force of Haradrim. Her head was... severed, as is their custom." She drew back a little, but he held onto her hands. "Siriondil thinks she was not otherwise... interfered with." His heart broke; too many hard things to say. "We did not find her head. I had soldiers looking when Dúinhir spread the alarm of the attack on your company. We will return to the tomb in the morning and search further." He did not tell her they had little hope of finding it. A trophy for them to display. He knew Indis surmised the same. She was no fool. For that, he was grateful and sad. These are things no woman should know.

She moved towards him, hugged him tightly and started to cry soft, gentle tears. Ecthelion's shoulders sagged. He did not know why, but Denethor was surprised at this reaction. Arciryas looked up, saw the trio and knew that the worst had happened. He was torn. He wished to be with his love, but she was with her family. Did he dare intrude? The Steward hated him; of this he was sure. He shook his head. She will need me, he thought. For love of her, he walked forward. Sitting next to her on the log, he touched her shoulder. She took her hand and pulled him closer, never letting go of Denethor. They were bound together. Ecthelion stood alone beside them.

Amdir's wounds were not serious. The head wound had bled profusely, as all head wounds do. The loss of blood had caused his dizziness, but once his wound was bandaged and his stomach filled with herb-enhanced mead, he rejoined his company. Listöwel had been knocked senseless by the fall from her mount, but otherwise was unharmed, with only small cuts and bruises to show for her time in battle. Neither would countenance being sent back to Minas Tirith until the task at hand had been completed. After burying the dead and sending the wounded back to Minas Tirith in carts fetched from Osgiliath, the battalion and its support rode south towards the House of Húrin's burial grounds. Two companies had been sent ahead to continue the grim search. The normal chatter of a marching army was lacking this day. The only sound was the livery of their horses, clanking as they progressed south, for the sound of their hooves was muffled in the soft leaves strewn upon the forest floor.

Neither Ecthelion nor Denethor had spoken to each other. The estrangement was clear to the entire company. Indis rode next to her father with Húrin and Denethor riding behind. Every few moments, Indis would turn and give a gentle smile to Denethor and one to Amdir who rode behind them. Arciryas was in the back of the company in the healer's cart. They were bringing an extra one in case of further attack. Siriondil had gone with the wounded to Osgiliath. He would stay there until the battalion returned and then rejoin his company.

"Father, you must speak with Denethor, if for no other reason than to hearten the men; let them see that all is well with the Steward's house," Indis spoke quietly.

Ecthelion was silent. He had only pain in his heart, feeling bereft and alone. Even with Indis' words spoken so no other could hear, he felt the sting in her remark. Morwen was dead. Indis, though he knew she loved him, was torn between father, brother, and husband. And Denethor. He pulled back his shoulders a little further, lifted his chin, and tried to sort out his thoughts on the man. For man is what Denethor had become while he had been away on the borders of Rohan. His actions these past two days had clearly shown it. All this time Ecthelion had been trying to raise a warrior for Gondor. He remembered the words of the woman at the time of Rían's death. "All for Gondor," she had said. Ecthelion's heart had ever been for Gondor. For her king, when he would return. Yet his own house was in ruins. Turgon had never, in his heart, believed that the king would return. Those were just words said after the Silent Prayer or at the end of meetings. But Ecthelion's heart ached for that return. He was so sure that the king would return. He hoped it would be in his time, or perhaps Denethor's time. The urge to have the kingdom in readiness was a heavy burden that he carried, alone it seemed. Now that Turgon was dead, he was free to do all the things he had planned. He remembered with a start that some of those things had been planned with Denethor the year after Cranthir died. He had forgotten that and their camaraderie during those few fleeting years. He did not remember what had caused the next estrangement. The strain of Turgon's reluctance to do anything, his memory loss, his frailty, and finally his death had been long, gradual, and painful. All the while, Ecthelion had tried to put his plans into action, and all the while, Turgon had fought him bitterly. The Council had agreed with Turgon, and Ecthelion sat as a man chained to the walls of Angband. The price, this day, seemed too high.

He pulled his horse up and waited for Denethor to reach him. "Come, we have much to discuss," he bid him and led him to a clearing. He dismounted and waved Húrin and the company on. A small detachment of his personal guard, along with Ingold, pulled up a short, discreet distance away.

"My Lord," Denethor said. "It is not safe to tarry here with so small a company."

"Yet it is no longer safe to continue as we have done. Much of the fault lies at my door."

Denethor dismounted, surprise and concern on his face. "Of what do you speak, my Lord?"

"My son, we have had our differences. Nay. I have... I do not know how to say this. Things must change. I see your time at Amon Anwar was well spent. You have learned much. I had sent you to learn about yourself, but your time with Walda has taught you many other skills." He smirked at Denethor's amazement. "Did you think I would not know of your time with the Rohirrim? A leader must know all things. You must know all things, Denethor. Naught must catch you by surprise. You must use every tool available, every person available, to govern Gondor. When we return to Minas Tirith, we will have the ceremony of the Passing of the Title." Ecthelion was pleased and startled by the expression of wonder that lit Denethor's face at the mention of the ceremony. "Did you think I would not do this? Did you think I had entirely abandoned you?" His voice broke as he spoke. "You are my son. Along with that, you are Heir to the Stewardship. To whom else would I leave Gondor and her weal until the king comes? Long overdue is the ceremony. We will fulfill the requirements as soon as possible, once we return to the City."

Denethor stood in stunned silence. Never had he heard his father speak this way to him.

"We must be away now. This is a hideous business that we are about. Morwen was much loved by me. To have her perish in this fashion..."

The tears pushed against Denethor's closed eyelids. He could not cry here, not after his father showed this confidence in him, but his heart was bleeding with such pain for dear, sweet 'Wen.

When he opened his eyes, he found Ecthelion already astride his horse and waiting for him. He scrambled to catch up with his father, still wondering what had caused this change, but his heart felt lighter as he exalted that he finally would be named Heir to the Steward.

Three weeks, only three weeks had passed but so much and yet so little had been accomplished. The Council ruled the City, too many of Turgon's captains were still in places of importance, yet Denethor felt hope. Ecthelion and he had been poring over the rosters. Slowly they were moving soldiers and battalions. Those troops loyal to the Council and Turgon were being transferred to garrisons on the outskirts of Gondor. Those who were loyal to the Steward were promoted and given positions in the City. Soon the Council would know who was in command of Gondor and then the Steward and his son would put their plans into place.

Arciryas had been allowed to rejoin his wife in the Tower. They lived now in the upper rooms, where the old nursery had been. Indis even had her own garden. The smile on his sister's face wiped much grief from Denethor. Poor 'Wen, to have her death bring healing to the family.

As the day for the ceremony grew closer, Denethor found himself more and more anxious. This ceremony was the culmination of all he had hoped for since he was six years old. This was the beginning of his life as Heir of the Steward. He was given back his commission as lieutenant as soon as they had returned from Ithilien, but he was no longer with the Horse Guard; he had been transferred to Ecthelion's own company under Ingold. Soon he would become a captain. His head reeled. It was all so long hoped for and all so sudden. There was naught to learn for this ceremony. No words were to be said except those said by his father. And Denethor's one short word of acceptance. He walked the parapet to the edge, to the place where the rock out-thrust and jutted into the open air, which was warm as it lifted the peregrines up towards the mountains. He stood in awe and wonder. Such beauty, such majesty. Even the Ephel Dúath could not dispel the sense of joy and ownership and oneness with this sight before him, this land of his. He sensed someone behind him and he turned. "Father."

"Be ready when the sun sets tonight. We will be walking, once we reach the foothills. Do not wear your armor, perhaps just light mail will do. And bring your sword." That was all Ecthelion had said and then he had turned his back and walked towards the Citadel.

They rode to the southern feet of Mount Mindolluin, just before the lands where Denethor, Thengel and Amdir had fished many long years ago. A small stable was found and the horses were unsaddled, tethered and left with food and drink. Ecthelion unwrapped a small pack, pulled out some meal and water and handed half to Denethor. They ate as the walked. At the base of the mountain, Denethor watched as Ecthelion strode back and forth, mumbling to himself. Finally, he gave a short gasp and motioned for Denethor to follow him. He had found a path that looked as if it had been made in ages long past. They followed the path, which quickly turned into the steep ways of the mountain. Eventually, they came to a high field below the snows that covered the White Mountains' peaks. The sun was just beginning to rise in the east. Denethor saw that the field overlooked the precipice that stood behind Minas Tirith. He gasped as the sun hit the various towers turning them into white pencils and the Citadel shone like a slender spike of pearl. The Vale of Anduin lay before them also, dressed as a garden, and the Mountains of Shadow were veiled in a golden mist.

Denethor pointed in delight, "Look, Rauros, I am sure I can see Rauros beyond the Emyn Muil. Do you see it, Father?" He could hardly contain his excitement. Never had he seen the land laid out before him as it was in the brilliance of this summer morning. "And there, if you follow the river, there is the Pelargir, I am sure, and look, Father, the sea, it must be the sea." He was almost in tears.

Ecthelion smiled. "This is our realm, until the king comes. We must preserve this land, Denethor. I bring you here now, as the kings did of old, to pass on to you the secrets of the realm. It was the custom of the kings, and then of the Stewards after them, to visit this hallow with their heirs. Here is the tomb and memorial of Elendil the Faithful. Isildur said, 'Unless he be an heir of Elendil...' before he went north, never to return."

"I hold in my hand the scroll that contains the 'Tradition of Isildur.' Our forefathers declared the tradition void after Calenardhon was given to the Horsemen of the North. But I am ever hopeful that the Great King will return and therefore, I will keep the tradition." Suddenly, Ecthelion was weeping. "Our line has been disgraced these many years. The kings before us, in truth, had begun to destroy Gondor by their lack of concern, yet our line did naught to stem the tide. Though the Stewards judged it of old that, since Madril had exercised the authority of the king in his absence, we, his heirs have the same rights and duties of the king until he returns. Too many of our line have wasted their time, have abrogated their duties, have looked towards the stars and such for guidance, and Gondor slowly declined. My son," and at this Ecthelion grabbed Denethor's shoulder so hard it hurt, "we must stop this! We must prepare for the return of the king! You and I, Denethor, we will do this together. As we have come together here at the Hallows of Minas Tirith, so shall we come together to rule Gondor until the king returns!" His face shone through the tears and Denethor was taken aback. "Do not think that this reign is ours though, my son. Yes, the blood of Númenor flows through us, even more so through you, but, Denethor, ten thousand years would not suffice to allow one from the Line of Húrin to become king. Our ancestor, Pelendur, rejected the claim of Arvedui, who was related to the Line of Húrin by the blood of Ondoher's daughter, Fíriel. And with that rejection went our own right to the claim, for Pelendur wanted only a prince descended in the male line from Anárion. You know yourself that the Faithful clung to the right of the father to decide for his descendants. Well, our forefather Pelendur rejected his own claim; therefore, we have no claim to the Throne. You must remember that and be faithful to that. It is our fate."

His father sounded almost wild and Denethor wondered at the passion he heard in his voice. Turgon had never talked of the return of the king. None before him had, as far as Denethor remembered from his readings, not for the last thousand years. Yet his father seemed sure that the king would return. So, no Throne for Denethor. A chill ran down his spine as the thought came to him. Well, if that was to be his fate. But no usurper would come and take the Throne, that he promised himself. He would test any claimant thoroughly. But he said naught to Ecthelion.

Ecthelion moved towards a bundle, unnoticed by Denethor until this moment. As it was unwrapped, Denethor saw it contained a sword and a shield and a horn. He sucked in his breath quickly. It was the Horn of Gondor. Sweat started beading upon his forehead and his body fairly shook in anticipation. At last, he was to receive the Horn. Tears sprang to his eyes.

"I have much to tell you of the secrets of Gondor, my son, keys to give you to the Great Library, the vault, the Citadel and its many rooms, the dungeons, the kitchens, all for the Heir of the Steward. You will have a Warden of the Keys, but for the moment, I want you to take them, feel their weight, see the glitter of them in the sun, and know that you are being entrusted with all that is of worth in Gondor. Not only these rooms, my son, but the people also. They will be entrusted to you to guard them, protect them, not as slaves but as free men of Númenor. When you become Steward, you will hand out judgment, gather troops, you will be lord of the fiefs as long as the state of Gondor endures." He looked long and hard at Denethor. "Are you ready for this, my son? Are you ready to give your life to Gondor? All for Gondor?"

Denethor found he had been holding his breath. He let it out slowly and replied, "Yes, my Lord Steward, "I am ready to begin my duties as Heir of the Steward of Gondor."

It struck Denethor, hard. His father's contempt and scorn for Turgon had been laid as a seed in Denethor's heart and it had grown. He saw it now. So he had abandoned the man - the man who had loved him so as a child. He walked slowly to the Houses of Healing - found the bench that he used to sit on as a child - the one he and Turgon would sit on when he was young. Tears would not come. He first had to cleanse his heart of the contempt, the anger, and the frustration that he had come to associate with this man. All he could think of was the sad state that Gondor was in. All of it Ecthelion laid at Turgon's feet. Was this true? Did it matter anymore? Turgon was dead. And so was Morwen. And Denethor was reconciled with his father because of their deaths. It seemed so cruel. Why could they not have lived, as Amdir's family, in love and peace? In the midst of the darkness that enveloped them now, would not peace have been a good thing? Indis came and sat with him. He laid his head on her shoulder, as he used to when a child. "Indis, will we ever have peace?" he asked. "Will we ever look upon the Pelennor and see not the path that the enemy might take, but the farms and villages and fields of our people? Will we ever see 'Wen and Adadhron again?" A sob caught in his throat but he quelled it and held tight to his sister. "I do not know what has come over me. Just last week I could have flown like the peregrine. I thought the ceremony would change things. But it has not."

"Some things never change. Evil seems to be upon us as it has been upon Gondor for many ages, little brother. Look about you with hope - here is the grandeur of Gondor before us. Let the sight of it lighten the load. Do not be troubled by the future. Live today. Know that I will ever be at your side. We are together, you and I, and always will be. I love you dearly,"

"You will, dearest, when you meet the woman whom the Valar have chosen for you."

Denethor guffawed. "Hah! The Valar have naught to do with Gondor anymore. They have abandoned it, and us. Would the servant of one of their own be dwelling in... there," he pointed towards Mordor and she noted his shaking finger. "if the Valar cared? We have been left to fend for ourselves. Oft times, Indis, it seems there is no hope. If the Last Alliance could not contain him, could not stop him, how are we men to do better? I never thought he would return." He shivered and held Indis tighter. She kissed his brow gently and they sat till the sun hid behind the mountain.

Walda had come and the sight of him lifted Denethor's spirits. The trumpets of Minas Tirith had sounded the welcome and Denethor ran to the parapet to see who was coming. The flag of Rohan waved proudly in the breeze as the small troop came to the gate. Denethor used his old boyhood passage to reach the First Level as quickly as he could. Just as Walda walked through the Great Gate, Denethor pounced on him, pummeling his back in joy. "What brings you here, my old Captain?" he cried.

"I have been sent by Thengel King, my Lord. I am on a diplomatic mission." Walda tried to keep a straight face, but the joy of Denethor and his own joy caused a smile to break through his resolve. "I have a missive for the Steward, and one for you. Will you open yours while we walk to the Citadel?"

"Nay, I will wait until my father opens his. It has been too long, Walda, I have missed you and our company." He blushed at saying our company, but Walda understood. And he was grateful that Denethor felt that kinship with the Rohirrim.

"So now he is called your father?" Walda asked in amaze as they walked from level to level. "When last we were together, you did not speak so familiarly of him."

Denethor's face fell. "Much has happened since last we battled together. My grandsire, Turgon, has passed and my sister, too. Haradrim murdered her. Then Thengel was taken from me for the good of Rohan. It has been a long month. Too much has happened. Too much that is cheerless."

"Yes, Walda. Just a month ago. She had been addled by Turgon's death and fled the City. We found her at his grave. The traditional way the Haradrim kill their enemy was used upon her."

Walda was silent for some moments. "What will the Steward do? Does he plan to attack Harad?"

"Much discord has enveloped my City, Walda. His plans have not been communicated yet. There are many stages that must be completed before he will lead an attack. But your coming brings with it the winds of the plains of Rohan and I would breathe them in again."

"And so you shall, my friend, so you shall if your father accepts Thengel King's invitation."

"Now you have me wishing to tear open the missive. But I will wait. Have you eaten? Need you water?"

Ecthelion's emissaries for the new king's ceremony pulled up just east of the mountain. The wind whipped the banners of Rohan and the crackle of them could be heard even this far away. Never had Denethor seen Edoras, though many times Walda had spoken of it. It was a glorious city, much different from Minas Tirith, more rugged, but beautiful. Meduseld's, roof shone in the sunlight as if thatched with gold. Denethor was nigh speechless at the sight. His City shone white in the sun; this one shone of gold. Walda urged the company onward; his urge to be in his city supplanted any need for rest.

"Nay, ten thousand years will not suffice," he mumbled and then spoke louder. "I am of the line of Anárion and Heir of the Steward of Gondor. That is enough for me."

Just as he spoke, Thorongil walked up and stood between them. Denethor looked in amaze. 'How dare he stand between us?' he thought. But the man took no notice and whispered in Thengel's ear. Thengel quickly apologized and left with the man.

'What ill luck is this?' thought Denethor. 'What could be so important as to take Thengel from my side as we were celebrating his kingship?'

Immediately his anger at the slight turned to anger at the man. Who was this Thorongil? From whence had he come? Thengel had said he was from the north. 'Well, folk from the north must have no manners!' He watched the two warriors walk off and his heart was bitter.

"He is a good man," Thengel was saying, but Denethor was still bristling over the slight done to him. "Truly, Denethor, I wish you would befriend him. His battle sense is excellent and the men respect him. Are you...?"

"Forgive me, Thengel. My mind was on other things. You truly like this man? Respect him? Even though you know naught of him?"

"Yes, I do, Denethor. True, he came from the north with no kit, nor letter to establish who he was. He dresses like a vagabond, but he has an air about him. I felt I could trust him from the moment I met him. But, Denethor, you have the gift of foresight. What think you of him?"

"At this very moment, I find I cannot be very impartial, my friend. I feel foolish," he said with a gentle laugh, "but I must speak plainly. I had hoped that we might be able to spend some time together now that the ceremonies are completed. Perhaps we could have gone hunting, Orcs, or boar, it did not matter. But every time we had a moment together where we might be off on an adventure, he stepped in and took you away for some meeting or another. I am jealous. I admit it. And I must needs leave tomorrow. I know not when we will see each other again. We will likely turn to Rohan for aid in the coming battle with the Haradrim. I would see you in happier times before we go to war. But that is not how it will be. As I said, I am jealous and selfish."

"Nay, it is not selfish. Much has happened to both of us these past months. We have had no time to sort out these events nor to share our grief. When Ecthelion sent you away, I could hardly believe or understand it. However, there was no swaying him from his decision. As each year passed, I petitioned him to bring you home. And when he denied those petitions, I begged to be allowed to visit you." Thengel sat on the stone steps and looked out over the plains of Rohan. "I cannot tell you how I despaired for you. When word reached me that you had surreptitiously joined Walda's company, my heart was glad. I had been afraid for you, for your sanity, just sitting there year after year watching for a signal."

Denethor groaned aloud at the thought. "'Twas not a good time - those first two years. I feared for myself." He laughed gently. "I had thought that perhaps you had sent Walda to find me, though now I see that was not so."

"Nay, Denethor, I would not disobey your father, though my heart cried out in pain for you. It was a bitter time for me also. And then, when Fengel died and I was called back to Edoras, my very being rebelled. Denethor, I love Minas Tirith, you know that, and I love Gondor. I would not be here, if my own will prevailed."

"You would have been the next Captain-General," Denethor said quietly. "Gondor already misses you."

"None has been appointed, as of yet." Denethor looked up at the path between the mountains that led to Gondor. Already his heart ached to be back in Minas Tirith. The path seemed to beckon to him and he had all he could do to not jump upon a horse and ride away. "I believe Húrin is the next in line for either position. He is loyal to my father and his ideas."

"He is still in command of my father's personal knights. I do not see my father moving him."

"Nay, not allies. Friends, brothers-in-arms. Forever." Denethor laid his hand upon Thengel's shoulder and smiled.

ROTK - Chapter Five and also - 'The Men Who Would Be Steward' by Michael Martinez... see link

"You will have to take these back with you," Denethor laughed in the joy of the surprise visit, "else the watcher finds them and tells, though they will be sore-missed when you leave." He did not have to tell Walda that the blankets were not what would be sore-missed.

"We will not look to the time of my leaving," Walda said. "We will look to the stars. They are the same as those in Gondor?"

"Yea, verily they are. Though their positions are slightly moved. But look. I have not seen that star before, off to the south of us."

"Nay, I have not either," said Walda, "It is bright - brighter almost than Eärendil."

Denethor sat in silence, wondering of the things that were common to both races of men, and when the rift that sundered Rohan and Gondor had occurred. He thought of Cirion and his Steward, and the act that had sundered and saved Gondor.

"If neither you nor I have seen this star before, perhaps it is some portent for our land?"

How strange that he would remember that conversation. He looked towards the south sky, marking the star again. It shone brightly in the night. 'Why would a new star appear,' he wondered again, 'in the year that the Corsairs allied themselves with the One we do not name, the same year he rebuilt his black city?'

Signs and portents. He shivered slightly and pulled his cloak closer. Ten years had passed since that night; Walda himself had passed, stricken by wound-fever just this past month. Denethor's heart grew heavy again, so he searched once more for the star. Whatever the reason, it gave him hope. He looked up as Amdir approached.

"My Lord, here is some ale. Will you not come by the fire? The men are restless and your presence reassures them."

"Yes, my Lord, you have become a warrior mightier than the great Boromir himself."

Denethor burst into laughter. "Enough of this foolery. I cannot abide your jibes any longer, my friend. Let us to the fire."

Damrod moved over to make room for his captain. "What news from Minas Tirith?" he asked in Sindarin.

"The Rangers under Dúinhir have been deployed to Henneth Annûn, at last. If we had garrisoned them earlier... but they are now ready to harass the Enemy." Denethor responded in the same tongue. Not many knew of the existence of the hidden fortress, but both Amdir and Damrod were there at the finding of it in 2948.

Denethor raised his eyes at a sound. Two of his men, new Easterling recruits, were walking towards him. The taller stepped closer, while the other hung back. "Permission to speak, Captain?"

"Of course," Denethor motioned for the man to sit, but he did not. "What troubles you?"

"Our mission. We have been traveling more than a month, yet our orders were to foregather at Nardol. Will we be returning to the garrison soon? We have seen no sign of Orcs. Perhaps the reports were false."

Denethor's cheeks blazed. The veiled insult to Walda's men hung heavy in the air. "The men of Rohan are our allies. If they have reported Orc movement in this part of Gondor, then know it is true. We search till we find the band or their dead carcasses, fired by the Rohirrim. Their zeal appears greater than our own, if all that is on your mind is returning in safety to Nardol." His voice fairly crackled with suppressed rage. The soldier bowed and hurriedly backed away.

"Was there call for such a response?" Damrod asked as one friend to another. "Conditions have been harsh; this winter is cruel and the men are cold and weary."

Denethor dropped his eyes to the fire. Taking a stick, he stirred the embers until the flame rose high into the air, sparks flying off into the night. "Too many men of Gondor believe that we are better than the men of Rohan. Yet, Walda's blood was the same as mine." He marveled as this thought struck him. Before he had fought in Walda's company those many long years ago, he had thought the same. At that time, he had respect for Thengel alone of all the men of Rohan, but Walda and his company changed that misconception. "If I allow this to continue, it will be as the fire before us. For now, the embers of distrust lie dormant, and I work to quench them entirely. But, if I do not stop this now, the embers will turn to fire and the bonds will be severed. Long have I toiled to hold the allegiance of Rohan, even through the loss of Thengel's friendship. I will not let it go easily." He was silent for a few moments longer.

"It was fate that had us stationed at the garrison of Nardol, else Walda would have passed ere I was able to farewell him. I promised him, before he slept with his ancestors, that I would follow and destroy this band of Orcs. And I will not break my promise, though it take even a year to fulfill!"

"Was it not Walda who pledged his company to Gondor's aid after 'Wen..." Amdir stopped at the stiffening of Denethor's body.

'Yes, it was Walda," Denethor said quietly. "But Orodruin erupted shortly after Thengel was crowned King of Rohan. It seemed all of Middle-earth conspired against us that year. Thengel's chosen, that Thorongil, had even counseled restraint. Restraint!" Denethor threw his cup at the fire. Sparks flew as it hit one of the encircling rocks around the fire and bounced off onto the other side.

Amdir raised an eyebrow, walked over, picked up the offending cup and returned it to Denethor. "Mithrandir also counseled restraint," Amdir said quietly.

Denethor stood up, glared at his friend, and walked towards the perimeter of their camp. Amdir followed him. "You are in a foul mood tonight."

"What would you have of me?" He closed his eyes. "I cannot understand why father gives ear to the wizard's counsel. I feel that I fight three enemies: the One we do not name, Thorongil, and Mithrandir." His left hand clasped and unclasped the hilt of his sword.

Amdir was silent for a moment. "Thengel looks to Thorongil with respect. What is your quarrel with him?"

"I know not. My heart is uneasy whenever I am in his presence. Some premonition."

"I know not, and that is another thorn in my side. Naught is known about him, other than that he comes from the north. Yet he has become Thengel's second!" A heavy sigh escaped him. Thorongil's presence had made it more and more difficult for him to visit his old friend and captain, and their friendship had suffered.

Amdir smiled. Long had it been since Denethor had been in such a mood as this. "The men wonder at their captain's actions. Mayhap if you came back to the fire...?"

It was almost dawn and still sleep eluded him. The snows had come during the night, laying a blanket of white over the sleeping men. Denethor rose to relieve himself, and somehow became separated from the rest of his company. He could see only mere feet in front of him. He turned his head right and left. 'Where are they?' he wondered. He had only gone a few steps, he thought, but the snow had changed the landscape, and he found himself confused. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He quieted himself and listened. There, off to the left, he heard the faint clink of armor. He knew he best find his men. This was going to be a full-blown mountain storm; they must move to the lowlands as quickly as possible. Born in the fire and dark of the mountains, Orcs hated snow. They, too, would quickly retreat to the warmer clime of the foothills. He smiled. They would be easier to track there.

Heading towards the sound, he crept, as silently as full armor would allow him. He cursed the wearing of it now. The frigid air embedded itself into the metal; he was becoming very cold. 'At least I have gloves,' he thought. The sound seemed to be going away from him. Had the men broken camp? That was impossible. Amdir would not leave without him. He quickened his pace. "What..." he cried aloud. Before him stood a man, at least something akin to the shape of a man, but squat and round. He remembered the old tales and stood still. This was not an ally, but mayhap it was not an enemy. The creature had not moved. Denethor himself kept still, then slowly raised his hands, palms outward. The Wose, for Denethor knew that is what it was, grunted, gestured for Denethor to follow him, turned and moved off to higher ground. Denethor stood for a moment, unsure what to do, but the Wose kept moving. Denethor knew he needed to follow, to discover what manner of men these were, and what their plans for Gondor were. The creature could have killed him, when first they met; Denethor knew he had been caught unaware.

They walked for close to an hour, always climbing. Denethor knew Amdir would be deeply concerned, and probably form a search party. The snow, however, was covering any tracks they had made. He was becoming more and more concerned himself. Finally, the Wose pointed to a cave, barely discernable in the trees, and motioned for Denethor to go inside. After a heartbeat's hesitation, Denethor bent low and entered the cave. The warmth of the fire hit him as he unbent himself and stood. For that, he was grateful. For what stood before his eyes, he was alarmed.

Damrod shook Amdir frantically. When finally his eyes opened, Damrod whispered, "Denethor is missing."

Amdir looked at him as one who had lost his wits. "What are you saying? He has nowhere to go. He would not stray from the camp. Mayhap he moved closer to the fire?"

"I have looked. I have looked everywhere and I tell you, he is not in the camp!" Damrod hissed.

Amdir stood, quickly looked around him, and had to accept what Damrod said as true. "I do not understand. Were there signs of a struggle?"

"Nay. His blanket has been moved back as if he had left it willingly, but there is no sign of him."

The camp quickly woke; Amdir sent patrols out in all directions. After an hour, Amdir knew they were in serious trouble. Denethor was nowhere to be found, and there was no sign of him, nor any trail to follow. The snow had covered even the patrol's tracks as they searched.

"What are we to do?" he heard the tall soldier ask. "We should leave, go back to Nardol and get aid."

Amdir strode towards the man, grabbed him and snarled, "I will hear no further discourse from your lips. Do you hear me? And when we return to the garrison, you will hold yourself under house arrest. Now pick up your belongings and join your patrol." He turned towards Damrod. "We will keep our base camp here. A small contingent will keep the fires burning. The rest of us will..." 'Where will we start,' he wondered. 'Should we go in all directions or just concentrate on one area?' They were only one company, seventy men. 'How do I best use them?' Damrod waited.

"We will break into seven patrols," Amdir continued. "Each patrol will walk forward, towards the summit, for one hour. At the end of that time, the outer two companies will turn east and west. The other three will continue northward." He turned towards his trumpeter. "You will sound the call once every hour. Damrod, you will command those left here."

"Nay, Amdir, I wilt not stay," he said in Sindarin. "Please, put someone else in charge. I would be about the search."

Amdir looked into his friend's eyes. "I have almost no hope that we wilt find him. The storm rages. After three hours, I would have you take a unit and return to Nardol, as quickly as possible, and bring the entire garrison, less one company. Once you return, you must start the search from the base of the mountain, whilst we continue on upward."

Damrod shook. "I understand. I am sorry. I wilt do as you command."

Amdir turned, assigned those to lead each patrol, and started off northward. The cold was seeping into his very being, but he was unsure if it was the cold of the snow or the cold of fear.

Thorongil walked towards the throne, the last rays of the sun catching in the windows high above, sifting through the banners hanging low, and leaving strange streaks on the floor. Thengel's face lit up when he perceived him, standing silently, waiting for his king.

"Come, Thorongil, we are going to feast tonight. Théoden has had a fine day of sword practice, and I have promised him we would celebrate." He stopped as Thorongil kept silent. His tone hardened. "What is it? What news bring you?"

"Thengel King. A messenger has come from Halifirien. There has been an ambush and Walda is dead along with many of his men. Men from Gondor, under Captain Denethor, came to the company's aid, but too late."

Thengel stood. "This is old news given nigh unto a fortnight ago. Have I not sent forth Éomund's éored to search for and kill their attackers?" He stopped. Thorongil was unusually quiet. "What further news?"

Thorongil took a deep breath. "Denethor is missing. It is nigh unto three days since last he was seen. They have searched the Drúadan Forest, but to no avail."

Bewilderment clouded Thengel's eyes for a moment. He sat hard in his chair. "What has Ecthelion done? Has he sent his knights?"

"I have heard naught but that the garrisons at Amon Dîn and Nardol have been emptied to help in the search."

"Ready my horse, and yours too. We ride in one hour." Thengel almost ran from the room. Thorongil attempted to stay him, but the king had left the room before a word had left his second's mouth.

Morwen pulled his heavy cloak from the cupboard, shook it and held it out for him. "I would away with thee, my King, if not for this."She stroked her full belly.

"I know thou wouldst, my beloved. Even if thou wert not with child, I wouldst not allow thee on this venture. The Orcs must be fierce and strong to have killed Walda and so many of his éored. His prowess as leader is legend. He will be sorely missed."

"Yet," she pointed out, "I have proven useful in skirmishes in the foothills to the south of Edoras."

He strode towards her, took the cloak from her outstretched hands, and put it on their bed. Then, he took her in his arms. "They do not call thee Steelsheen for naught, my love. Thou art a true shieldmaiden of Rohan, though, thankfully, thou hast not vowed thyself from our bower."

She leaned into his chest and sighed. "I seem to do the opposite," she said and gave a small laugh.

He hugged her tighter. "Thou fillest the Golden Hall with the laughter of our children. What more could King ask for? Warriors and Shieldmaidens for Rohan, and comfort for our old age."

She tried to push herself away in anger, but he held her ever closer. "So that is what I have become," she mocked, "a begetter of warriors?"

He clucked his tongue, kissed her brow, and wept openly. "Nay, my beloved. Thou art my very life."

Nonplussed, she folded into his body. "Forgive me, my King. Verily, thou art my life. I wilt not tell thee to take care, for I know thy wisdom in matters of battle. Remember thou that wisdom, when it is needed, and come back to me."

Struggling to quell the fear that assailed him, Amdir strode towards the fire. Damrod stood. "There has been no word?"

"Nay, my Lord. Naught. The men from Amon Dîn arrived last night, and have begun searching the lower foothills. Here is the map that Denethor made five years ago. I have marked where each company is searching."

Amdir stared. The forest and mountain were so large; they would need more than three times the men they had now if they were ever going to find Denethor. "The band of Orcs was found?"

Damrod stopped. He hung his head, biting his lip. He knew what Amdir was feeling; a part of him felt it too. Long had he served Denethor. Long had they been friends, but not for as long as the man who stood before him.

Amdir strode from his side, shaking his head as he walked. A moment later, he returned. "I am heartily sorry, Damrod."

"Nay, my..." He wanted to kick himself. "Amdir, we will find him. There was no sign of struggle. The Orcs were found, killed by the Rohirrim, but he was not among them. Some magic, perhaps, that we have not considered."

Amdir looked up at that. He remembered Denethor's brushes with the wizard. A shudder ran through his body. "You speak true. Denethor is brave and battle wise. He will know how to take care of himself. There is something else here that we are not considering. Let us take a moment and think of the legends and tales that have come out of this place." He wished mightily that he had spent more time with Denethor in the Great Library.

Both men sat by the fire. Amdir fingered the braid that outlined the tree of Gondor on his tunic, while Damrod poked the fire with a stick. "This is hopeless," Amdir suddenly cried. "I know naught of this place."

"Amdir," Damrod said, "mayhap one of the men stationed at Eilenach knows something of the tales. After all, there is a small garrison at the summit. I can send for their commanding officer and we can question him?"

"Amlach, Captain of Eilenach, at your service, Lieutenant." The man saluted in the Gondorian manner, then stood silent, waiting.

"There are tales told about many places in Gondor, Amlach. I need you to think. Have you heard any tales or legends of the Drúadan Forest? Of this area that we search?"

"Yes, my Lord. There have been tales of strange men, rushing from the trees, attacking any who would stand in their way. Yet, I have heard no tales of them harming men of Gondor. They are said to use arrows tipped with poison, that they hate Orcs, that they are half-naked, and that they wear only grass skirts. These are only tales, though. I myself, nor none of my men, have ever seen one. We stay to the outskirts of the Wood, high above the tree line though, and venture not far into it, unless following Orcs."

"Then where do you patrol?" Amdir snapped. "Never mind. We will discuss that later. So, do these men, these creatures, have a name?"

"That does not bode well for Denethor, if he has become entangled with Wild Men," Amdir stated dryly. "Thank you." He gestured and the captain left him. Clearly, Amdir was in charge of this undertaking.

Damrod stood. "Let us assume these Wild Men have Denethor. They must leave some sort of trail as they pass through the forest. The snow stopped falling this morning. If our men begin the search again, starting from here and fanning out, we must come upon some sign."

"We need more men." And as he spoke these words, men on horseback broke through the forest into their camp. "Thengel!" Amdir cried. "You have come. How did you know? Are you prepared to search?"

"You have been missed, my friend." Amdir said, and then, remembering whom he was addressing, stopped. "I am sorry. I o'erstepped my bounds."

"Nay, Amdir, you under stepped by not sending for me immediately. Has there been further news?"

"How many...?" he could not answer Thengel's question, for his entire being strove, yet feared, to hear the answer to his own question.

"Two hundred strong; three éoreds and then some," Thengel said. "Show me what you have done thus far." The king gently took command and Amdir gratefully relinquished it. Two heads bent over the map table, looking at the large scrawl that was Denethor's - one fair-haired, the other raven.

"After all this is over," Thengel finally stood straight, "we should go fishing."

Amdir stretched and smiled. It was the first upon his face in six days. "It is good to be with you again. Your plan is sound."

Thorongil stepped forward in response to Thengel's gesture. "Here is where you will lead the éored," Thengel pointed to the map. Thorongil bowed and turned away. Soon, the sound of horses' hooves was heard as the éored moved away.

She was pacing back and forth in front of the Steward's Chair, clasping and unclasping the hilt of her sword in much the same way her brother did. She had strapped her sword to her side as soon as the messenger came to her study, his face vividly telling her something was seriously wrong. 'Did Ecthelion think that he and Denethor were the only ones in the family with any foresight?' She thought as she stomped to the Great Hall.

"What do you mean, he is missing? How do you misplace a Captain of Gondor?" Indis spat the words. Her father sat back, bitten by her anger. "Do you think I will countenance one more member of this family being harmed in any way? What have you done, then?" she asked. "How many battalions have you sent?"

Ecthelion stepped out of his Chair and put his arm around her shoulder. She wanted to swipe it away, her fear and anger were so great, yet she stilled herself and permitted it.

"By the time I sent my knights, I believed he would have been found. You know your brother; he is resourceful. He will return shortly."

She pulled herself away, stunned beyond words. He saw the look in her eyes. Perhaps he had erred; perhaps he should have sent a company or two of his own guard.

It had been at least two days since he had seen or heard anyone, three since he had eaten anything. He had naught to reckon the time with; his prison was as black as the sewers of Osgiliath when the night sky was bereft of moon or stars. Yet, his training had taught him ways to mark time. He laughed to himself. 'It is the grumbling of my stomach that keeps time!' The smile quickly faded. How long would he be held? Did they have any intention of releasing him? What were their plans for him?

When he entered the cave, he was greeted by the sight of at least one hundred of these dark, foreboding men staring at him, scowls on their faces. They were short, hairy men, all looking strangely the same, with wispy whiskers sticking out of their chins, and wearing only grass skirts, even in the dead of winter. He had tried to stand up straight, but his head had bumped itself on the low ceiling well before he was halfway standing. Low for him, but not for the Wose. Most of them moved aside as he entered, and his gaze was drawn towards a chair at the far end of the cave. Upon it sat a most gruesome looking old Wose. No crown nor device of any kind did he wear, yet Denethor knew this was their leader.

He took a deep breath and walked forward. Some of the creatures started towards him, and he realized that he had his hand on the hilt of his sword. He had been unconsciously clasping and unclasping it. He let it go and slowly raised his hands, palms opened. He wished sincerely he could let go the fear that coursed through his veins. There had been no tales of Wose attacks upon Gondorians, but their demeanor was far from friendly. The Rohirrim, in ages past, had oft hunted these creatures.

As he approached the chair, a slight stir arose and he slowed his gait. He stopped about five meters from the Wose, bowed his head and placed his hand to his chest. The Wose just growled and gestured to two creatures standing next to him. They strode forward and started to take his sword. Before he thought, he had unsheathed it from its scabbard and assumed his battle stance, the sword held comfortably in his hand. The creatures stepped back, picked up bows, and began to arm themselves. 'This will not do,' Denethor thought, 'the arrows are no doubt poisoned. I will be dead before I am able to take any with me.' He stood up as far as he was able, turned the hilt away from himself, and offered it to the head Wose. The sword was quickly taken by one of the creatures; he was further searched, but since he had been taken directly from sleep, he had nothing further with him. Thankfully, he had his cloak. Two others grabbed his arms and forced him to the back of the cave. A stone was moved; he was pushed into a little alcove. The stone was rolled back and that was the last he saw of the light of day.

He walked the perimeter of the alcove hundreds of times since being deposited there, and combed every corner, hoping to find some means of escape. There was none but through the stone-covered entranceway. He attempted to move the stone, but it would not budge.

He heard a noise, stone scraping against stone, and moved away from the entrance. In the faint light, he saw the stone rolled away, a bowl and a cup set down, and the stone rolled back again.

'Wonderful,' he thought grimly as he picked up the bowl and felt twigs and shrubbery in it along with a few berries, 'just like at Amon Anwar. The best of food.' He devoured it quickly and found that the cup held clean, clear mountain water. He wished for more. He also wished his silent keeper had taken the chamber pot. The smell was becoming almost too much to bear.

She chided herself for letting her temper get the best of her. She could not imagine that he would not have sent a rescue party. She stormed the balcony of her bedchambers, yelling her anger into the wind. At last, she sat on the cold stone floor and sobbed. This is how Listöwel found her. She gently helped her to stand, walked her to an overstuffed chair, and forced her to sit upon it. Quietly, she fixed tea at the fireplace and brought it to her friend. She sat at her feet, waiting for Indis to speak.

"I cannot keep from shivering. Thank you for the tea; it was much needed." She sat back in the chair and sighed. "My father is a mystery to me, has always been so. Every time I think that we are becoming closer, that I finally understand his ways, he does something that is beyond my comprehension. Did he not consider that Amdir would not have sent the message asking for help, if help was not indeed necessary?"

"I do not even know. I... I left the Great Hall before I did or said something I would regret."

"I will go to Elleth. She will discover from Ingold what plans are being made, if any. And, if none are contemplated, we will very much use all our powers of persuasion to make sure he speaks with the Steward. Even if help is sent too late... I am sorry. That is not what I meant to say. Even if help is not needed, because they have found Denethor, it is help not wasted."

Tears again sprang to Indis' eyes. "Too late. Always, for the Steward's family, help seems to come too late. My poor beloved 'Wen." Sobs shook her body again and Listöwel rose to hug her.

"Be at peace, my dearest friend. 'Wen is now. Ever was she in pain here. There had been no peace for her after your mother's death. Her timid, gentle nature was not for this place. She is in a better place, I am sure. And happy, I hope."

"Yes, she is happy, I am sure. All I want for our family is happiness and peace. Is that too much to ask of the Valar, sister-friend?"

"Nay, it is not too much and it will one day come to pass. There will be happiness in the House of the Stewards."

Indis drew in her breath. 'The House of the Stewards.' What had Listöwel said? Was this foresight? Nay, she could not think that. The House of the Stewards was the burial ground for her family. There was no happiness there. Only cold and dark and bitter visits. She shivered.

Listöwel's eyes opened wide, seeing the shiver. She realized that her words of comfort were far from comforting. "Absenen, forgive me, dearest sister. I misspoke again. I do not know why my tongue betrays me."

"Tracks have been found further up the mountain, my King. I have sent one entire éored in that direction. They are not the tracks of men of Gondor, nor of men of Rohan."

Thengel looked up at his second. The sun caught his eye. Only the outline of Thorongil was visible through its strong light. He caught his breath. They could be twins! His mind reeled. 'There is something here. There is something strange about this man and the Steward's son.'

Thengel blinked, looked away, and when he looked back, Thorongil had moved slightly, the sun was no longer directly behind him, and Thorongil was fully visible. Still, the likeness remained, but not so apparent. "Place three éoreds in that area. Have them search every nook and cranny. It is now seven days. I want him found!" His voice cracked from the force behind it. He took a cup, filled it with wine, and handed it to Thorongil. "I love the man as if he were my brother. I will not see harm come to him. Do you understand, Thorongil?"

"Yes, my King. He will be found before night comes again, if I have any say in the matter." His face was now grim and reflected the concern of his king. "By your leave?"

"Go." Thengel turned towards the maps and held his breath. 'It is too long. I cannot begin to think where he might be or what has happened to him. How he could have been taken so easily?'

"Yes. Thorongil's company found tracks near the beacon. Three éoreds have been sent hither. We will find him. Thorongil is the best tracker I have ever seen. He puts my men to shame. He has vowed to me that he will find him before night falls. And I trust his word."

"Then I will trust it too, my Captain," Amdir said with a smile, using Thengel's old title. "Ever, when you commanded the Horse Guard in Minas Tirith, your trust was most difficult to attain. But once attained, it was never lost. I will trust the one you have put your trust in."

Thengel smiled. "I will tell you this, Amdir. Thorongil is an enigma. I know naught of his background, nor of his people, yet he is my trusted right hand. I... I know Denethor is not happy with this, but I must put my people's security above my heart's own wants. Denethor must learn this, too. Someday, he will have to put his trust in another. I had hoped it would be sooner, but he is stubborn and proud. I know he trusts you and that he trusts me, but not wholly. And that is what is needed. Else he will fail. It would be a disaster if he fell, for all of Middle-earth, for there is greatness in him, my friend."

"I wish the same for him. He turns to me now only in the most desperate of times. In years past, it was difficult for him to reveal his thoughts; now it is nigh unto impossible. It grieves me, Thengel." Amdir had slipped into the speech of friends. "Do you remember our fishing trip? Life was sweet then. I believe we should have made that a yearly occurrence. It might have helped Denethor to be open and frank with his friends. He had been at that time. Now... I miss our camaraderie, our friendship. We have been stationed apart too many times; he has no other that he leans upon. And because of the times of separation, he no longer leans upon me."

"Ah. So you think it is not just Thorongil's presence that causes our friendship to wane?"

"It is his years with no friend at his side, with his father's constant manipulations, with his sister's death, with the constant questioning of his own worth that taunts him with his every decision. I would that Ecthelion had kept me ever at his side. I know not where his path takes him."

Thengel sat heavily in his chair by the fire. His face looked haunted and old. "There are many paths that may be taken by each of us, Amdir. Many do not look wise, in hindsight. Would that I had never left Minas Tirith. The strength and safety of Rohan depends much upon our brethren in Gondor, and I would that I was still part of that strength. We fight only skirmishes in the Mark; the real war is in Gondor."

Six days now and no contact, no inkling as to what his fate would be. The twice a day feeding times were the only exchange he had with his captors, and yet, even at those times the stone was not rolled far enough back for more than a shaft of light to filter through. No word was spoken to him, though he cried out time and again, trying Sindarin, the Common Tongue, and Rohirric. He did not even know what tongue would be spoken should they deign to reply to him. The stone cup and bowl were shoved forward; his empty one was taken; his calls were ignored, and the chamber pot remained. The darkness, cold, wet, and stench were almost too much to bear, yet bear much under Ecthelion's parenting he had already done. He would endure this, somehow. Surely, they would soon come for him; they had not captured him for naught. He availed himself of every device he could think of to keep hope in his heart, but it was fading fast as his strength faded. The food he was given was palatable, but it was now doing strange things to his body. Contractions of pain welled across his stomach and abdomen, and his body reacted in kind.

Then, suddenly, as if the Valar finally heard, the stone rolled back at a time that was not the customary feeding time. He tried to stand, but the sickness that had begun to assail his body two days past, left him weak. He clung to the wall and pulled himself up. He wiped his mouth from the last bout just passed, shivered and waited. The light blinded him as the stone was pushed fully away. He waited.

"Thengel King," a man shouted. "Thorongil comes and he brings something with him."

At that, Thorongil pushed through the crowd of men gawking at his prisoner. Standing before his king, he shoved the hobbled creature to the ground. "We found this holding this." And there before him, in Thorongil's hand, unmistakably, was Denethor's sword. Thengel's face fell and Amdir took a step forward, bent on wreaking havoc on the prisoner to drive an explanation from it. Thengel put his arm across his friend's chest and stopped Amdir's forward progress. 'So this is a Wild Man,' Thengel thought. A shiver ran down his spine as he thought of the tales of their lightening-like strikes, the poison that could fell a man almost the moment the arrow pierced him, of children being stolen for food. These could not be true tales. Old men, sitting around fires on the cold winter nights that assailed Edoras, told them. They could not be true. And yet, here stood one before him, come out of legends, in the same likeness as the stone carved ones by the Hold of Dunharrow.

He sat in his chair and beckoned the creature forward, but it shook its head and would not come. Fear played on its face and in its eyes; yet a glee seemed to shine in those same eyes. The creature knew! It knew they were looking for Denethor, and it knew it was safe as long as it kept his whereabouts secret. 'How am I to get this one to speak, to tell us where the sword came from? I had not heard they were cunning, yet this one is.'

Thorongil grabbed the creature by the arm and brought him closer to Thengel. "Speak, if you value your life," he growled at him. The thing looked up and smiled. Amdir, enraged by the insolence of this being, stepped forward and would not be held back, his knife flashing out quickly, finding its way to the creature's throat. "If you do not tell me," he snarled in the Common Tongue, "I will cut off your ear. And then, I will cut off the other, and then another part of your miserable body, until you have told us what we want to know, or until you are dead. It matters not to me." The thing whined, if that is what one could call the sound, and looked towards Thengel, but Thengel turned away.

They brought him out into the light of the cave, one holding either side for he could not, in truth, stand himself. They crossed to another opening close by his prison, and dragged him to an underground stream. He was thrown into it and immediately his armor and mail pulled him down. He quickly sank. Blinded as he was by the sudden light, he had not seen the stream and had not the time to take a breath as water rushed into his lungs. 'I am going to die,' he thought, struggling to break the surface. The icy cold of the water, coupled with his weakened state, worked against him, and he sank further. Gratefully, he felt a hand grab his collar and pull him up. He was thrown onto the bank and lay there, coughing, till his sides hurt. A hand tried to pull him up and force him to stand, but his knees buckled and his head lolled to the side. Once more, another came and grabbed his other arm and the two dragged him towards the main cavern. His head was filled with shooting pain from the cold; his sides ached from the coughing fit; and his stomach was taut from the cramps and the last two days' retching, while his gut was on fire.

'I was kidnapped!' he wanted to shout, but instead whispered, for he had no strength or voice left, "You requested my presence."

"No. Tall men come to my land. We no ask you to come. Why you come?" His tone was growing harsher, and the guttural voice was becoming more difficult to comprehend.

Denethor shook his head, trying to discern which way this questioning was going, trying to make sense of it, and trying desperately not to fall into a trap. But every sinew of his body ached and he could not think. He tried to shake his head again, but his ears started ringing, and cold sweat poured down his face. Shivering, he continued to try to respond, but at last, darkness came.

"We will leave tonight," Indis whispered. "After the Great Gate is closed. I have friends among the Rangers stationed in the garrison on the First Level. I have arranged for them to open the gate, give us horses, and then we will be off. We will go to Amon Dîn and find out what is happening. Denethor's men will know and will tell me. I will stay here no longer, bereft of any hope of helping my brother."

"You speak rashly," Listöwel moaned. "Ecthelion will never let us go. And even if we find our way to the garrison, his men are all gone from there, involved in the search no doubt."

Indis interrupted her. "Of course he will not let us go! Why do you think I am speaking of leaving at night? As for Denethor's men - they will not abandon the garrison completely. Someone will be there and Amdir will have communicated more to them than he would to father."

"Indis. Ecthelion will send help. He must. Denethor is his son. This is folly on our part. We have never been on a sortie at night alone. What fey mood has come over you that you would even consider this?"

"The fey mood is my father's making. I know him too well in this respect. He will not let us go; he will not send help to Amdir, thinking that Amdir will be able to rescue Denethor. But the forest is wide, and Amdir does not have enough men, and my brother will die!" She pushed more clothes into the satchel and whirled around to face Listöwel, tears streaking down her cheeks. "You do not have to come with me. I know the dangers are great. If there was any other I could trust, I would go to them, but there is no one who will dare to go against Ecthelion's orders. Even though those orders be wrong." She looked Listöwel full in the face. "You and I, dear sister-friend, we have been trained well. We have even been through battle. We can care for ourselves. We will be heading north. The area from here to Amon Dîn is protected. We will stay the night at the North Gate and then, as soon as daylight comes, we will be off to the garrison. We will be safe."

"Nay, however much I would value having her and her sword at our side, she would tell Ingold, and we would be imprisoned in our own rooms. You know Ecthelion would do this. Therefore, dear sister-friend, it is up to you and me." She belted her scabbard across her hips, thrust the newly sharpened sword into its place, and tied her cloak around her neck, pulling the hood up close around her face. Listöwel did the same. They then quietly walked down the seven levels of Minas Tirith.

By the time they reached the First Level, Listöwel was hoping that her friend had changed her mind. Given time to think of what she was about, surely she must realize it was a fool's errand. But when the man from the garrison stepped out of the shadows with two horses, Listöwel knew they were lost. She could not let her friend go alone, no matter the dangers.

They passed through the Great Gate with no questions even asked, and turned their horses towards the North Gate. Immediately, the wind grabbed their cloaks and they had to quickly pull them close around them. The cold was intense.

Amdir's hand slipped at the word that Denethor was dead and blood flowed from the slight cut in the creature's neck. Thorongil stepped in, quickly putting a piece of cloth to the wound to staunch the flow. The creature fell, cowering before him.

"Cave. We keep in cave. You no find. Hidden." The eyes gleamed with fear. "I take you to cave," he said suddenly and the company flew into action.

Horses were brought, weapons were strapped on, and excitement and hope finally filled the men. Thorongil brought Thengel's steed and helped him mount. "It may be a trap, my King."

The Wose led the company upward towards the summit. In less than an hour, they found themselves standing at the tree line, near the beacon of Eilenach, in front of a well-hidden cave. "I passed this way myself at least five times," Thorongil muttered, "and not once did I see it."

Amdir held his breath. Was this a trap? Was Denethor, in fact, dead and being used as bait?

He woke to the stench and retched again. After he was finished, he rolled over, trying to pull his cloak closer about him. He found his clothes had dried upon him, and his armor had been removed. He wondered what day it was, how long he had been unconscious.

The stone rolled away and the two who had come for him the last time strode into the alcove. Denethor tried to back away, but his legs would not do as he told them to. A Wose each grabbed an arm and pulled him up. Placing their hands under his arms, they again dragged him forward.

Denethor shook, envisioning another dunk in the icy waters of the underground stream. "Please," he struggled to speak, "let me speak with your leader." They only grunted and continued to drag him forward.

But they did not turn towards the part of the cave that held the stream; they dragged him towards the main cavern. He found himself in front of the head Wose. The two let go his arms and he fell forward.

"Gorgûn. Yes! You kill Gorgûn who kill Horse-riders? Horse-riders kill Wild Men!"

"Gorgûn?" he repeated, not comprehending what the word meant. 'What could be gorgûn?' he wondered. 'Orcs! He must be speaking of Orcs.' He lifted his head, trying once again to shake the lethargy that crippled him. "Yes, Orcs, we have come to kill Orcs."

"Then - you stay, you kill Gorgûn! After - you leave mountain. Leave to Wild Men. Yes?"

Denethor reeled at this statement. What was this creature saying to him? Why the change? He looked around and saw the cave was empty. Only the two men and their chief were left. Where had all the others gone?

Shouts were heard at the entrance to the cave. The Wose disappeared, running into hidden alcoves. Denethor fell forward as his guards deserted him. Blackness once again enveloped him as his head hit the cave's floor.

They had ridden only an hour, the winter storm long over and the full moon, thankfully, lighting their way, when they heard the sound of hooves behind them. They looked at each other in panic, thinking Ecthelion had found them out and sent riders after them. Indis reined in her horse. She listened intently. There was the sound of only one horse. They were not discovered; she breathed a sigh of relief. 'But who could it be?' she wondered, 'Mayhap an errand-rider with news.' She strained her neck, trying desperately to see. Nay, it could not be. The rider was behind them.

Listöwel pulled her horse closer to Indis' and her friend whispered, "Who do you think it is?"

A familiar voice rang out, "Indis, Indis are you near?" She almost cried. 'Arciryas! The dear sweet man, and him not even liking to ride. Here he comes alone and in the dark.' Her heart swelled as the thought came to her.

"Here, Arciryas, we are here," she cried and soon saw him approaching them. She did not want to hear the tongue-lashing he might be preparing to give her, but her love for him overcame any trepidation she felt.

"It would be better, my love, if you had asked me to come with you," he stated flatly as he pulled his horse next to hers.

She saw the hurt in his eyes. "Would you have let me do what I must if I had told you?"

"You would stop me even now?" she asked as her heart sank. She did not want to quarrel with him, not now with Denethor missing, but she would not return to the City.

"Nay," he sighed. "I will join you, as I joined my life to you. I do not condone this action, my love, but if you feel it is what you must do, then I must follow. May I ask what your plans are?"

"We are going to Forannest. We had hoped to camp just beyond the North Gate until sunrise, and then reach Amon Dîn by midday. However, it is taking longer in the dark than I had surmised. We have at least another hour's ride before reaching Forannest."

"Then we should be on our way," he stated flatly. Suddenly, he leaned over and kissed her. "I am glad I was able to find you," he said through unforeseen tears. "Do you think you are the only one who fears the fates that come to the Steward's family? Am I not now part of that family?"

Impulsively, she dismounted and flung herself towards him. He slid from his own horse and held her in his arms. Neither would let go for many long moments.

The waves slapped furiously at the rocks, trying to escape those coming up from behind, and then they fell back upon themselves. The sound barely reached his ears, high as he was on the cliff top. Yet, still he strained, trying to hear them. He wanted to hear anything but the thoughts in his mind. She was beautiful. He drew in his breath as he thought of her again. 'Stop this!' he told himself angrily. 'She is but a child.' So he strained again to hear the sea and the gulls and anything that would take his mind off her.

"Lord Denethor," she called and he cursed himself for not finding a better hiding place. He turned, despite himself.

"Lord Denethor, Ada would like you to come to his study." She paused for a moment when he did not rise. "Shall I wait for you?" She smiled and his heart tightened.

That sweet smile almost undid him. He drew in another long breath, and turned away from her. "Nay, you go ahead. I will be there in a moment." He knew he was being rude, but he dared not come near her, not when they were alone in this desolate place. 'Why would her father let her come this far to find him? Why would he send her?' The thoughts attacked every fiber of his body. He did not dare ask her. 'Did she come of her own volition?'

"As you wish," she sighed and turned to go. He heard the sigh, and wanted to take her in his arms and kiss it away, but he could not. He was Steward of Gondor and she was Princess of Dol Amroth. And - this was the telling point - she was only ten years old. His face burned with shame. The waves came up and covered his face in a cool spray.

'Nay, it is not the waves. Where am I?' His eyes opened and he looked into the eyes of his enemy.

"Do not speak, my friend," the gentle voice said as he felt his face being laved. "You are weak and need to use all your strength for healing. Know that Thengel King has rescued you. You are in his own tent, and I have been caring for you." The man smiled. "He says I have some talent with healing."

Pulling in a breath, which caused a flurry of coughing, he looked away from the kind face. Another type of shame enveloped him. He closed his eyes and felt the cool cloth on his forehead. 'Why do I think him my enemy?'

"Would you like some water? You have lost much weight in the short time you were captured. I am afraid we found the food was poisoned. It is good we discovered you when we did, though I do not believe it was poisoned to kill, but to weaken, to keep you biddable."

The prattle continued, but this last piece of news startled him. "'Twas only twigs and berr..." he started, and then realized how easy he had been to overcome. Cheeks blazed again.

"You were already weak, my Lord, when they gave you the food. Your mind was clouded. You had not the strength to discern wisely."

"My Lord, save your strength. Do not speak. All is well now. You must get your strength back. We were afraid we had lost you."

His eyes closed and dreams began again, dreams of the child running through the waves, sable curls flying in the wind, gulls soaring about her as she held up pieces of cake. Naught seemed to frighten or dismay her. Her nana called to her to come back, but she continued running. The woman turned to him for help.

Absinen - forgive me
Na lerya - let it go
Gwathel - sister (sworn)
Va mahta - I will not fight

"The Wild Men have a just complaint, my King," he heard the voice saying. "In times past, the Rohirrim have hunted and killed them. I do not believe they tried to kill Denethor, just question him. To their mind's eye, we were trespassing."

At this, he tried to pull himself up. "This land belongs to Gondor," he snorted, his eyes wild.

"Yes, my Lord, of course it does, but the Pukel-men have lived here for ages before your people stepped foot on this land. They feel it is theirs."

"Do not try to coddle me, to placate me. I see through your words. No matter what they feel, this land is not theirs. We will teach them whose lands these are!" Denethor shouted, then fell back upon his cot, coughing violently.

Thorongil stepped closer, bent and touched his forehead. He looked towards Thengel King. "Fever," he whispered. "I was hoping he would be spared. The poison and the dunking in the icy mountain stream have weakened his body. He must be taken to the Houses of Healing, and quickly."

"Thengel," Amdir spoke for the first time, "you should return to Edoras. My men will take Denethor home. There is no need for your full compliment. The Orcs have been killed, the Wild Men run off; they will not bother us further, and so great a company as yours will only slow us down."

Thorongil raised him slightly and held a cup to his lips. "Drink this, my Lord. It will help you think." The eyes that looked back at him were suddenly clear and Thorongil started, respect growing in his own eyes. "It will help you think clearer when you have awakened," he corrected himself.

Denethor smiled, acknowledging the respect shown, drank, and slept almost immediately.

"I would ask a great favor of you, Thorongil." Thengel took his arm and led him out of the tent. "Amdir is right. This great a company would move too slowly. And my councilors would rail if I attempted to go ahead alone. Though my heart will be with my friend, I deem it prudent that I return to Edoras. The favor I would ask... Would you go with Denethor, care for him until he is received into the Houses of Healing? My heart would be much at ease, if you were with him."

He could not shake this darkness. He left the festival and headed for the cliffs. Sitting down, he tried to calm himself in the sound of the sea. It crashed against the rocks at the base of the cliff and the sound stilled his heart. Where had this sense of doom come from? The sky was whitewashed blue. Gulls flew overhead, not a sound came from them. He thought this was odd. The gulls in Minas Tirith were forever screaming their complaints. Here, all was silence. Sleet gray fingers of clouds drifted overhead. The sun was just beginning to set; however, a low cloudbank, hidden due to its coloring being the same as the sky, suddenly started to hide the sun itself. There were only pieces of the crimson light left showing. Denethor, though his eyes were wide open, drifted. His mind was not his own any longer. The cloudbank and the half-hidden sun turned into a mountain spewing forth fire and smoke. Higher and higher the flames reached until its red and malevolent light covered the entire sky. A darkness started to creep from it, filling the sky, moving closer and closer to where he sat. A hand touched his shoulder and the darkness was gone, replaced by bright white light.

"Come, please. Sit here beside me." She made as if to leave, but he pulled her closer to him. "Listöwel is sleeping; the horses are bedded down for the night. We will not leave for at least another three hours. The way to Amon Dîn is rough. We must wait for the sun to rise." He gently pulled her to the bed. They were in the captain's quarters at the garrison of the North Gate. The captain, once he had ascertained who his late night guests were, had given Indis and Arciryas his room.

She sat, her back straight. He could feel the faint shivers of fatigue and grief running down her arms. "My love," he whispered, "have I been so cold, so unfeeling a husband that you will not turn to me in your time of need?" He wanted to cry out, his pain was so great, but he held his tongue. If someone under his care was wounded and could not speak, he used other means to discern how to treat them. Whispering her name, he sat quietly, stroking her hair.

She leaned closer. Sobs shook her body. He said naught. At last, she surrendered herself to her grief; he let her cry. "I... I thought I was over 'Wen's death; I am not. I cannot endure more death. I cannot."

He continued whispering her name, saying naught more, hoping she would pour out her heart so that healing could begin.

"I think if Denethor dies... If he is dead... How will I bear it? How will I continue to live?"

He leaned back against the wall, pulling her closer to him, wiping the tears from her checks with his gentle hands, as he continued to whisper, "Indis, my love, my own."

"You are too kind," she sobbed, "I have not been the wife you had hoped for, I know. It is hard for me to speak of the things of my heart. Long have I had to protect it, to protect those whom I love. I cannot stop being strong. But, I so want to stop. I want to hide, to scream, to cry and be protected. I am so tired." She hiccupped and he smiled.

"Wait one moment, my love." He gently leaned her back against the wall, walked to the captain's table, poured water from a jug, and brought the cup to her. She drank, closed her eyes, and leaned back against the wall again.

"I would protect you, if you would allow it," he said quietly, speaking into her hair as he sat and held her in his arms. "You are strong, Indis," he emphasized the word 'are.' "You will always be strong and I love you for that." He kissed the top of her head. "A soldier cannot always fight without rest. He must trust those around him: someone to cover his back, someone to sharpen his sword, someone to fetch arrows to replace those he has let fly, someone to stand guard. Yet you, my love, have fought without rest since your mother died. May I take this watch for you? Will you not rest for a time? Will you not trust that I will protect those you love? Do you not know that I would die to protect you and them?" He put his hand on her chin and turned her face up, towards him. "I too love Denethor. He has been my friend for many a year; he has been my brother and my captain. I will do everything I can to help him, to protect him. Will you let me carry some of this burden?"

She drew in her breath. Oh, the love and pain she saw in those deep gray eyes! How could she have doubted him? She threw her arms about his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. "I am so sorry, Arciryas. I will try. I will try."

Thorongil poured a little more of the draught down Denethor's throat. Within a few hours, they would be at the garrison of Amon Dîn. Amdir promised him that they would only stop long enough to procure fresh mounts. Thorongil had done everything in his power, with the few herbs he had with him, to stay the progress of the poison. Denethor's fever slowly rose, and he was becoming incoherent. Thorongil's supplies, especially the dried athelas, were dwindling.

Amdir dismounted and walked towards Denethor's litter. "He is worsening," he said, his brow furrowed in concern.

"Yes. He was chilled to the bone by the dunking in the icy stream, the lying in sodden clothes for hours, the eating of the poisoned food. All these are now fighting against anything I do. We should light a fire to warm him, the blankets are not enough, but we do not have the time."

"Yes, I am afraid so." Thorongil stood and stretched. He had not slept since they had rescued Denethor, and the lack was starting to affect him.

"Then let us!" Amdir shouted and the company mounted. "I have sent a rider ahead to warn the garrison of our coming and to prepare fresh horses for us." He turned Hros' head and motioned for the company to follow.

Arciryas, Listöwel, and Indis finally reached the beacon-hill and the garrison of Amon Dîn. A small contingent of knights was there. As they entered the compound, they were surprised to see much activity. Arciryas quickly dismounted, and grabbed the arm of one knight as he ran past them. "What is happening?" he asked.

"Lieutenant Amdir approaches. We are preparing fresh mounts for the main company.

They are going on, immediately, to Minas Tirith. Now let me do what I must do," and he tore himself away from Arciryas' hold.

Indis dismounted and ran over to where the two were. "What of Lord Denethor?" she cried to the knight's retreating back.

He turned, recognized her, and spoke. "I know not, my Lady. I have only received orders from Lieutenant Amdir." With that, he turned and ran to the stables. Men were leading saddled horses out of the stables into the courtyard.

A loud commotion drew their eyes towards the garrison's gate. It was Amdir. Indis cried out, but Listöwel, at a signal from Arciryas, ran to her friend's side and held her close. When Indis saw Denethor on the litter, she cried out in pain. Amdir quickly dismounted and ran towards them.

Arciryas, in the meantime, ran to the litter. Thorongil reported to him all that had happened, along with what he had done to slow the effects of the poison and the fever. "We must get him to the Houses of Healing as quickly as possible," Arciryas said. Then he turned to the man standing before him, "Thank you, whoever you are."

Once they passed through the Rammas, they rode as swiftly as possible towards Minas Tirith. Finally, Denethor was placed in the care of the healers. Amdir, accompanied by Thorongil, went to the Great Library to look for legends, tales, or lore books that would help the healers combat the poison. The warden pulled all his assistants from other chores, and placed them on the task at hand. After too many long hours, the poison, and its antidote, were found. Amdir sent the information to Adanedhel. Then, he took Thorongil by the arm and led him to the Fourth Level, stopping at a familiar haunt.

"I will report to the Steward within the hour," he stated as they sat at table, "however, I wanted to have a moment with you. I must thank you."

"There is naught to thank me for, Lieutenant. My liege, Thengel King, requested my aid. I could not deny him." The maid passed their drinks to them, eyeing the stranger appraisingly before she left them.

"You did more than many would have done. I would think you had used some sort of magic to keep him alive. I saw his face, heard the labored breathing. If not for you, he would be dead. Where did you learn your craft?"

Thorongil looked long at the man seated across from him. 'Is this a trap?' he wondered. He knew Amdir was close friend, besides first lieutenant, to the captain. "I have served many long years in other armies, besides those of Rohan. I have learned much in that time. The craft comes from here and there," he said, evasively.

"Where e'er you learned it," Amdir said, placing his hand on the man's shoulder, "I care not. Only know that I am glad you brought the knowledge with you to the Drúadan Forest when it was most needed."

The sincerity in Amdir's voice and eyes quelled Thorongil's suspicions. "Your captain has earned my respect, Lieutenant. He is a brave man. And one that is not to be toyed with, if I read his eyes truly. He has suffered grievous wound, but will recover."

"Again, thanks to you. I have a house on the Sixth Level. Let us finish our ale and I will take you there. I would be most grateful if you would deign to stay with my wife and I?"

Ecthelion strode into the room. The healers bowed and backed away. Indis rose from her place next to his bed, still holding Denethor's hand. "Adanedhel has told me he will live. For that, I am glad," he said quietly. He sat on the opposite side of the bed. "Is he awake?"

"Nay, Father. They have given him a sleeping potion. He is beyond all endurance. His body needs rest. I am sure Adanedhel told you that."

"Yes," he said. Looking down at his son, the image of his beloved Rían, he wept quietly. "I am an old fool. I am worse than Turgon was in his blindness. Always, I put Gondor before those I love. Forgive me, my daughter."

"I am not the one to ask forgiveness from, Father," she stated crisply. She could not keep the anger from her voice. "Mayhap, when Denethor is healed, you can ask for his forgiveness."

Denethor gasped and looked around. The bright light that had been about him had moved off. It was the Elf - he could just barely see him moving swiftly north. It was the same Elf that he had found in his room; it was at least a year ago. He awoke from a deep sleep; the Elf stood over his bed, great gray eyes staring at him. He jumped from his bed, but the Elf disappeared, gone quickly out the window. Denethor ran to follow him, and discovered that the window led to a sliver-thin ledge overlooking the rocks of the Bay of Belfalas. He looked to his left and his right, but could see naught in the dark of the storm-laden air. Yet, here again was that self same Elf. He called to him in Sindarin, but the Elf never swayed from his path. He screamed again. "Daro!"

"Hush, Denethor. All is well," Indis whispered, putting her head close to his. "You are safe. Estelio nin! You are in the Houses of Healing. I am here by your side. Please, little brother, wake up."

His eyes still hurt from the brightness of the light. He could see it, in his mind's eye. He tried to lift his hand, to cover his eyes e'er he opened them, but his hand would not obey. He felt a cool cloth on his forehead, and heard the whispering voice of his sister. Again, he tried to open his eyes, and this time, he was successful. Looking down upon him was Indis' beloved face.

"Nay, my sweet brother, you have been held captive by the Wild Men. Thorongil, Thengel's captain, saved you. He brought you back to me, to Minas Tirith."

He touched her cheek. Finally, his body was responding to his will. "You have been crying," he said softly. "I am sorry to have caused you pain. Goheno nin."

"Ú-moe edaved!" she cried. "Were they terrible to you? Did they...?" She could not ask.

"Thorongil." Denethor said in wonderment, finally realizing what she had said. "Yes, I remember him now. He was kind. He did not lie to me. I knew I was in great danger, yet he did not hide it from me. I owe him my life."

At last, Denethor moved from the Houses to his own chambers. Thorongil, feeling quite uncomfortable, sat in an overstuffed chair that had been pulled up to the bed. Denethor was finishing some broth, while Indis watched, militantly. Thorongil hid a smile when she chided her brother to finish the last spoonful. She quickly kissed him on the forehead, took the bowl from his hand, smiled at Thorongil and left them. Thorongil sat back in the chair, trying to hide his discomfiture. Denethor, he could tell, seemed to feel the same way. Neither man appeared ready to begin any kind of a conversation. Thorongil wished he had a pipe. He could not have smoked it, though; he had noticed that none seemed to smoke, here in Minas Tirith.

"I thank you for coming," Denethor started. "I wished to thank you for all you have done for me." Thorongil started to speak, but Denethor held his hand up. "Please, this is most difficult for me and I would like to... I am sorry. How can I say this is difficult when it is my life that has been saved! I am a poor wretch that did not deserve saving. I have harbored ill will towards you. And for that I am most sorry."

"I well understood your feelings. I was discourteous too many times while you visited in Rohan. It seemed there was much to do, and I was very new to the Rohirric way of life. I was brusque and rude," Thorongil said. "Forgive me."

Denethor hung his head. Would this man not let him thank him properly? He was becoming upset again. He shook his head. 'I am an idiot,' he thought. 'Why does this man seem to continuously aggravate me?"

"Let us stop right now and begin afresh. Perhaps if we shared a little about ourselves, we would find some common ground?" Denethor said, politely.

Thorongil was immediately suspicious. Though Denethor spoke courteously, Thorongil deemed there was purpose behind the question. "My Lord, if you would begin..."

Denethor smiled. This was not going to be easy. "My life is public. You must know much about me already. I am Heir to the Steward of Gondor, in the line of Anárion, of the House of Húrin. I am Captain of the garrison at Amon Dîn, just having returned from a five-year stint at Dol Amroth. Indis, whom you have already met, is my sister. I..." He took a deep breath. "I lost a sister to the Corsairs many years ago. Thengel... Thengel King was my commander for a time, while he lived in Gondor. That is all that is pertinent. Oh, yes. I served under Walda many years ago. And - I am a hideous fisherman."

Now it was Denethor's turn to laugh. "Then you must go fishing with Amdir and Thengel. I go with them to stoke the fires. I am utterly useless when it comes to the sport, but they seem to like my company. You also have the hands of a healer, it would seem."

"I have been on my own for a good number of years. I learned, through expediency, the ways of healing. I would have preferred not to have had to learn them at all." The mood in the room had sobered quickly.

"Yes," Denethor said. "As a soldier, I know whereof you speak. Ever we must do things we would prefer not to.

There was silence in the room for a time; the fire crackled and snapped. Thorongil was not sure if Denethor had fallen asleep or not. He sat quietly, waiting.

"What have you done," Denethor's voice startled him, "that you would have preferred not to have done?"

Thorongil thought for a long moment. "I would not have left my mother alone, all those long years. I would have spent more time with her." He surprised himself with the answer. "My father had been killed when I was but a small child. She was left alone among those who were not kin. It occurs to me now, that she must have been lonely."

Denethor thought of the many years when, as punishment, he had been sent off amongst strangers. "Yes," he said, "that is a very difficult thing. And yet, you remember her well?"

Denethor noticed the straightening of Thorongil's shoulders, and knew he would share no more. "Perhaps you would like to see something of Minas Tirith. Or has someone already shown you around my City?"

Thorongil smiled at the inflection he heard when Denethor said 'my' city. "Your city?"

Denethor returned the smile. "I have become possessive of this City. It is dear to me. Ever do we fight to protect her." A slight scowl crossed his face. "Orcs and other foul creatures continuously attack. Corsairs from the south and Easterlings from the East cross our borders with seeming impunity. Have you seen the mountain? The one that spews smoke and fire? It seems nature itself attacks Gondor. We fight, but desperately, it would seem."

"I have heard stories of the courage of Gondor," Thorongil said quietly. "Rohan relies upon Gondor."

"As Gondor relies upon Rohan," Denethor whispered. He pulled the bell and waited.

Thorongil realized his interview was over. He stood and bowed to Denethor. "Perhaps I may come and visit again?"

Denethor looked up. "Yes. I would like that, very much." He suddenly felt an overwhelming gratitude for the candor of the man.

"I do not understand," Denethor strode towards the White Tower. He had finally been allowed to leave his rooms, deemed well enough to return to duty. "How could Ecthelion open the ranks of the Knights of Gondor to outsiders?"

"Mithrandir counseled it. Your father agreed. It seems he has been most pleased with Thorongil's service."

"As am I," Denethor stated flatly. "He is a very good soldier. I am glad I asked father to ask him to stay and fight for Gondor. Yet, I do not think it wise to have strangers in Gondor's service. I cannot imagine fighting next to a Corsair. I would rather cut off his head, than fight on his side. You remember the two of mixed blood in my company this past spring? Terrible men. I do not understand what Mithrandir hopes to accomplish by this."

"Nay. It was decided without me. I should not be surprised." A heavy sigh escaped his lips.

"Orc attacks have been more numerous of late, the loss of life has grown, and there are other considerations," Amdir said.

"Yes. The most difficult consideration is lack of men." He shook his head. "I should wed myself and give father an heir, but there is no time and no woman who has even tweaked my interest."

Amdir laughed. "You are enjoying the life of the bachelor too much, my friend. Listöwel introduced you to that young friend of hers months ago, yet you have made no attempt to further the relationship."

"She was an idiot. Forgive me. She only talked of who was going to what party, or what new dance was the rage. She spoke of naught of substance. I could not abide listening to her."

Amdir hooted with laughter. "You have become too accustomed to Indis and her great knowledge of the things of Middle-earth, strategies, and battle talk. Having women around you, like Listöwel also, who know how to wield a sword, makes a regular woman pale in comparison, I must say."

"Well, let us to the buttery and see what food we can scrape together. I would eat on the escarpment today, not with the lords and ladies in Merethrond. They watch to see whom I will sit next to and then their tongues wag. I will never find a wife here."

Absenen - sorry
Na lerya - let it go
Gwathel - sister (sworn)
Va mahta - I will not fight
Daro - stop
Estelio nin - trust me
Goheno nin - forgive me
Ú-moe edaved - there is nothing to forgive

'I am not myself,' he thought. 'How will I ever be able to tell father?' He had asked for, and received posting to the garrison near Dol Amroth, but for three years only. He had not told his father the real reason he wanted posting there. It had been part of his plan, once he had set eyes upon her at that night's ball.

There was now the duty of attending the inevitable party in the Hall of Feasts after the affairs of state were completed. He stood at the great entrance doors and watched the lords and ladies of Gondor as they danced. He wanted no part of this. Prince Adrahil had come to Minas Tirith for some function or the other and had brought his family with him. She was twenty - great gray eyes, blackest hair, fairest skin - she took his breath away. He remembered the times when she was but a child; she always mesmerized him, not by her beauty, though that was exquisite, but by the light that shone about her, through her and emanated outwards. Amdir laughed when he told him, saying it was probably an Elvish air. 'It could be,' he thought. 'There are rumors, old tales told of an Elven ancestry for the house of Dol Amroth.' Whatever it was, it filled him with a peace, a joy, and a sense of wonder. When he realized that he was falling in love with her, he asked to be transferred. Up until that time, he made it a point to join as many family activities as possible, and had been warmly welcomed by the prince.

Now he could laugh, for he remembered how he had chafed at the thought of the party, knowing his father required his attendance. He had felt he was being used, as fodder for cattle. His face had blazed at the humiliation of it. Ecthelion was determined to marry him off, and Denethor was determined not to be! Let Indis' progeny carry the title. As the years passed, and his role as Heir to the Steward became more and more public, the great Lords of Gondor fawned over him. Not a day would pass, when he was in the City, that one or another of them would not 'bump' into him, towing an eligible daughter behind. 'Simpering fools,' he called them, 'Duty!' his father called it.

Yet, there was a place in his heart that ached for a love such as Thengel and Amdir had. To his chagrin, not one of the women presented to him held a candle to the strength that was Indis, the compassion that was Listöwel, or the warrior that was Morwen Steelsheen!

And then - she walked into the Hall, her hand resting on her father's arm, and the light that surrounded her dazzled him. Amdir tried, numerous times, to swing his attention away from her, but Denethor's whole being was caught, as in the great fishing nets of the men of Pelargir, and he knew he did not want to be released. He would not even struggle.

It was well into the night when his father came to him, chiding him for not dancing, not mingling with the guests. He barely heard him. How could he dance? His body would not obey him; his feet would not move. He heard his father's exasperated groan, and breathed a sigh of relief when Ecthelion left his side. Amdir had long ago left him for the pleasure of Listöwel's company.

He realized Prince Adrahil was coming towards him. She was again holding her hand lightly on his arm. He wanted to take that delicate hand and hold it. He wanted to run away. 'I am not myself,' he thought.

"Lord Denethor," the prince saluted, hand to chest. Denethor returned it, but found his mouth incapable of movement. "May I present my daughter, Finduilas? Finduilas, the Heir of the Steward of Gondor, Lord Denethor." He turned towards Denethor. "I have been reminding her of the times you were stationed at our humble garrison, and were considerate enough to visit Dol Amroth from time to time."

Denethor's brow creased. 'Is that all I am? Heir of Gondor? Can I not be a man? Can I not have feelings? Can I...?' His thoughts were interrupted by a startling smile that took away whatever breath was left him. Never before had he begrudged being named heir; in fact, he relished the title when it was used, but never before had he been in the presence of a Vala, for surely, she must be one.

"My Lord." She gave a small curtsy, though her eyes laughed and sparkled. It was as if the Star of Eärendil itself blazed from her eyes. He realized, through the fog that blanketed his mind, that he should make some response. He bowed deeply and feared that the sudden dizziness that assailed him would not pass ere he straightened. 'This is a dream,' he told himself. 'This cannot be Finduilas, child of laughter and light.'

Not realizing that he had spoken the last words aloud, he started at her gentle laughter; then she spoke. "I remember my dear friend, Denethor, now Captain of Gondor. Do you remember, my Lord? You used to call me 'Jewel' when we would walk by the shore."

"I remember our picnics," he said as he tried to push aside the thoughts of his Jewel, for now, she had truly become one, sparkling, radiant, precious, and valuable. "Our picnics were delightful."

She laughed again; the sound burned his ears, so sweet was it. "I am very grateful for your kindness. Father, did I tell you of the little breads I would make, covered with the spreads of the bounty of Belfalas, packed for our picnics?"

Adrahil was silent, watching in surprise as his 'child' matured before his very eyes. 'Or had she been grown?' he wondered, 'When had this happened?'

"Lord Denethor would join my companions and me at the shore, and we would eat these little morsels - he with his large hands holding such tiny delicacies - covered with wind-blown sand!" She smiled again and it pained him to see the beauty in it. "You were most courteous, my Lord. The food was really not palatable, Father, now that I think on it."

"It has been ten years, my Lady Finduilas, since last we met. I am honored that you remember."

She looked up at him, black lashes hiding those eyes, gray as the Star Sapphire in the treasury. He lost his breath again.

"I would not forget you, my Lord Denethor. Once you were a dear friend of mine. May we not renew that friendship?"

Prince Adrahil stepped between them. "Perhaps we shall see you again, before we leave? Now, I fear, it is time to retire." He turned towards Denethor. "My Lord, it was a long trip. Forgive our leaving so early. Please give my respects to your father."

Denethor, his tongue now tied and his face blazing, merely nodded as the couple turned and walked away. He yearned to have that little hand on his arm.

The prince and his family left early the next morning. That is when Denethor started to put his plan into effect.

Three years now he had been at Dol Amroth, stationed at the garrison outside the city. Days were spent on patrol, on diplomatic missions to the lords of the near-by fiefdoms; nights were spent in agony, wishing he were with her, and when he was with her, they shared the starlit nights of Southern Gondor. When he was not on duty, he found that he haunted the halls of the castle of the prince. He walked along the corridors in the palace, hoping that there might be a chance meeting, a short moment to drink in the essence that was Finduilas. Then, he walked the gardens, the porticos, the gazebos; the landscape of the castle leant itself to the mystery that was this woman. Great slabs of marble, dark-hewn and gray, lined every surface. The great rounded portico leading out of the palace on the seaward side with its twelve stately pillars looked towards the sea; the large stairwells that a mûmak could pass down so wide and deep were they, curved from the portico on each side, then led down to the sea; the tree-lined alleys, covered with drooping wisteria and clematis plants, spilled into the sea; and the rock walls with their ledges and sculpted swans leaned forward into the sea. All around, the salt-smell of the water overcame all the scents of the roses, wisteria, clematis, and simmleri. Never had he seen such a profusion of flowers; blues, violets, yellows, scarlets, mauves - a feast of colors. His mother's gardens were put to shame.

He turned as she came towards him. 'Nay,' he thought, 'all these are put to shame by this one before me.' And he drew in his breath.

Now that she was here, the loneliness that had pervaded his heart just moments before, fled and was replaced by a great joy, so great he thought his heart would burst with it. "Did he... Is it urgent?"

She gazed at him quizzically and he hoped that the sweat he felt on his brow did not show. "He did not say, but there were some shipbuilders with him."

"Would you sit here, with me, for a moment? I will rush to his side if you but give me one moment."

His face burned and hers shone. 'I cannot do this,' he thought, miserably. 'She will never accept me. My tongue is tied every time I am with her. I trip over my own feet. I sigh continuously. I am not myself, when she is near. By the Valar, how will I govern in this state?' He tried to move away, but her hand caught his and sent shivers up his arm. His ears seemed to have gone deaf. He knew gulls cried and birds sang and the sea roared, but he heard naught.

She accepted his request for her hand. She would be his wife. Tears sprang to his eyes at the wonder of it all. Never had he thought that such a thing would be possible. He would not upbraid himself nor look to his many failings. She knew them, after these past three years, knew him better than he knew himself. Yet, she still accepted. He would concentrate on her 'yes.' He had to let the breath out. It crushed his chest. Every sinew of his body was affected by the mere thought of her. If he could not breathe now, nor function with any rationale thought, how would he ever - when she was at his side?

They agreed that they would not speak to her father until he had asked permission from Ecthelion. It seemed only wise. He would leave in the morning. Yet, he found it incredibly hard to leave her. His heart soared at the magnitude of his love for her. And groaned at her love for him. How could she? Nay, he would not think on that. Suffice to say, she had said yes and willingly, with nary an argument from him. A simple yes that changed the world, made it bright again, made a future seem possible. At last he left her and hurried to his meeting with Imrahil.

He would travel light, with only one company as an escort. What excuse would he use when he faced his father? Why had he left his post? It was almost time for the monthly errand-rider to return to Minas Tirith with the numerous reports required by the Steward. He would take them himself, saying their import was such as to not leave to the hands of an errand-rider. Hmm. That did not hold. Errand-riders were capable of taking any message. His mind whirled. He must act now. There had been rumors that others had been to Adrahil on behalf of their sons. Well, haste must be had, and he would risk his father's anger for his Lady's hand. His mind raced and he heard not a word. As soon as the meeting ended, he was at his garrison, horsed and out the gate before any hardly knew.

He stood before his father, wondering how he would broach the subject. But there was no need to wonder, for his father was paying no attention to him. Thorongil had been giving some report. Ecthelion turned towards Denethor and asked his opinion. He blushed slightly. He had not been listening.

'Captain!' thought Denethor. 'When had Thorongil become a captain? When had anyone, not a citizen of Gondor, been appointed a captain?' He scrambled for a coherent sentence. "My Lord, having just returned from Dol Amroth, I have not read the report. I have not even received a copy of it."

"You do not need to read it," Ecthelion said, his lips pursed tightly. "I have given you a summary and I would have your opinion."

"If I would be of service to my Lord Steward, I would be remiss to speculate on a report I have not read. I trust your summary, my Lord, but knowing 'Captain' Thorongil's attention to detail, I must ask to read it first before commenting."

"Very well. Read it and return after the evening meal. I will expect your 'wise' words!" Ecthelion snarled the word and turned to go to the Hall of Feasts. Denethor moved to follow. Ecthelion stopped, turning swiftly towards him, and said, "I want your opinion when I return from dinner. Now, go." He turned again towards the Hall and motioned for Thorongil to follow him.

Denethor stood back, trying desperately to keep his face clear of any emotion. His arms fairly shook with rage. He had been dismissed! He, the Heir of Gondor, had been dismissed and that... that Thorongil had... 'Nay!' he thought. 'I will not do this. I will not fall into anger or jealousy. This is not Thorongil's doing. My father, as always, has decided this is a propitious time to discipline me. For what, I do not know.' He turned on his heel, seized a copy of the report from a scribe, and walked to his rooms.

The report, as he had expected, was well written. He had to laugh; yet it was bitter. Some of the suggestions were ones he had given his father nigh unto fifteen years ago. Cair Andros would be refortified - this time, with more men and more weapons. 'So,' he thought, 'Ecthelion has forgotten the times we spoke of these very matters. He takes the advice of a man from the north. Well, it matters not where the advice comes from as long as it is taken. And I am glad. Cair Andros will be our first defense, if the One we do not name attacks from the northeast, coming from the Morannon. Thorongil will do well in preparing it for such an attack. Though I still do not understand how he has become a Captain of Gondor.' He shook his head. What other things had changed since he had been gone?

The bell rang for the hour. He was in the Great Hall. No one was about. 'The daymeal must be long over,' he thought, 'yet, where is the Steward?' Just then, Thorongil came through the entrance hall. He strode quickly towards Denethor, his arms opened wide.

"My Lord Denethor. I am sorry we did not have time to talk before the Steward's meeting. It is so good to see you again. I have missed your company." And Denethor knew, by the tone of voice and the smile on the man's face, that what he said was true and heartfelt.

He returned the embrace and laughed. "So, you are now Captain of Gondor! I am very happy for you. What garrison are you captain of?"

"Nay, I did not. I am just surprised. It is well deserved, I am sure." Yet his mind could hardly grasp the enormity of the posting. He was next in line for this posting. He had expected to be called home months ago and it given to him. He walked towards the vestibule and Thorongil followed.

"Nay. It was a long journey from Dol Amroth and I am tired. I had hoped I could report to the Steward and then be off to bed. Yet, I see this will not be so. I must wait for his return, for I have promised to give him my opinion on your report." He turned to Thorongil. "By the by, it is a good report, well-written. The advice you have given is fine. I myself have thought long and hard about the defenses of Cair Andros. You have explained the need very well indeed. You should be proud of your report."

"There is naught to be proud of. I read some of your papers and expanded upon your ideas. I said as much to the Steward."

'Ah,' Denethor thought, 'it is as I believed. Straightforward and true is this man. Not a back-stabber.' He smiled. "Whoever sways the Steward to action is not important; what is important is that he acts."

"Yes. But I would not have you think that I would take your words and make them my own."

"The thought never crossed my mind, Thorongil. You have been a friend since the Drúadan Forest. I will not doubt you."

They walked out the great doors of the Hall and stopped at the Court of the Fountain.

This time, it was Thorongil's turn to be startled. "I have not thought of it much. It is not my place, as a simple man in Gondor's service, to think of such things."

"Yet, it seems right to ask it of you. You have been in Gondor for thirteen years now. Does it not seem strange that we wait for a king long lost?"

"I do not think it strange. I hear the words of hope from your father. He believes the king will return. Do you not?"

"I do not know what to think. I know I will keep Gondor as strong as I am able. If the king returns, he will find a people of courage waiting for him."

"Because of the Stewards," Denethor spoke with more vehemence than was his wont. He softened his voice. "The Stewards have held Gondor in trust for the king for twenty-five generations. If not for Mardil Voronwë, when King Eärnur foolishly went off to answer the Dark Lord's challenge, Gondor would be in the thrall of evil and there would be no kingdom to return to!" Again, he had raised his voice. He apologized.

"When I received posting to Dol Amroth, did we not leave each other as friends? Why, now, do you continue to say, 'my lord'?" Denethor wondered.

Thorongil laughed. "Yes. I consider you friend. Your subject is weighty however, and therefore, I spoke as befits such a discussion."

"Then, let us leave weighty discussions to another day. It has been too long since we have visited a certain inn. As soon as I report to father, I would very much like to share a drink or two with you. Is Amdir still at Pelargir? And where is father?" he wondered, looking about him. "I will go back to the Hall and wait upon him. Perhaps you will save me a seat?"

Thorongil laughed. "Indeed I will. The Steward spoke of going to bed, however. I do not think he planned on going back to the Hall tonight."

Denethor's face blazed again. He turned his back upon his friend and bit his lip. 'So, I am not worth eating with him, nor giving my report.' He shook his head. 'Nay,' he thought, 'I cannot, I will not let my thoughts sway to these feelings. Finduilas loves me. She has said yes to my proposal and we will be wed. That is what is important tonight.'

He turned towards Thorongil and apologized. "I am sorry. I forget. I must see my sister. Will you meet me tomorrow night at the sixth bell?"

Denethor bid him good night, then chided himself for forgetting Indis. He ran up the Citadel steps two at a time; he turned towards her chambers. His face hurt from the smile that had covered it as soon as he left Thorongil. He could not wait to tell her. How he wished she had been there. But now, she would share his joy. Warmth filled him as he thought of Indis - the love he had for her, her steadfastness, and her courage. He stopped at her chamber door and knocked gently. The hour was late; he hoped she was still awake.

Her chambermaid answered the door and gasped to see him. "My Lord, we were not told you had returned. I will get my mistress. Please, enter and sit." She turned and ran to the bedchamber's doors.

"Denethor!" Love and joy filled her voice and he rejoiced in the love of a sister. "Why did not father tell me you were ordered home?" She quickly hugged him and gestured for the maid to bring food and drink.

"Father did not know I was coming," Denethor stated flatly. "I needed to speak with him; I did not ask his permission."

"It must have been an urgent matter, for you to do such a thing," she whispered. "I have not known you to flaunt his authority. Except perhaps," she laughed gently, "when Arciryas and I were wed. Tell me now, what caused you to return so unexpectedly?"

He pulled her down to the couch and held her hands tightly. "Indis," his hands shook slightly and she looked upon him in amaze. "I... by the Valar this should easy! I have asked Finduilas to be my wife."

He burst out laughing. "Yes! Yes, by all the Valar she said yes! I cannot tell you the joy that fills my heart, dearest sister. I cannot begin to tell you what she means to me. I have spent the last three years courting her, carefully, trying not to frighten her. I know I am not the easiest man to live with. She has learned all my weaknesses, all my moods, and all my worst habits. Yet she still said yes! I cannot believe it." He sat and held her hands tightly.

"Brother, my dearest brother. You are noble and kind and good. Why would she not say yes?"

"Nay, sister. You see me in a different light than others. You have always loved me, cared for me, and accepted me as I am. But others have not." The image of his father caused his brow the crease.

"Brother, I know of whom you speak. Father... father knows your strengths and relies upon them. He needs more. Gondor needs more. You will never be able to give as much as is needed. No one man can. Do not chastise yourself for something you cannot change."

"Let us not discuss father or Gondor now. I want to discuss her, tell you about her, and revel in the delight that is Finduilas. She is so beautiful, Indis, so kind, so loving. And she is wise too. Many nights we spent discussing Gondor, its history, and its future. She knows what needs to be done. She agrees with me, not because of who I am, but because she has considered the problems and has come to the same conclusions that I have. It is amazing to me. I can share so many things with her. Not feelings, though those I have shared, but more than that, my hopes and dreams for Gondor and what we might do, together, to save her. I tell you, it is a dream come true. A dream I did not even know I had." He slumped back into the cushions on the couch, a smile on his face.

He shook slightly and she knew he had not confronted their father with the news. "When will you ask his permission?" she asked quietly as the maid entered the room, placed cheese, bread and wine on the table in front of the settle and withdrew.

"I had meant to tonight. I wanted it done and over with, but when I reached the Citadel he was in the midst of a meeting with his counselors. I deemed it not the right moment to broach the subject, though my heart was near to bursting with the need to ask. I cannot tell what he will say; ever has he been a puzzle to me. I know you have felt the same; therefore, I sit here before you in trepidation. I do not know what he will do."

"Let me invite him here for nuncheon tomorrow. I know he will come. And you, too. After we eat, I will leave the room on some pretense and you can then ask him."

"Bless you, dearest Indis. I will see you on the morrow. Now, I find exhaustion o'ercoming me. I rode as fast as the wind. There are others who are courting her. I need an answer immediately. I will rest now and see you on the morrow. Good night, my dearest sister, good night." He hugged her tightly, apologized for not eating, and kissed her forehead.

Arciryas came into the room, yawning. "Denethor! It is good to see you. I am sorry, I did not know you were here."

"I am leaving. Forgive me for disturbing your sleep. We will speak in the morning. It is very good to see you again, Arciryas." He bowed low and left.

"I will tell you in our chambers. Come, it is late and I need your warmth." She shivered at the thought of tomorrow's assignation.

"You dared to make an alliance without my permission?" his father bellowed. "Did you think I have not been preparing someone for you already? The Lord Amandil's daughter has come of age. He traces his lineage directly to Númenor, and he is the wealthiest man in Gondor. He is owed allegiance from many lords of Gondor. He is a formidable foe and would be a welcome ally. Yet, you look to an Elvish tag and rag as a bed partner. Have you considered what kind of offspring she might bear?"

He clenched his fists as hard as he could to keep from swinging at Ecthelion. 'Tag and rag! How could he call her...?' He could not even think the words again. A fire crept through his entire being, yet he did all he could to keep it in check. This was not the time for violence; nay, even screaming would do naught to sway his father. So this is where his distrust of Elves came from - his father. He spoke not for fear the scream echoing in his mind would be released.

Ecthelion seemed to struggle to control himself. "The answer is nay. You will not wed the girl. You will look to Lady Almarian. An alliance is needed between our houses. Or, if she truly is repugnant to you, we can speak with Thengel King and look to his daughter, Hild. She has yet to marry. Your friendship with Thengel seems to have cooled some. Perhaps this will rekindle the bond between Gondor and Rohan. Through her mother, she has the blood of Númenor in her." He stood and walked about Indis' room. "Yes, perhaps Hild would be the perfect candidate, though I had forgotten her. I will write to Thengel this forenoon. Is that not better? I know Almarian is a little capricious. Hild will be a better match for you. It is settled. I will relieve you of command of the garrison of Dol Amroth and you shall prepare for your betrothal." He called Indis, kissed her cheek, and left the room.

Denethor strode to the balcony, his hands still balled into fists. Indis walked quietly behind him. She had, of course, heard everything. He looked towards the Ephel Dúath and shrugged. "I cannot believe he would wish Almarian on anyone." He tried to laugh to ease the strain. "I have never liked Hild. She was always a little horror when she lived here. What am I saying? There is no one else. Only Finduilas." He shook his head. "I must think. There must be a way to sway him. I cannot marry, you know I cannot, Indis, without his permission." He hung his head. "I must have her," he whispered hoarsely, the tension in his body constricting his throat. "I must."

"I know, dear brother. We will think of a way. I was so proud of you. You showed your quality. He was nonplussed; I know it. He expected you to lash out. This will be for the good when you approach him again."

He looked at her in shock. "Approach him again? How will I ever approach him again on this subject? That is the question. I must think. Whenever did he acquire this hatred of Elves?"

"Come. Sit by me. We will find some path to walk that will bring us to our destination."

Two hours later, he left Indis' chambers, no closer to a plan than when they had first begun. He turned towards the Great Treasury. He needed something done and he had better do it now, while he still had the courage. Once the task was complete, he walked slowly to the crafters' level. He found the bench jeweler's shop and walked in. Semi-precious gems were displayed in cases all about the dim lit room. He walked towards the desk at the back. "I have a ring here that I would like repaired and sized to fit a finger of this dimension." He passed over the ring and the circlet of paper that he had made before he left Dol Amroth. "I have brought a small square of mithril which I would like layered over the gold of this ring. The stone needs polishing. How long will it take you to complete this task?"

The jeweler looked up, stunned at the beauty of the ring being handed to him, and awed by the mithril square. Never had he held real mithril. "I cannot say. I have only worked with mithril one or two times," he lied. "Perhaps one month?"

"Then get him, and quickly." The man ran and returned in a moment followed by a very old man.

The older man adjusted his eyepiece and looked at Denethor. "My Lord," he said in confusion. "You have not been here in an age. What is your pleasure? What may I do for you?"

"The ring you made for my sister has only brought her joy. I have a ring," and he took it from the hands of the apprentice, "that I need resizing. I would also like the golden band covered with mithril. Would you be able to do this?"

"My Lord, I recognize this ring. I made it myself. If you would indulge me? I would like to melt it, instead of just coating it with mithril. I would like to intertwine the two metals, the gold and the mithril and remake it. Would that be acceptable?"

The jeweler shooed his apprentice into the back room and lowered his voice. "It is for a special occasion, my Lord? When is it required?"

Denethor blushed. "It is for such an occasion. One week," said Denethor. "No longer. Thank you! By the way, your apprentice is a liar. I would be rid of him, if I were you." With that, he left the shop. He ran into Thorongil as he turned the corner. Both men laughed. "I was making my way towards 'The Three Fishermen.' It is almost the sixth bell. Are you still able to meet with me?"

Thorongil smiled. "I was going there myself. I wanted to reserve a table towards the back. I would speak with you on matters that a more public area would not allow."

They sat at the back of the inn, cold draughts of ale in their hands. Denethor sat back after a mouthful and looked quizzically at Thorongil. "What matter weighs upon you so heavily?"

Denethor drew in his breath. "I know what missive he is sending. I am surprised he has acted so quickly. And I am surprised that he is sending you."

"He asked me to take it first thing tomorrow morning. I thought, perhaps, that you would like to accompany me."

"Nay," Thorongil answered puzzled. "It is long since we have had time to ourselves. I thought we might stop at the little river near the beacon-hill at Nardol. There is good fishing there, I am told, and I would most enjoy a few hours sport. We can push the horses a little faster from there and reach Edoras still within a good time. You would like to see your friend, I presume?"

"Of course," Denethor furrowed his brow. "I thought there might be another reason. That perhaps Ecthelion ordered me to accompany you."

"Hild! She has been promised to Walda's son, Éofor. They are to be wed this coming summer."

Denethor's laughter rang through the inn. Then, he stopped short. "That means I am to wed Almarian." Sighing, he called for another flagon.

"Yes, she is pretty enough, but that is all that speaks for her. Though I would obey father and marry her if not for..."

Afraid to share something so intimate, Denethor hesitated. Then he remembered the friendship that had grown between the two of them these past thirteen years, and he relented. "I have asked for the hand of Finduilas, Princess of Dol Amroth." He let out a sigh.

Thorongil sat back, waved for another flagon, and waited until he had taken a mouthful. "Your father is against the alliance?"

Denethor snorted. "He would flay me alive if I so much as breathe another word of her."

The hairs on Denethor's back stood. "Is that why you were outside the jeweler's?"

"Nay. I told her I would not; I told her I was meeting you here. She said naught as to why she wanted you found."

"Forgive me. My heart is distraught. I know not what I am thinking or doing since my meeting with the Steward. How am I to persuade him to let me wed her? I cannot disobey him on this. It could mean war."

"Yes. You are probably correct when you say that. Perhaps there is something I can do?"

"What? He seems to have a distrust, nay, a hatred for Elves. I cannot understand why. This is his reason for forbidding it."

"'Tis only a rumor. Yes, the house of Dol Amroth prefers to spread that rumor. As it is, it has been nigh unto twenty-five generations or so since Elvish blood mixed with a man of Dol Amroth. If the tales are true. Mayhap we can dissuade your father from that line of thought. We can malign such a rumor. Once that is done, we can persuade him that an alliance with Dol Amroth would be propitious. What think you of that?"

"I am not sure how much time we have. The Princess is quite beautiful. There are others who are vying for her hand. We agreed not to approach her father until I had the Steward's permission. For all I know, she could be promised to another even as we speak."

"Then I will leave you and go to your father. It will take a few days time, I think. Will you trust me for that long?"

"I cannot thank you enough, Thorongil. You save my life in one moment, and my heart in another."

"Nay, do not say that yet. Your father is strong-willed. But we will hope. There is always hope!"

"You took the ring from the treasury?" The horror in her whisper chilled him, but he would not be shamed.

"I cannot believe this. How do you ever think that father will agree to your betrothal if you stubbornly rebel against his authority, his wishes, at every turn? You are mad. Some fey mood has overcome you. I do not know how to help you."

"I need no help," he said between clenched teeth. "You have not asked for the ring for yourself. It sits and gathers cobwebs and dust. It means something to me! I would have her have it. Is that so strange?"

She shook her head, thoroughly exasperated. "I cannot believe your temerity. How did you even get the keys?"

He pulled himself up haughtily. "I am Heir to the Steward of Gondor and received the keys at the Ceremony. I had only to ask the Warden and they were mine."

He collapsed a little at that. Yes, she knew him well. But with Finduilas, all thoughts of sane action left him. He would do anything for her. He tried to explain his feelings to Indis, but she interrupted him.

"I am delighted that you are standing up to father. However, I do not agree to the manner you have done it. The Treasury is revered, Denethor. It is not full of things to be handed down from one to another. Yes, mother's ring was there, but the ring symbolized more than the marriage of two people; the ring symbolized the coming together of two families, two countries... two people."

"Is that not what I am proposing? Could it not be any clearer? In my brashness, I may have done wrong, but is it not for Gondor that I do this? Is not an alliance with Dol Amroth more important than an alliance with some besotted lord of Minas Tirith?"

"Now you would say that doing an evil for a good is to be commended? I do not think so, dear brother." She shivered slightly. "You are twisting my words to justify your actions. I will not have you do that."

She came over to him, smoothed his hair back, and sighed. "You would not do this if not for the anger in your heart over father's refusal. You must look beyond the actions of others, Denethor, not use them as an excuse for improper actions on your own part. No matter the reason, your actions must be just and pure. As you said yourself, you are Heir to the Steward of Gondor." She stood still, hoping her words would weave their way through the hurt and despair she saw in his eyes.

He held her close to him. For a moment, he felt as a child again. All he wanted was Finduilas. All he cared about was Finduilas. Finally, fate had given him something wonderful, and he wanted it, desperately. "I... am... sorry. Long have I obeyed every one of father's orders. Long have I subjugated my needs for Gondor's. Is it too much to ask for one thing?"

"Nay, dearest brother. It is not. It is the way you are trying to make it so. You said that you have spoken with Thorongil. In your absence, Thorongil has become a great captain and father respects him. He will think of a way to make this happen. Trust him, Denethor."

Denethor looked up into her eyes. "I have seen this myself." He shuddered. "I am not sure... I am not sure that this is a good thing. Do you not wonder that he was made a captain? Never has a man not of Gondor been made a captain. Father respects him, you say. Yes, I see that and wonder why a man from the north commands more respect than the son of the Steward." A note of bitterness crept into his voice.

"Denethor." She shook her head. "I have never understood father. I know you do not either. Thorongil is an honorable man. He has done naught to usurp your rightful place. He will do naught, of that I am sure. Do not degrade yourself by thinking ill of him."

He hung his head in weariness. "I will trust him. I am close to despair. I will lose her if we do not act quickly. I know it."

"Do you have such distrust for your beloved, Denethor? Do you not think she is, at this very moment, doing everything she can to assure that the oaths you have made to each other will be kept?"

"Indis. Ever wise Indis. You are correct, as always. I have been a fool. She will stay her father's hand. I will wait for Thorongil."

"Of course, Thorongil. I need merely to finish signing these papers; then we may take a glass of wine and sit and enjoy a moment's peace. How strange. Gondor has been peaceful this last year. I believe it is your influence, Thorongil."

"My Lord," he laughed. "You give me too much credit. Orcs still roam Ithilien, Corsairs still build ships to destroy Gondor, and your borders are still compromised. I have done naught to bring about peace."

"Yet with you at my side, Thorongil, I have confidence that we can overcome these things."

"My Lord. You are too gracious." He sat back in the proffered chair and sipped the wine. "Do you know aught of Dol Amroth, my liege? Its people, its customs?"

"Not as much as I would wish. Long have they kept themselves separate from Gondor. Yes, they give lip service saying they are loyal, but they do not send men to our army. Their sons stay at home, protected. Their daughters..." Ecthelion looked into the face of his captain. "So, that is why you are here - to wheedle permission for Denethor to wed?"

"Yes, my Lord. Will you not consider your own words? Long has Dol Amroth accepted the protection of Gondor with one hand and defied you with the other. How many times have you asked for assistance and they have not answered? Is this the way a fiefdom shows its loyalty? My Lord, Prince Adrahil is a good man and a wise ruler. He protects his people. But he must remain loyal to Gondor, not only to Belfalas. I am not saying that he is treasonous - far from it. He only does what he deems best for his people. He must realize that Belfalas is not a country unto itself. If Gondor falls, Belfalas will surely fall. That is his error, my Lord. Do you not see that an alliance with Dol Amroth is necessary? It is as if the Valar themselves have ordained this pairing."

"Yes. Yes. I believe you are correct. I do not like the thought that the blood of Húrin should be mingled with Elvish blood; yet I see the wisdom in your words. What matter it, the blood, when we wait for the king's return. Our focus should be on that. On keeping Gondor strong until the king returns."

He swallowed his pride a thousand times, because Ecthelion had agreed to the match. However, the Steward had insisted they wait three years. 'Three years!' Denethor moaned. 'How will I survive three years?' He would be stationed at Cair Andros, in charge of the refortifications, while he waited for the discussions to be completed. How he wished he could be with Thorongil in Dol Amroth. He did not wholly trust the captain, and yet, what recourse was there but to accept his father's will in this? He begged to be part of the nuptial negotiations, but the Steward laughed at him. 'A man does not do his own negotiations. It is not the way. Be grateful for what I have given you. Do not push me further!' And so, Thorongil had gone to Dol Amroth; he had gone to Cair Andros.

He lay awake at night wondering where she was, what she was doing. Were there dinners and balls being held in Thorongil's honor? His heart was torn from him at every imagined meeting between the two. Would she be overcome by Thorongil's charms as had Ecthelion? Would he woo her away? He could hardly bear the thoughts that assailed him and took to the ramparts of the fortress long before Anor rose. He would walk for hours, and when the first blush touched the sky, he would return to his bed in hopes that he could obtain a few hours rest. Oft as not, he could not.

He wished with all his might that Amdir was stationed with him, but Amdir was now captain of the garrison at Pelargir. Ecthelion, with the urging of Thorongil and Mithrandir, had decided to send more men and weapons to that fortress. Denethor shook his head. How often he had counseled the Steward to do such a thing, but it took a wizard and Thorongil to accomplish the deed. He could not fathom why Ecthelion would trust a wizard. His heart quivered at the remembrance of the many encounters with Curunír. Wizards were not to be trusted. He smiled a little; Amdir had said that so very long ago. He missed his friend.

His men were good men, well trained and of good spirit. The refortification was going well. He would lead a sortie out after nuncheon to survey the eastern side of the river. They would not go too far. He was at Cair Andros to refortify the garrison not recapture North Ithilien. Damrod, now his second in command, had hand picked a sturdy lot to accompany him. As they set out, Denethor's mood finally lifted. He loved Ithilien. To be going back was a joy. Reports from his Rangers told him that Orc activity had increased, but it was daylight, and he was wary. He was taking enough men with him, a full company. They would not dare to attack.

Four hours from the river, as the band of Easterlings screamed their filthy battle cry, Denethor rued his decision. Why would Easterlings be here? They did not pass the Dead Marshes. Never had he heard of any, for an age at least, that had dared to set foot on Ithilien soil. He swung his sword, but the enemy's armor was such that his sword was almost useless. He felt Rochallor's shudder before he saw the polearm connect. The curved spike on the top of the weapon had sliced through his steed's hamstring. Denethor tried mightily to jump away from the horse as it fell, screaming, to the ground. He wanted to cover his ears. Quickly, he drew his sword back and sliced through his friend's throat. Tears scalded his cheeks, but the attacking Easterling now focused his attention on Denethor. Drawing a quick breath, Denethor tried to work his way to his enemy's back, for only there was an Easterling defenseless. It was not to be. The enemy knew what Denethor was about and kept his back from him. As the scimitar came down upon him, Denethor turned and fell to the ground. He held his shield before him, but the Easterling replaced his weapon and drew forth his shorter polearm. Thrusting it at Denethor's wriggling body, he knew he would overcome the Gondorian shortly. Just as the last thrust was pulled back, the Easterling arched forward, an arrow in its back. Denethor rolled to his side, grasping the wound in agony while trying to stem the flow of blood.

"There were traitors, my Lord, that is how the Easterlings surprised us." Damrod's snarl told of his anger and sense of betrayal. "The two that served you at the garrison at Nardol. The same that questioned your orders there. They have been captured. Would you judge them now?"

Denethor drew in his breath at the news. "I do not understand. Tell me of what you speak, Damrod. It makes no sense!"

"My Lord," Damrod started more slowly. "Forgive me. The healer told me I might speak with you, but if you are not well enough...?"

He held his hand to his head. "What you have just told me is more important than my healing," he snapped. "I cannot lie here with treachery afoot. Tell me of what you speak!"

"The Rangers?" Denethor would have shouted had not his head hurt so badly. "What Rangers? What do...? I remember naught after I fell. You must begin at that moment."

"Yes, my Lord. I am sorry." He drew in a breath. "We were lost, my Lord, and would have been Easterling fodder if the Rangers of Henneth Annûn had not arrived when they did. As it is, we lost nigh unto forty-seven men. The Rangers descended upon our foe with ease and dispatched them all. When the battle was done, scouts were sent out; two men were discovered hiding near a stream only a league from the battle site. They were brought back and found to be soldiers under your command. We thought they were just cowards, men who had not faced battle before and knew only to run. Not one of us ever suspected treachery. But Captain Dúinhir did. The Rangers took them away, they confessed, and were brought back here. What means were used to acquire that confession, I do not know. We have them under guard and awaiting your judgment."

Denethor realized he had half-risen from the cot and now lay back upon it. His breath was shallow and pain-filled.

His pain-glazed eyes looked up. "Rest? Be gone from me." Silently he cursed himself for not knowing the man's name.

"My Lord," the healer said more sternly. "You must rest. You are under my care and I will not allow further converse. I let your second speak with you only for a moment. That moment is long past and you will rest."

The authority in the man's voice rang out; Denethor was pleased to see such fervor. It reminded him of Arciryas; he placed more trust in the man's orders. "Yes. If you command, I will rest - but for only an hour." He turned towards Damrod. "Come back to me in one hour's time. We will finish this discussion." He closed his eyes, fervently wishing for sleep to quickly overtake him.

The healer stepped closer. "My Lord, I would that you would drink this. It is Valerian tea. It will help you sleep and ease the pain."

"I know full well what the tea will do and I will not drink it. I would be asleep for much longer than the hour I require. Now leave me be so that I may take as much rest as I am able in the short time I have left." He tried to turn on his side and immediately, pain lanced through his entire body. He stiffened and the healer dropped to his knees beside the cot.

"'Tis weak tea, laced with honey, my Lord. You will sleep for only a short time. You must needs relief from the pain else you will not be able to even think, once you wake."

When he did wake, the camp was being struck. Men were mounting their horses; trumpets were blowing. He wondered, for a moment, where he was. Then, slowly, his memory returned, along with the pain. The hiss of his breath caused the healer to come to his side.

"I am glad to see you awake, my Lord. The draught must have been more potent than I thought."

Denethor looked askance. Was the man lying? Had he tricked him into drinking a heavier sedative than he had promised? The contrition in the man's eyes belied those thoughts.

"I must have needed the sleep. Send Damrod to me." The healer turned and swiftly ran towards Denethor's second. He felt very tired at this moment, more so than his forty-three years should feel. Of course, it was the wound, his responsibilities to his men, the thought of the forty-seven dead, and the treachery of two of his own. Nay, it was naught but treachery that made him feel as old, wizened, and dead as the White Tree.

Damrod stepped forward. "My Lord, I hope it does not go against your will, but I deemed it wise to strike camp and leave this area. The healer said you are well enough to travel. The Rangers wish to return to their patrols. We cannot stay here with our number so diminished."

Denethor's short laugh was swallowed in the pain the laughter caused. He clung to consciousness by a thread.

Denethor put his hand on Damrod's shoulder. "Just give me a moment. I am better. I must learn not to laugh when wounded." He started to laugh again at the incongruity of it all, but bit his lip to silence himself. 'I am giddy. I must be injured more than I had thought.' He lay back on the cot. Opening his eyes again, he looked towards his second. "How were you planning on getting me out of here? I see now that I cannot straddle a horse."

"The healer ordered a cart from Cair Andros. It was a little difficult getting it across the Anduin, but we succeeded. It will serve its purpose."

He smiled. "Thank you, Damrod. There was mention of treachery, if I recall rightly?"

"We will convene the trial once we have returned to Cair Andros. We will need the Rangers who questioned them." He thought for a moment. "Nay, we cannot do it there. We will have to wait until we reach Minas Tirith. The men's Fief Lord must be present, along with myself, and Captain Ciramir, the commander of our branch. This must be done correctly. I want them dead. I want their heads severed from their bodies. And I want every man not born of Gondor to know that treason means death!"

"Yes, my Lord. It will be done correctly. Do you want them taken directly to Minas Tirith?"

"Nay, we are too few as you rightly pointed out. When we arrive at Cair Andros, you will dispatch a detail. Make sure their orders are to immediately throw them into the dungeons of the Citadel. Neither food nor water is to be given to them until I return. Do you understand?"

"Damrod," how he hated to do this, "you take command. I cannot." He lay back on the cot; it was gently lifted to the cart, and the decimated company turned westward.

He tried to hide the smile that played in his heart. Of late, he had found that humor sprang to his mind unbidden. Yet, it was a terrifying humor, dark, cold and forbidding. Everything seemed incongruous. Everything seemed folly. He bit his lip. Tears stung his eyes, but he would not let them pass. Ecthelion had raved for nigh unto an hour. Denethor's back stayed straight, but his heart flinched at every invective, every false accusation. Being upbraided for something he had done was bad enough. 'To stand here and listen to this harangue about my failings in Ithilien is indeed bitter,' he thought. He realized Ecthelion was waiting for a reply. To acknowledge fault - he would not do that. To apologize - nay, that was not within him. Not for this. His mind scrambled to find a suitable reply. There was none. He stood mute.

Ecthelion hissed. "You have naught to say?" he mocked him. "Then, go to your quarters. Mourn your lack of judgment. Mourn the men you lost - men that Gondor desperately needs. Mourn your demotion. I will not speak to you again until you can tell me what purpose was accomplished by this disaster."

He saluted, turned, heard the word 'disappointed' fall from his father's lips, and continued walking. He tried to straighten his shoulders as he left the Hall. 'Must keep them straight. Must not falter,' he intoned over and over until he passed through the doors. The fog covering his mind seemed to lift as he entered the door of his own chambers. Damrod stood inside, waiting for him. "I do not like the look on your face, my Captain. Please sit here. I have made tea."

Denethor flinched as he sat. "Please ask Arciryas to attend me at his earliest convenience. You may go."

Once the door had shut behind his lieutenant, he started to laugh. The sound shook him to the bone. Tears fell. The cackling stopped. 'I am going mad,' he thought, 'I am going mad.' He laid his head against the chair's leather back and sighed.

He opened his eyes. She was kneeling by his feet. "I am afraid, Indis. I fear I am going mad. I cannot listen to him without fearful laughter choking me."

She shushed him, poured the tea, and held it to his lips. Arciryas entered the room and heard the last of his words. He stepped forward, took the tea from Indis' hand, and walked to the sideboard. He quickly ground some leafy thing with his pestle, poured it into the hot tea, stirred it, and returned to Denethor's side. "I have never understood why Ecthelion insists on grilling a man when he is injured. You should be in the Houses." The anger in his voice was palpable. Denethor, not caring what was in it, took the cup and drank. Arciryas pulled a foot stool close, picked up Denethor's feet and placed them on it. Then he pulled a chair close and sat on it. He motioned for Indis to leave. She hesitated. He gave her a sad smile and she obeyed.

They sat thus for hours. Denethor's breathing slowed. At last, his head nodded. Arciryas still sat. As evening came, Indis peeked in. Arciryas waved her off. She bit her lip and left, anger sparking from her.

"Thorongil," the sound startled Arciryas into wakefulness. Denethor had not moved, but his lips moved as he slept. "All... lost... better man... loved... father..." A heavy sigh shook his frame and his eyes opened. Arciryas almost cried at the pain evident in those eyes. So many years they had been together, soldier, friend, healer, and brothers by marriage. So many enemies they had faced together, so many deaths; Morwen sprang to mind... Yet, through it all, they had overcome adversity. How was he to help Denethor recover this time? The injury to body and soul was grave. 'Mayhap I will stay silent,' he thought. 'And hope he will confide in me. I wish Amdir were here.'

Indis again entered the room, this time with a tray of cheeses, breads, jams, and roasted meat. "You will both eat." She spoke sternly and both men laughed. Denethor sighed with relief. His laughter sounded genuine and sane. She kissed his forehead and left.

"Ever has she been a help to me," Arciryas stated. "And ever has she ordered me about." He laughed again. "You will discover this yourself, Denethor, when you are wed to your Finduilas."

Denethor sat still. "What hope is there for marriage, now? Adrahil will not allow her to marry a disgraced and demoted soldier, no matter his other titles." His chin shook and tears ran down his cheeks. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I am going mad, weeping like a child."

"There is naught to forgive. Your body, my friend, is in shock. The wound is severe. You will be fit again within a month's time. Until that time, do not be concerned about your mind's reaction. It will pass. Your father is mistaken, forgive me for saying this, but he is. You are a great captain, wise and thoughtful. You were prepared for anything but treachery. I cannot remember when such a thing has happened in Gondor. It is enough to make one go mad. Treachery, betrayal... these are things that happen not in Gondor. I do not understand, though, why you did not..." He pursed his lips in thought. "Your father was wrong. That is all I can say."

Denethor shrugged, hissed at the pain, and bowed his head. "I did not know what to say. He has not cowed me like that in a very long time. I have gone over the battle often. I cannot see any way that we would have won it. If not for the Rangers, I would not be here now." He pushed back his plate of uneaten food and gazed into the distance. "Ecthelion is saying that I should not have gone out on patrol. I had sent out scouts. I had placed pickets when we stopped for supper. We were alert."

"Our own men tricked them, their throats were cut, and the Easterlings were waved forward. This is what comes of having foreigners in our army. Ecthelion should never have opened our ranks to any not of Gondor."

"Yes. I had not been comfortable with them since the Drúadan Forest. I should have listened to my heart and drummed them out of the service right there and then. Their impertinence and lack of discipline were great, but we need men, Arciryas, no matter how lacking their abilities. Now, I have paid for it with the lives of my men."

"Eat, before Indis returns. You will feel her wrath, if naught else. And you do need your strength. You must convene the trial. Have you set a date yet?"

"As soon as it is possible. Their Fief Lord is coming in from the north. As soon as he arrives, we will do it. I want them dead," he snarled, "as soon as possible. I want the other foreigners to see that Gondor is not weak, that we will not countenance treachery. I want Ecthelion to see the kind of men he has allowed to enter his service."

'The kind of men allowed.' Thorongil had returned. Ecthelion fairly beamed as he listened to the results of his negotiations. The dowry was not too dear. The treasury was needed for metals, weapons, food, and soldiers' pay, not for marriage. Denethor could see the tautness of his father's jaw as they discussed the offering. He stood next to the Steward's Chair in silence. He should feel shame, for he was presented to Thorongil as lieutenant, yet naught could diminish the joy he felt at the messenger's news. He had been dismissed soon after, yet Ecthelion had ordered Thorongil to stay further. Denethor left the Hall, again shoulders pulled stiffly back. He would show no sign that he had been disgraced.

Instead of returning to his chambers, he headed for the Fourth Level and 'The Three Fishermen.' The lass brought his flagon and he motioned her away, though she obviously had hopes for other orders. He tried to keep his mind focused on her, his Finduilas, but he could not. Thorongil's face stared out of his misery. The love and respect Ecthelion showered upon the northerner was plain to see. Denethor bit his lip. Perhaps he would be made Captain-General. He drew in his breath sharply. Never had anyone but the Heir been made Captain-General, but all rules, protocols, and policies seemed to have been thrown off the escarpment. Bitterness welled in Denethor's heart; he endeavored to push it aside. Thorongil had done what had been asked of him. And for that, Denethor was heartily grateful. He looked up as he heard the chair across from him scrape across the floor.

"Please." Denethor said and motioned for him to sit. Yet no words were spoken between the two after that. Several moments passed and Denethor spoke. "Is she well?" he asked haltingly. "Does she remember me in a fair light? Did she give you, perhaps, a message for me?"

"I have a missive here, my Lord." And with that, he handed Denethor a packet wrapped in gold ribbon.

Denethor looked up in appreciation. "Thank you!" He turned his face away from Thorongil and undid the package. Tenderly, he opened the letter inside and a flower fell out and onto the floor. Thorongil stooped and picked it up, handing it to him. After reading the note, Denethor was again silent.

Thorongil finished his ale and gestured for another two to be brought to their table. He kept still, all the while watching Denethor's face; smiling at the joy that filled it. He gave a short chuckle as he thought of how the emotions mirrored those of the woman who gave him the packet. 'Two peas in a pod,' he thought. 'I will be very happy to see this union take place. I wish it were sooner.'

Denethor put aside all happy thoughts and turned towards Thorongil. "There has been treachery in the army. I cannot remember ever seeing treachery within the ranks. Cowardice, perhaps, but never treachery. Would you tell me - you have never taken oath to Ecthelion nor to Gondor. Would you do such a thing? Should I, knowing that half-truths are given, and subterfuge is employed by one very close to the Steward, consider treachery in others?" His eyes were sharp and drilled into Thorongil.

The man sat back in amaze. He did not answer for a moment, then took a sip of ale, and set the flagon down. "'Twould seem honor would not be served, my Lord..."

"There! Again you speak as if we were not friends, calling me your Lord! How is this?"

Thorongil clenched his hand on the flagon and Denethor noted it. "Twice now, my Lord," Thorongil spat the title out, "you have come to me with questions of loyalty. If you do not trust me, why do you not banish me from Gondor?"

Denethor's dry laugh hurt. "I have no authority to do such a thing and I have lost all my father's regard, Thorongil, my friend." He looked up into steel gray eyes. "I would speak with you, not in honeyed-terms as the counselors of my father, but in the bluntness of friendship. I am concerned. I am beyond angry and would stop this canker that is brought from outside. Forty-seven of my men were killed. Forty-seven that Gondor can ill afford to lose. Is an oath required of foreigners? What think you of that?"

"Oath or no, Denethor, if there is treachery in a man's heart, an oath will not stop it. If there is no treachery in a man's heart," and he looked pointedly at Denethor, "then an oath will not start it. You asked me earlier this year if I believed the king would come. Would you accept him or would you ask an oath of him also?"

"Of course an oath would have to be given; it is part of the ceremony," Denethor snapped. Then sighed and took another drink. "And I have told you before, there must be proof, proof as strong as mithril, that the claim is true." He looked down at the cup he held in his hand. A heavy sigh escaped his lips. "I would not require an oath of you, my friend." Then he finished the cup and stood. "I must return to my company. I must report to my captain." Bitterness fell from the words.

"Your father has erred," Thorongil said. "I have heard the reports of the attack and know you did well. May I speak on your behalf?"

"Nay. I am used to father's punishments, his whims; I will wait for the air to clear before I approach him." He turned and strode out of the inn. Cursing, he realized Thorongil had never answered his questions about Finduilas. He turned to step inside again and ran directly into the captain.

"She is most anxious to see you. She sends her love," Thorongil said as he clasped Denethor's shoulder. "Mayhap, I would be allowed to accompany you, next time you are granted permission to see her. As your chaperone."

Denethor clasped Thorongil on the shoulder in return. "Yes," he smiled and the brilliance of it lit his face. "We will ride together, when father's anger is spent, and we will fish on the way." The men laughed as they walked towards the Citadel.

A sparrow lit on the parapet and Denethor almost lost his footing in surprise. He was standing upon the wall itself, hanging onto one of the marble pieces that was placed upright for beauty's sake, craning his neck for signs of the entourage. He laughed ruefully, 'Twould be well and good for me to fall and crash below. An interesting way to greet my bride!' The laugh changed to a startled cry of joy. Dust was disturbed in the distance, along the South Road, more dust than a lone horseman or cart would kick up. It must be her!

He jumped off the parapet, onto the escarpment, ran to the wall that began his shortcut, and started down, level by level. On the Fourth Level, he had to stop for a breath. "I am growing too old for this," he moaned softly. The pause gave his body a chance to complain. He looked at his burning hands, surprised by the blood oozing from various cuts. 'I think I will have to stop climbing these walls soon, and use the streets.' Too anxious to take the slower, longer road along those streets, he once again grabbed a handhold and crawled down another part of his childhood shortcut. He startled a servant who was hanging out her mistress' wash, but only gave a grunt of apology and continued.

By now he was on the Second Level and decided it would be prudent to take to the streets; he ducked into one of the inns. The hosteller was startled by the appearance of the son of the Steward, but, upon request, led him to a room with sink, towels, and a mirror. Thankful, Denethor noted none of the blood had dripped onto his clothing. After cleaning up and running a hand through his hair, he left the room, flipped a coin to the hosteller with a mumbled thank you and walked out into the sun. It was the first he had noticed the day; it could not be more beautiful. Spring flowers were in full bloom; a wind, strong enough to carry the odors away from the City and to snap the Steward's banners, blew from the south.

As he walked into the Ranger's Quarters on the First Level, he smiled. Damrod never failed to amaze him; his horse was saddled and ready. The mane was braided as was the tail, and a mithril-edged helmet covered the horse's head. He was glad he had worn his own best livery. 'Twould not do to have his horse look more elegant than himself.

Horse and rider passed through the Great Gate as the City's trumpets sounded. A herald rode behind him holding the White Banner of the House of Húrin. He rode slowly; it would not do to appear too anxious. He heard hoof beats behind him and espied Thorongil riding towards him, followed by a contingent of Ecthelion's personal guard, the Steward's banner flying in front of them. Denethor pulled his mount up and waited. Thorongil drew next to him and smiled. "Forgive my temerity, my Lord, but I did not think it proper that the future Steward of Gondor should be left to greet his Lady without escort." Denethor smiled, turned his horse south again, and continued his journey, Thorongil at his side. The Knights of Gondor, mounted on the best horses in the land, rode in a double file. Denethor turned slightly in his saddle to see. Pride swelled his heart for at that very moment, the sun, coming from behind a small white cloud, touched the Citadel. The glory of it, the beauty, took his breath away. She could not help but fall in love with his City, not on a day like today.

They reached the Harlond. Her escort had stopped at the ancient port and awaited him. Adrahil stepped from the coach. One of his men brought a fine looking steed, which the Prince of Dol Amroth mounted. He clasped arms warmly with Thorongil and then turned and saluted Denethor. The slight was swift but not unnoticed. 'So,' Denethor thought, 'we play games. If this smoothes the ill content of our marriage, then I will endure any slight for her.' The three turned their horses and rode at the front of the column. Thorongil chatted amiably with the prince, who chose to ignore the Steward's son. Denethor held his anger in check. All he wanted was to jump off his horse, open the carriage in which she rode, and take her into his arms. But - she was not yet his. The entourage passed through the Great Gates while the trumpets sang out the joy that was in his heart. He had never heard the full swell of trumpets. His banishment had caused him to miss Ecthelion's coronation ceremony, the only time within his lifetime that the full call of the trumpets of Gondor had rung out. Indis had told him how the sound had filled every nook and hollow in the City, echoing off Mount Mindolluin itself. He shivered for the grandeur of it. Despite his anger and frustration over the binding of the two houses, Ecthelion would not shame Gondor by not presenting a mighty exhibition of welcome and celebration.

The men dismounted at the great square of Isildur. Her carriage stopped; Adrahil opened the door, took her hand and helped her out. Denethor craned his neck, trying to manage a glimpse of her, but the Knights of the Swan barred his way. He lifted an eyebrow. Another snub. He would be forced to walk behind Adrahil's men. Thorongil, it seemed, would not allow this affront to pass, though. He took Denethor's arm and walked him to the front of the company. The man, well loved by the Swan Knights, commanded respect and the company let them pass. Refreshments were served under a portico set up purposefully for this event. Light drinks and pastries, designed to refresh the road weary travelers, completed the fare. After this short repast, at which Denethor could get no closer to her than ten yards away, flanked as she was by her family, she was returned to her carriage and the procession started towards the Citadel.

When they reached the Sixth Level, the carriage stopped. Finduilas stepped out, blinded by the morning light shining off white Mindolluin marble. She smiled when she caught sight of him. He stepped towards her, but Adrahil took her hand and turned her towards the tunnel that led to the Citadel. Denethor took a step back, longing filling his face. He had forgotten any insult as soon as he had seen her.

Thorongil, putting his hand on Denethor's shoulder, whispered, "Soon, she will be yours forever. Let Adrahil have his moment."

"I know," Thorongil chuckled, "Believe me, I know." His thoughts went back to the last three years. Four times a year Denethor had persuaded Ecthelion to allow him to go to Dol Amroth. Thorongil had no trouble procuring permission to accompany him. Four times a year they would fish on the return trip. Never on the way, for Denethor was hard-pressed to see her - his beloved. Thorongil smiled, thinking of the hours he had spent, line in a river somewhere between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith, listening to minute details of Finduilas: her qualities, her expressions, her profound wisdom, until he would have to cry, "Stop, my Lord! I can stand no more, else I will woo the fair maiden myself." At which Denethor would blush and mumble an apology. The two men would laugh, pull their lines in, and bed down for the night. For three years Denethor's spirit had grown lighter and lighter.

The tunnel ended and they stood before the Courtyard. He gasped. She was overcome with emotion; he could see it in her face. He wanted to cry seeing the beauty of it reflected in her eyes. The stunning white marble, the great expense of the Courtyard and escarpment itself, the Guards of the Citadel before the Court of the Fountain with their black surcoats embroidered with the White Tree and their winged mithril helmets, the swatch of green grass in the whiteness, and then - she paused and drew in her breath - the White Tree. Was that a tear on her cheek? Was it anguish over its deadness? He had forgotten; he should have told her. Adrahil seeing none of the beauty, took her arm, and forced her away from the sight. They walked to the Citadel. His heart broke. How he wished he could have stood next to her, drinking in the beauty and grandeur of the Courtyard through her eyes. How he wished he could have held her and told her the tree would bloom again. How he wanted to sweep her into his arms and love her right there, on the spot. His face was on fire for the thought of her. He would never be able to thank her for this glimpse of a first time sight. He wanted to fall to his knees and worship her. He leaned against the tunnel wall trying to catch his breath. Thorongil spoke softly. "My Lord, you do not want to miss her entry into the Great Hall?" Denethor blinked twice, drew a breath and started forward.

The guard opened the doors into the Great Hall; Prince Adrahil led Finduilas in, Denethor and Thorongil followed. She turned to him for one moment, her smile subdued, but the twinkle in her eyes stopped his breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to let his heart return to some semblance of normalcy. The group moved forward; Thorongil gently took his arm and led him along. He was grateful; the Hall looked magnificent, marble walls and statues polished till they shone; he could see his face reflected in the glass-like shine of the floor. He had Indis to thank for this, he knew.

As they approached the Steward's Chair, Denethor's heart dropped. A blush of shame covered his face. Ecthelion should be on the Throne, his heart said, but he shook his head, chided himself and continued to walk forward. 'Ten thousand years will not suffice.' His father's words wound their way around his heart. Though their blood was as fine, nay even better than many in Minas Tirith, and those from Belfalas, never would the sons of the House of Húrin be aught but Stewards. He bit his lip, remembering Prince Adrahil's grand throne at Dol Amroth. His father was better... Nay, he must stay this thinking.

They bowed low, Prince Adrahil and Princess Finduilas, to his father, and for that, Denethor was grateful. Ecthelion rose from the Chair, stepped down the few steps, and kissed Adrahil on both cheeks, then turned his gaze upon Finduilas. Denethor noted the slight rise of his father's eyebrows as he looked upon her. She looked breath taking, even after such a long journey. Denethor's heart stood still for one moment, then Ecthelion pulled her close, kissed each cheek lightly, and led them to the Hall of Feasts. Denethor sighed and Thorongil laughed at his discomfiture.

"I tell you, all will be well, my friend," Thorongil whispered. "She has charm and wit and courage. She will hold her own against the Steward."

Denethor laughed and walked behind the group. "It is still a whole month before the ceremony. I will be able to neither eat, sleep, nor breath until that is completed. Perhaps we should go on patrol or some such. Anything to not be a witness to these grueling moments. My heart stops every time a new situation arises. I know she will hold her own against all, but I would that she did not have to. I would that we could run away, marry, and live together in joy. I sometimes think that will never be."

Thorongil chuckled. "Fate would not be so cruel as to bring you two together only to separate you. Rest in the knowledge of her love, her loyalty. She will be yours forever, and soon, my friend."

Though Denethor had only jested about going on patrol, a situation arose the very next day, and he was ordered to Cair Andros. Thorongil stayed in the City. Damrod rode with him, along with a full battalion of knights, though the number in a battalion was now five hundred, compared to the seven hundred of just thirty years ago. As they reached the island, signs of recent battle smote their eyes. There were dead horses, battered carts, and armor strewn along the shores of the Anduin. The battle must have been great. He thought of the men he had commanded just a few short years ago, and hoped that those he loved and respected had not fallen. No bodies were visible. They had all been buried and the Orcs' carcasses burned. The mound still smoldered. Denethor put a hand over his nose as they passed it. Never could he become inured to the smell. They stopped on the west side of the great river, pickets were set, and two companies rode forward on patrol.

Damrod brought Denethor tea where he sat on a great fallen hickory tree. His captains congregated around him. "We will wait until our scouts return before we cross the river," he said quietly. "I would that we could cross over immediately, but seeing the signs of a battle that looks ended does not mean it is so; we cannot trust that it is over. Nor that Orcs are not waiting in ambush on the island itself. We must content ourselves to wait here. I want no fires this night. And I want the pickets doubled. Caution the men to keep quiet. We will leave in the morning, if the patrols do not return by then. If they have not returned, we will assume the worst and go in battle formation. Now, take your rest, it might be the last you have for many a day." He walked to his tent and entered it. Damrod was inside, another cup of tea waiting. "You are the best aide I have had," Denethor smiled. "Thank you. Get some rest yourself now. I will need you at my side tomorrow, awake and alert." He fell into the cot, still dressed. Damrod shrugged, pulled off his captain's boots, and left him.

The patrol had returned in the middle of the night with the news that the battle had indeed been won, and that those stationed at the garrison were back guarding it. Denethor did not strike camp, but decided to wait till the morrow. Once they had broken the fast the next morning, Denethor called Damrod to his tent.

"Do you know how much your worth is to me?" Denethor asked his aide as the morning's light bathed the tent. "Nay, do not answer. I ask you this now for I would have your total allegiance."

"You will never be named a Captain of Gondor. I think you know that. It is custom in Gondor that only those with pure Númenórean blood are made up to captain. There has been an incident recently that has broken this tradition, you know of whom I speak; yet, there is only the one instance. I have asked Ecthelion to raise you, but he has called upon this tradition and refused me. I am... I have not words to tell you the value I place on you. I speak now, for another will be raised to captaincy, one whom has been only a short time with our company. I wanted you to know, before his promotion is announced, that you were, are, and will be my first choice for captain. If it were in my power, you would be one today. I..." He could not continue.

Damrod held his face impassive. Denethor was pleased, but the man's stoic behavior only further angered Denethor at his father's refusal. "I am sorry. I... I would ask that you continue as my aide, as my first officer, and as my friend. I would understand if you would prefer to transfer to another battalion."

Damrod blinked. "My Lord, my duty is to Gondor and to the Steward. Whatever he wills, I will. May I be dismissed?"

Denethor wanted to hug the man in gratitude. Too long had they been comrades-in-arms to let this pass without further words. He struggled to think what he might say to assuage the grief he expected his aide felt.

"My Lord," Damrod felt his captain's chagrin, "There is naught further to say. When I took commission in the service of Gondor, I knew what her traditions were. My heart had been set on only serving Gondor. It is my everlasting joy that I have been allowed to serve her through you. I will go and prepare your horse now." He saluted Denethor and backed out of the tent.

The garrison itself had been spared. Scouts had discovered the Orc hoard before they crossed the Anduin. Their goal seemed to be Osgiliath. Those not killed had run back towards the Nindalf.

As he and his men entered the gates of the island fort, a cheer went up. Denethor noted the diminished numbers of the battalion. 'Their losses were heavy,' he thought. A sudden anger filled him. 'How do these Orcs dare to trod on our land?' his mind screamed. 'We cannot continue to countenance this affront.' Dismounting, he strode quickly to his old office followed by the captain of the garrison. As he sat in the chair, he realized he was no longer captain here and stood up in embarrassment.

He sat back down. "Alas, I have none for you. Your orders remain the same: guard the fort, patrol for Orcs and other enemies, and keep Gondor safe. A little thing." His sarcasm was not lost on the captain. "How many have you lost?"

"A full company, nigh unto seventy men and twenty horses. Neither supply easily replaced."

"I know. I will view the men before nuncheon. Please have them assembled at that time. I am sorry..." he paused for a moment. "Is there aught that I can do for you? That my men can do for you?"

"Burial has already been performed. We had planned a small ceremony..." he hesitated. "In the morning. Would you be able to stay?"

"Of course! I would be honored. May I have the roll of those lost? I have friends here..."

Denethor rubbed his hands over the top of the desk. He had many fond memories from his stay here.

He decided to remain on Cair Andros for another fortnight. Walls needed reinforcing and the battle-weary troops needed rest. His men could provide that help and that rest. As he sat in his office, Damrod entered. "My Lord, the horse situation is not good. They have lost too many in this last battle. The troops here need horses for patrol. Their territory is vast. They need them more than we who are stationed in Minas Tirith."

"I have been thinking on the same situation," Denethor stated. "I would like to lead a foray to the Mering Stream, meet with the Rohirrim; if memory serves me, they have an outpost there. Mayhap they will have extra mounts that we might trade for. Send two errand-riders to the Rohirric garrison. I will write the missive now."

The next day, before Anor itself had risen, the errand-riders were dispatched. Three days later, Denethor led half of his battalion west. On the third day after that, they pulled up to the Rohirric camp at the Mering Stream as the sun reached its peak.

"My Lord Denethor?" a soldier came forward, hand brought to his chest in salute. He laughed at the surprise on Denethor's face. "Thengel King himself taught me the proper way to greet the Steward's son." Then he pulled Denethor into a huge hug. "I am Éomund and I am in charge of this lowly camp. I am honored and pleased to meet the friend of my king." He paused. "And Walda's. He was a cousin and a friend. I understand you were with him at the end?"

Denethor sat on the proffered seat, a grimace covering his face. "Yes. Would that I had arrived sooner. He was mortally wounded by the time I reached him. We spent three years together, serving Rohan. He was a good Marshal and a good friend. I owed him my life many times over."

"And he you. I have heard of the battles you two were part of. Songs, even, have been made of some of them. Perhaps tonight we might sing them 'round the fire?"

Denethor blushed slightly. "I have heard of no such songs. If it pleases your men to sing them, we will listen - but - I believe songs of Eorl, Helm Hammerhand, or even Thengel King would sound sweeter."

After the noon meal, Éomund took Denethor to the horse enclosure. Over fifty horses were gathered together.

"Yes, Denethor. As soon as the errand-riders showed me your missive, I knew my king would want me to do all in my power to help you. I sent runners to nearby posts. We have assembled what we could. I am ashamed, however. I know Gondor loves the black stallions of the East Emnet, but I have ill news. Most have been stolen." He held a hand to silence Denethor's questions. "It is not Orcs. Our custom was to leave our horses to wander free until we had need of them. A year ago, we noticed that the blacks were disappearing. We know not who, or what, is taking them. We now keep them in holding pens. But it harms their spirit. They are accustomed to being free."

Éomund drew himself up. "The men of the Riddermark do not need Mundburg's help in such a little thing."

"My deepest apologies, Éomund. The sons of Eorl have long protected the western borders that abut Gondor. Would you think that I, who have served under Fengel King, do not know of your courage, your wisdom? Yet, Gondor cannot survive without knowledge of what happens on her borders. You must see that." He paused for a moment, letting his words sway the young soldier. "It is not in disparaging thoughts that I asked my question. Gondor would be foolish not to listen to her league-fellows."

"Nay, forgive me," Éomund blushed. "I am hot headed and rash. Wisdom would be served by knowledge. You speak true. If you would allow, I will send monthly missives to Mundburg with news of the goings-on in our part of the Riddermark, with my king's permission."

"No apology is needed. You fight a desperate battle. I know; I have been there. Your mind and wherewithal are on other matters. Yet, it would be in the best interest of Gondor and the men of the Riddermark to converse as often as possible. Let us to your tent to discuss terms for the horses."

Night came, pickets were set, and the fires were lit. Instruments of all sort were drawn forth and the night's entertainment begun. Denethor smiled to be back among these warriors. He knew many of the songs by heart; it felt good to sing them again. 'Ah, Amdir would laugh to hear me sing, but I believe my voice has improved since our little jaunt to Rath Dínen.' He shared warm ale and a bedroll with Éomund. Leaning against it, he thought, 'I rather like this young warrior. Headstrong, yes, but wise too. If he can keep from becoming enmeshed in fighting, he should turn into a strong leader for Rohan.'

Suddenly, he sat up. He recognized the song as one of Walda's favorites. 'Where now the horse and rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?' The singer sang while the harpist picked the notes. He held his breath, such beauty in the words and the simple melody. He never understood the last two lines, but it mattered not. Haunting was the melody and haunting were the words. 'Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning, Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?' The camp was silent for many long moments after the last note fell.

Northern fields touched by sun
Awake to horns mighty sound
Rohirrim ride strong and bold
Rise with them, we must away.

Fealty to our king with mighty oaths
Shields raised, spears held high
Swords shining in the Riddermark
Ride now! Ride on!

Foe-beleaguered our steeds striding
Marching forth, to battle called
Fight and fall, buried deep
To heart's breaking, grief awaking.

Buried deep in snow-covered mounds
Where Gentle Simbelmynë rest awash in tears
Warriors before the Golden Hall
Sons of Eorl sleep at last.

"Mundburg has songs, too? Forgive me," the banner-bearer stood before him. "I am called Guthláf."

Denethor smiled. This one was very young. "We have songs. I, however, cannot sing. I will spare you pain. Damrod. What say you? Will you give these men a song? We cannot have them strain their voices all night. And, they must have time to down a flagon or two. Can you give them that time?"

Damrod smiled broadly. "Yes, Captain. I can." He stood and turned towards the company.

Golden fields stretch to greet her
Sundering seas is her allure
Shimmering mountains tower high
Touching moonlit mountain sky.

Hoping, waiting, all welcoming
Minas Tirith's glinting towers
Lum'nous spikes, gleaming white
Smite the darkness, ream the night.

Anor waits to greet the day
Wishing darkness all away
Shadows lurk, they do not sunder
Light nor shade nor worlds of wonder.

Night lies still and will not leave
Warrior widows sit and grieve
Light will come 'tis part of life
As with battles as with strife.

Gondor sits, mirrored moonbeams
Light her walls in Elvish dreams
All is well; Eärendil shines
'Pon my City, beloved, mine.

"You men of Mundburg," Éomund laughed, "only sing of the White City? Have you no other love besides?"

"She is love and mistress enough for any man, Rohir. Mark my words; if ever you should happen upon her, especially when the morning sun touches her, you will be caught in her web. None who see her forget her."

"And I will gladly show her to you. Someday. For now, we must rest. Tomorrow we must be off. Our men await these mounts. Gondor is indeed blessed to have such friends as the Sons of Eorl."

"You are to be wed, I hear?" the young warrior asked as Denethor stood. At his nod Éomund continued, "Has my king accepted your father's invitation?"

"Yes, Éomund, he has. He sent missives saying he will arrive sometime soon. The ceremony will take place less than a fortnight from now. I must away tomorrow, or I might miss my own vow taking! May I wonder why you asked?"

"I had hoped to see his daughter again. Has the Lady Théodwyn been invited? I..." His cheeks turned a pale red under the sun-darkened skin. "I was hoping the Eorlingas might rest here on their journey to Mundburg."

Denethor smiled, knowing why the young man hoped the entourage would stop. He remembered the child Théodwyn and wondered. 'The last time I saw her,' he thought, 'she was only ten. I wonder how she appears now. And what makes this man think Thengel would consider him? Hmmm, hope dwells always in a man's heart.' He spoke aloud, "Your king did not say what day he would arrive, but I had hoped it would be soon. Which again makes me anxious to retire now, so that we might strike camp early on the morrow. Please forgive the abruptness of this, but my own love will be anxious at my absence."

"Nay, I will not take your tent. Damrod has already set mine. I will farewell you now. I am hoping we will be gone before the first light. I thank you for your hospitality. Gondor thanks you for the horses. May the men of the Riddermark live long."

With that, Denethor turned and walked to his own tent. Consternation filled his face. It was not till they had talked of the arrival of Thengel that Denethor had remembered how perilous short was his time. Damrod greeted him. "Tell my captains I would see them now."

He barely had time to take a sip of the tea brewed by Damrod when the tent flap was pulled back and his captains strode in. "We will leave before first light. The horses will follow the main company. Have drovers ready. We will eat on the road." They bowed and made to leave. "One other thing, we must not tarry. I must start for Minas Tirith as soon as we arrive in Cair Andros. Go now and tell the men."

He strode up and down inside the little tent, tension causing his neck to ache. Damrod entered and Denethor poured out his unease upon his aide. "I have misjudged the time. She will be wondering where I am. I cannot let her be anxious over me. I still have preparations that must be made. The ring is done. For that I am thankful. I know Indis will arrange the festivities, but I wanted to buy her some little offering, some token of my love besides the ring. I have found naught."

"My Lord, there is an heirloom in the treasury, a dirk worn by Turgon's mother. My father saw it with his own eyes and told me of its beauty. The handle is encrusted with emeralds. If I remember correctly, the emeralds are the seven stars; there is a moonstone at the base of the White Tree. It would be a fair gift for Finduilas."

"Yes! I remember it well." Denethor grasped Damrod's shoulder. "Thank you. I will ask father for it when I return. It is a fitting gift for a Princess of Dol Amroth." A smile lit his face. "How can I sleep now? My heart is o'erburdened with this joy. Yet sleep I must. And so must you, Damrod. Go now. Wake me an hour before the company rises."

Damrod watched the furrow on Denethor's brow grow less and less distinct the closer they came to Minas Tirith. It had taken longer than his captain had thought to drive the horses to Cair Andros. It had been tedious work; the men were not used to herding horses. He had had to laugh at the sight of one or another of Gondor's Knights urging his own steed on to catch a wayward mare of Rohan that had tried to head off to parts unknown. Too often, the horse seemed to win, and more of the knights would be needed to bring the animal back to the herd. He sighed. It would be good to enter the White City, bathe in warm water, sit on a cushioned chair, sleep in his own bed, and not smell of horse! 'Ah,' he thought. 'I am becoming soft.' He turned to look back at the men. Denethor's sharp intake of breath caused him to quickly turn around. His captain had pulled up on his horse.

Damrod stopped his horse and stared. Indeed, he had never seen the White City so beautiful. Banners snapped in the stiff northern wind. White banners everywhere. There seemed to be not one inch of Minas Tirith not flying the Steward's Banner. From every parapet, from every tower, cascading down windows, covering the Great Gate, banners flew. It was staggering. The City looked magnificent. Damrod's smile filled his face. "My Lord, 'tis a wondrous sight."

"'Tis indeed," Denethor concurred. "This is the work of Indis. Where and when she had the time to plan this, I do not know. It is wondrous." The familiar tingle prickled his body; the same sensation he felt every time he looked at his City from afar.

Simultaneously, both men clicked their tongues, urging their horses to a gallop. The knights followed; amazed at the sight before them. "I cannot fathom," he whispered, "any place more beautiful. Surely the Valar themselves had a hand in the making of her."

Piercing gray eyes stared at him from the back of the Hall. He could almost see the fire in them, not the fire of love or want, but the fire of anger. His face blanched. He knew she was furious. This was the first they had seen each other since the day she arrived. E'er since his return, two days ago from Cair Andros, his father busied him with small errands. Were these used to keep him away from her, he wondered? Beyond that, reports needs be written and offered, replacements found for those lost at the battle of the River, remuneration for the horses discussed, a myriad of tasks laid at his feet. The matter of Rohan's horses was the worst. They had spent an entire day arguing about it.

Even this morning, on his oath-taking day, Ecthelion had summoned him again to berate him for his actions. He had been enraged when he heard the price Denethor had agreed upon.

"And not even black stallions!" his father had shouted. "What possessed you to agree to that price with no stallions?"

"My Lord Steward," Denethor spoke softly. "The Rohirrim gave us the best horses they had. They are worth the price. They are healthy and of good breeding stock. We paid for sires, mares, and their future offspring."

Thorongil tried to step between the two, but Ecthelion waved him away. As he stepped back, Denethor noted a glint of green coming from a weapon hitched to Thorongil's belt. He drew in his breath. He knew this dirk! Thorongil looked at him in surprise, saw where his eyes were looking, and blushed. Ecthelion noted naught but his own anger.

Pulling himself as tall as he could, Denethor said, "My Lord. It is done. Gondor cannot go back on her word to her allies. If you deem the price too high, you may take it from my pay. Or," and he looked pointedly at Thorongil, "you may take one of my prized possessions. Perhaps great-grandmother's dirk - the one she promised to me?"

Thorongil's face grew a deeper shade of red, but Ecthelion was oblivious to the barb. "You will certainly pay for this in the years to come - when you are Steward and the Treasury is empty because of your folly!"

Ecthelion's words stung. "Yes, Father. I will pay for it, as I will pay for the sons not born because your lords think only of the building of monuments to lie in dead; I will pay for it because my ancestors thought that Gondor was safe and not in need of defense building; I will pay for it when our allies turn their backs on us because we demean them; I will pay for it when wizards rule the House of Húrin instead..."

"Enough!" Ecthelion bellowed. "I have had enough of your whimpering and whining, your softened heart. Gondor will be strong! Gondor's allies will see that they cannot take advantage of us." He strode back and forth in front of the Steward's Chair. Reining in his anger, he turned to Denethor. "I have spoken with the wizard. He has assured me we are doing well. He suggests we strengthen Pelargir and I agree. I am sending my captain, Thorongil, to replace Captain Amdir at Pelargir. He has been commissioned to restock the fleet, encourage foreigners to join our forces under him, and remind the lords of the southern fiefs to call up their sons for Gondor's service. He will be leaving as soon as the ceremony is complete. He will not deplete the Treasury, nor give excuses as to why our allies rook us, nor fail us in our need. Go now. Prepare for your vow taking to this... this..." He stopped at the look upon Denethor's face, and seemed to quail for a moment.

He shook his head to clear it of the memories of these last two days. He must focus on her and on the ceremony. He must let all thoughts of the last few hours dissipate. She had every right to be angry. He had duties to perform, but she was now part of those duties. How would he ever explain himself? What a night this would be.

The procession moved forward; Finduilas holding her hand lightly on Adrahil's arm, as she had the night he fell in love with her. She looked like steel - a fine sword, honed to sharpness. By the Valar, he wished he had left his father hours ago. The Swans reached the Chair and bowed low before Ecthelion. Denethor took his place to the right of the Chair. Ecthelion stood, addressed the company, motioned for Denethor to join them, and continued. By now, Denethor's ears were ringing. He knew she was angry, could see it in her stance, but the anger seemed to make her even more beautiful. Daughter of Elves indeed.

He leaned closer and whispered, "I will not forsake thee again; I vow it, here in front of the Steward's Chair."

She laughed and his face turned scarlet. The next moment, she placed her hand lightly on his arm. Her brow furrowed as she spoke, "Never leave me nor forsake me, my Lord. Thou art my very breath. I cannot live without thee. I cannot think without thee. I cannot love without thee. Thou art my all."

Ecthelion, listening, stared at her. 'Elves,' he thought. 'Strange creatures.'

Denethor shook at the touch of her hand. He took it in his own hand and kissed it gently, not caring what the guests thought.

Another withering look from Ecthelion, but she smiled at the Steward and spoke. "My Lord," she said to Denethor, "Do not stake thy life on that vow. Thou and I wilt talk - but that time is not now. 'Tis time for my own oath."

She turned fully towards him and spoke in a loud voice.

"How canst I say that I love thee, my Lord? What words might I use? No word, no thought, no feeling is strong enough, eloquent enough to tell thee of the love that o'erflows my heart - because thou, my Lord, hast filled my heart with such joy, such longing, such peace.

"Thou hast open'd my eyes to the world around me, to its beauty, its smells, its colors, its sounds - birds chirping, gulls calling, children laughing - because of thy love for me.

"Thou hast opened my heart by giving me family and friends who love me without question," she turned and smiled at Indis, "accept me as I am, hold me to faithfulness, cherish me, and find me of worth - because of thy love for me.

"Thou hast opened my mouth to sing, given words to thy love and fidelity, shared the joy of thee with others, cried with others, and laugh'd with others - because of thy love for me.

"I am entire because thou completes me. I am thine, my Lord, from now until always."

He swept her into his arms, holding her close. Never had he expected words of such passion, such commitment to fall from her lips. He lifted her chin and kissed her deeply. Turning towards the Steward, he bowed, placed her hand on his arm, and walked down the long Hall. The smile on his face lit the room and caused his people to rejoice!

The ceremony was over. As she walked with him towards the Great Door, she quietly reminded him that they had much to speak of. He stifled a sigh. Then he spoke to her in Sindarin - love phrases he had learned from books found in the archives. He would persuade her to begin this day anew, from this moment onward. He would show her he meant the vow he had just made. Whispering sweet names to her, he continued towards the Door. "Beloved, Precious, Star of Eärendil, Daughter of Varda, Fairest Lady of Gondor," on and on he went. He closed his eyes for a moment before they reached the entrance. Turning towards her, he begged forgiveness, then took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. Long and slow was that kiss and the guests started tittering, but he did not care. At last, he loosened his hold upon her and turned her towards the door. They walked forward, smiling, out of the North Door and into Merethrond, the Hall of Feasts.

Their moment of happiness was short-lived, however. Thorongil came, the next morning, to speak with him. He did not want to see him; did not want to give him a moment to explain the meaning of the dirk. And yet, he knew that is why the northerner came. Memories tried to flood his mind, memories of their friendship; he willed himself not to remember. Finally, he bid the servant let the man enter.

Thorongil quickly strode into the outer chamber, saluted, and bowed on one knee. "My Lord."

Denethor blushed. "Stop it. Get up. There is no need for that." The memories would not be checked; he could not let his friend kneel to him. "Finduilas sleeps. Let us to the balcony." A servant followed and laid tea, cheeses, breads, jams, and sweetened rolls on a table. "Have you broken your fast?" At Thorongil's shake of the head, he bid him sit and eat. After a few moments silence, Denethor asked, "Would you tell me why father gave you the dirk?"

"I do not know myself, Denethor. I truly do not. He gave it to me at the same moment he gave me the captaincy of Pelargir. A token of his esteem. I did not want to take it. It is too grand a gift for one such as me."

"I..." Denethor laughed hoarsely. "I was going to give it to Finduilas as a gift." He shook his head. "There are other items in the Treasury that would be more appropriate. She does not countenance violence and would probably put it in some corner, or at the top of some storage area, and it would be lost. Better you have it," he said with a small smile.

"Pelargir. I know you have wanted to command the fleet. I know you trained for it under Prince Adrahil. I did not ask for it. I must have you know that."

"I know. And my father knows I wanted it." He stood facing the parapet. Gulls called to each other and the sound broke his heart. He thought of the books he had read of Minardil's captain of old, Captain Vëantur. Reading of the great sea captain's voyages had helped Denethor through the torments of his early childhood. Now he would never sail the seas on adventure. Not only Thorongil's appointment, but also his taking of a bride, had put an end to those dreams.

"It is best you go. But first, I have another question. Did Mithrandir suggest that you have the captaincy of Pelargir?"

Thorongil bowed his head. Denethor knew he had his answer. His mind whirled. Bits and pieces of old thoughts, old fears, ran through him. 'Wizards are not to be trusted,' he remembered Amdir saying a very long time ago. He sighed heavily. He had learned to fight Curunír; now he would have to learn how to fight this wizard.

"I would spend time with Finduilas." He laughed at the memory of the hours he spent bending Thorongil's ear on the graces of the fair lady. "You understand what I mean. I look forward to our next meeting."

"Yes, I understand, my friend. I will think on you often. I would hope that, upon your trips to Belfalas to visit her kin, you might take the Pelargir road and visit with me?"

"I will do that. You may outfit your best ship and transport us by the Bay to Dol Amroth. We will laugh and sing, and perhaps put a line out. The fish in the Bay are known for their great size!" He gave Thorongil a great hug and showed him from the room. As he walked back in, she stood in the bedchamber's doorway.

A/N - 1) The title Marshal is used for many army postings in LOTR. Marshal of the Riddermark, Marshal of the Mark, etc. There do not seem to be any other titles for those in Theoden's army. So I used Marshal of the garrison as Eomund's title. He is young and this is probably one of his first commands. For precedent, I used this quote from TTT, Ch. 8, The Road to Isengard. 'More were scattered than were slain; I gathered together all that I could find. Some men I sent with Grimbold of Westfold to join Erkenbrand. Some I set to make this burial. They have now followed your marshal, Elfhelm.' 2) Denethor calls Rohan 'league-fellows' - I used this term from the one in ROTK, Ch. 6 - Battle of the Pelennor Fields. From the song, The Mounds of Mundberg. 'In the Mounds of Mundburg under mould they lie with their league-fellows, lords of Gondor.' 3) Banner-bearer -This is his first assignment, under Éomund. Guthláf is Théoden's banner-bearer and dies next to his king on the Pelennor. ROTK, Ch. 5 - The Ride of the Rohirrim. 'With that he seized a great horn from Guthláf his banner-bearer, and he blew such a blast upon it that it burst asunder.'

Indis waited for him at the Great Gate. 'Always patient,' he thought with a smile. He quickly dismounted and strode towards her.

"Denethor!" she ran to him and relished the feel of his arms as he picked her up and swung her about. "Too long have you been gone. Finduilas has been beside herself. I have tried my best to assuage her fears for you. I have told her you are rock-hard and unable to fall to any enemy or fell beast. But she would not listen. And she told me her secret."

His face beamed and burnt at the same time. "I wanted to tell you myself, big sister," he placed her back upon the ground, looking down at her. "Though I am most happy that she confides in you, that you have become friends. It is true. Arciryas said he might even come by Yáviérë."

"He! And how do you know it is a he? It could be a she. She carries her high. That is the usual sign for a girl baby."

"I had a dream, a premonition. I do not know what it was, but I do know she carries a boy. And that he will be a leader of men. And strong, steadfast and... and valiant. He will need to be all those things." A shadow crossed his face. "I sometimes wonder if it is ill-advised to bring another child into this world." His voice trailed off and he looked behind him towards the Ephel Dúath.

"Little brother! Come; let us not sully this day with thoughts of darkness. There is only light that comes from Mindolluin. The white of the great marble walls that our forefathers carved shines forth for all to see. And your little one will shine like a great jewel."

Her carefree laughter dispelled the darkness that tried to settle upon him. When he had heard the news from Arciryas' messenger, he had immediately returned to the City. Away for only a fortnight, his heart ached as if he had been gone for a year. In that time, he had been visited twice by unwanted thoughts and feelings, dark thoughts of a time of greater peril still for Gondor. And for his family. Once he had heard the news, he quickly finished his task and returned to the City.

They walked up the streets towards the Citadel, her arm cradled in his. Long had it been since they had had such a moment together. She drank in the joy of it. Being a generous creature, she had never begrudged Denethor time with others. Though her heart sometimes ached with the loneliness she felt, she rejoiced in her brother's joy. Arciryas, now Master Healer, was too often in the Houses; too much blood, pain, and sorrow lay upon him. It seemed the darkness of the One they do not name crept further into the very depths of Gondor. Besides being healer, he insisted on trying to find new remedies to help heal the men. He labored in the Houses sometimes for days and nights at end, wrenching bits of sleep on a little cot in his office, until she would fear for his health and compel him to come to their chambers for a good meal and an extended rest. But never enough.

"The enemy seems to be redoubling his efforts. Ithilien turns darker and darker each day," he whispered to her. "We need more men. I do not know where we can find them, but we need more men."

"I cannot say. It seems not to have made a difference." He rubbed his forehead to try to release the tension constricting it. "We must exhort the other lords to give up their sons, their servants to fight for Gondor. We will not be able to survive; Gondor will fall."

She drew her breath in sharply. Accustomed as she was to his nay saying, she was unprepared for the depth of it this day of all days. Such good news should have rivaled all other news. Yet, he seemed not to be able to shake the desolation she heard in his voice. Her own brow knitted. The enemy truly had launched stronger, albeit furtive assaults on Gondor. The lists of dead increased daily - lists showing the destruction from the numerous sorties of the enemy who reamed Ithilien and the southern reaches of Gondor. The need for Arciryas in the Houses on such a steady basis told the tale in more gruesome fashion than Denethor's words.

"I cannot greet her like this," he sighed. "Is it my imagination...?" He did not want to give word to his fears, yet Indis had spent much time with Finduilas - she would know the answer. "Does she grow sad? Does she laugh less? Does she sigh more and louder? I have noted a change in her, do you?"

"Nay! It is as you say. But now, her heart is lightened. We must kindle the fire of joy that is permeating her. We must keep all ill news from her. I amar prestar aen. If she is to survive, she must not see what is happening. We must keep her eyes fixed on the babe."

Indis laughed. "After that, my dear brother, she will be so busy running after the little one that she will have no time for any thoughts!"

He held her in his arms, cradling her gently. His breath stirred the hairs on her forehead.

"Absenen," he sighed, stroked the hair back from her face, and continued breathing gently.

She turned her face towards his and ran her fingers lightly over his forehead, trying to ease the creases that furrowed it. "Le melon," she whispered.

"Nay, 'tis I who loves thee." He took her hand from his forehead and kissed it lightly. He must banish the dark thoughts. Too well she knew him. She would know. "My mind is elsewhere. Names."He smiled as he looked into her great gray eyes. "Hast thou thought of a name for him?"

"Him. Thou continuest to say, 'him.' Art thou so certain, melethrilnîn?"

"Yes. 'Tis true. Trust me."

She sighed. "An heir for Gondor. It is thy wish, is it not?"

"My wish is for health for thee and for our babe. It matters not if it be boy or girl, though I am certain 'he' is a boy." He tickled her gently and she laughed.

Another sigh. "My arms ache to hold him." She smiled. "'Tis a long time before that will happen."

"'Tis only Tuilérë. Six months more must we wait. But there is much to do. Among which is picking his name."

"What thinkest thou of Boromir?" He had remembered how Indis had said his son would shine like a great jewel. Indis had no more far-sightedness than any other maiden of Gondor, yet her words had lodged in his heart. A great jewel. A faithful jewel. His son must be faithful to Gondor, to his duty, and to his people. It would be easy to convince Finduilas to name him thus - a jewel of great price. But for him? He smiled, remembering the first Boromir, the great Dorthonion leader, and also Boromir, son of Denethor I. How fitting to continue the tradition of a Boromir following a Denethor! And that Boromir was also a powerful warrior. His hopes started to climb. Perhaps his son would lead Gondor to victory, would become king... His heart stopped for a moment. 'Ten thousand years' - the words screamed at him.

"Boromir," she rolled the name over her tongue, her lips moving silently as she contemplated it. "Dost it mean faithful jewel?"

"Yes,melethril nîn. Does that not seem perfect?"

"Boromir. The name pleasures my lips." She said it again and he swiftly moved forward and kissed them.

"Daro han!" she said as she leaned closer to him. "Daro han," she whispered as he drew her even closer, but he would not stop. "Boromir it will be," she sighed.

He reported early the next morning to Ecthelion. His mission had been simple. Reassure the captains stationed at Cair Andros and Henneth Annûn of the Steward's support, examine the garrisons' strengths, and observe their needs. Then report back. It seemed a waste of time. Daily, errand-riders brought reports back far more detailed than the ones Ecthelion had asked for. He did not understand the need for this mission. He could not, however, question his orders. So he had gone and returned in a timelier manner than Ecthelion had anticipated. As Denethor entered the Great Hall, he was surprised to see Thorongil attending the Steward. He stopped for only a moment, brow furrowed; then continued forward.

"Denethor!" Thorongil welcomed him warmly. Ecthelion did not raise his eyes. He studied a map laid open before him.

"My Lord Steward," Denethor greeted his father. Ecthelion kept his eyes on the map.

"I see we need to shore up our defenses here and here," he pointed to the map. "The men I sent you should be sufficient. I also want more ships built. How fared you with Adrahil? Is he ready to give us what we need?" He looked up finally, but not at Denethor, at Thorongil.

Denethor made not a sound. So this is why he was sent on that worthless mission. Ecthelion had not wanted him to be here whilst Thorongil was. And from the sound of it, Thorongil had been very busy indeed, meeting with Adrahil, receiving fresh troops, shoring up defenses. His face started to burn as he tried to will himself to remain calm.

"My captain has returned with good news, Denethor," Ecthelion finally acknowledged his presence. "He is working wonders in the south. Pelargir will ultimately be the garrison Gondor needs, not the sleepy seaport it had been under Amdir. You can take a lesson from his deeds. He has kept the costs low, too. The price for new ships is well within reason, not overstated, as some would negotiate. Perhaps I should place you under his command. You would learn much." Ecthelion turned towards Thorongil. "You met also with Mithrandir? I would hear of your discourse with the wizard." He paused for a moment, turning towards Denethor. "You do not need to hear of these things, Denethor. Go back to your troops and wait for my summons." He turned back to Thorongil. Denethor, smiting from the veiled reprimand and the dismissal, saluted and left.

"My captain! He called him 'my captain.' And this is not the first time he has done so," Denethor growled as he walked into the sunlight. The sight of the White Tree burnt his eyes. 'Does he hold me responsible for that, too?' he wondered bitterly. He walked to the parapet and sat on the wall overlooking the Pelennor. His love for Gondor caught in his throat as he looked out at the fields and orchards before him. Still a beautiful sight, even knowing what evil lay beyond the River. "My captain," he said again and tears stung his eyes. As the noon bells rang, he left his reverie and turned towards his quarters in the White Tower. Head lowered, he almost walked into a man. He looked up quickly, an apology on his lips that died as soon as he noted it was Thorongil.

"My Lord," the captain said gently. "You did not see me? I called your name a moment ago, as soon as I saw you sitting on the parapet."

Denethor smiled, hiding his anger. "Nay, I did not hear you," his eyebrow lifting as he spoke.

"What say you?" Denethor queried. "There is naught amiss." He tried to walk past the man.

Thorongil put out an arm and immediately took it back, recoiling at Denethor's glare. "Did you not know that I was recalled for this meeting? I was summoned a fortnight ago."

'Summoned at the same moment I was ordered to leave Minas Tirith,' Denethor thought sardonically. 'He must fear me if he waits till I am gone before he brings my usurper into our City.' The term startled him. 'I must think. I must discover what causes Ecthelion to approve of this man over me.' He moved forward. "Forgive me, Captain Thorongil, I have duties I must be about. Perhaps we may meet later."

Thorongil trounced on the invitation. "Yes. Let us meet at 'The Three Fishermen.' Is Amdir in the City? Perhaps he will join us?"

"Nay, he is not good enough to captain a garrison here in the City. He is at Amon Dîn, watching over the sheep," Denethor sneered dryly.

Thorongil's brow creased. "My Lord. I had naught to do with your father's assessment of Amdir's accomplishments at Pelargir."

As Denethor approached the Great Library, Arciryas met him. Denethor smiled, strode quickly towards the healer and hugged him tightly. "Thank you for sending the messenger. I would not leave her alone now for all the mithril in Númenor."

"She is strong, Denethor, though her mood had troubled me for a time. Yet, the babe within her seems to have strengthened her. I deem all will be well. You have naught to fear."

Denethor gave a short, derisive laugh. "My own mother died having me. And you tell me I have naught to fear! 'Tis all I have done since your message arrived."

"Again I say, you have naught to fear. Her body is sturdy. The blood of Númenor flows strongly through you both. The babe will be well also."

"And we have the best healer at our disposal," Denethor laughed fully. "You must continue to remind me of this, my friend."

"Yes. Forgive me; I must away now. Please, come to dinner tonight. We will celebrate. I wish Amdir was with us. 'Twould be great fun to have us together again. I miss Thengel."

Denethor took a deep breath. His cheeks flushed and Arciryas noted. "Thorongil has been with my father these last days. I do not think he has time to spend on frivolity."

He quickly turned towards the Great Library, as the healer watched him go. Taking the steps two at a time, he descended into the bowels of that vast storehouse, holding a torch high. A slight shiver assailed him, but he steeled himself to try the locked compartment. To his surprise, it was not locked. The wizard's spell had been lifted, but when? Lighting a candle, he sat at the scribes' table, pouring over book upon book. Now and again, an archivist would ask if he needed help, but he waved each one off. The pile on the table grew and the candle that he had lit, burnt to a nub. The suddenness of darkness surprised him. The candle had spent itself. He groped in the table's drawers, found another and lit it from the sconce in the hall. He was very close. He sensed it. He could not leave yet. Secrets would be his soon. A sudden tug at his heart caused him to stop. She was waiting for him. He could feel her in his bones. Clutching two large tomes in his arms, he grabbed the now extinguished torch, lit it from the candle, and ran up the stairs, two at a time.

He sat at his desk, fingering the base of the goblet, watching Finduilas knitting in front of the fire. He had asked her to come to their chambers, upon his return from the Great Library. He was spending too much time, these last few months, in the library, but a fixation for knowledge was upon him. He did not know how to quell it. Something about Thorongil gnawed at him ever since he had returned from his sortie to Cair Andros. He had discovered, upon questioning the servants, that Thorongil came to the City at least seven or eight times a year, summoned by Ecthelion. Denethor had not once been asked to join them in whatever discussions they had. The wizard, Mithrandir, had also been guest to the Steward. Thorongil never once sought him out whilst he was in Minas Tirith. This, more than anything, rankled him.

At first he had not been able to find her. Their chambers were empty, but he had gone to his own study, and there she was, waiting patiently for him. His breath caught at the presence of her love; it filled his heart, his very being. Nothing could describe this feeling of completeness, of pure peace and joy. He put the goblet down and walked towards her. She smiled up at him and he dropped to his knees in front of her, tentatively touching her stomach.

He raised her head, kissed her gently, and sat back on his heels. He looked long upon her and love filled him. Did she sense at all the depth of his love? To hide his tears, he knelt upon the floor and gently rested his head upon her lap.

She stopped her knitting, put the needles aside, and placed her hand upon his head. "Thou wast deep in thought, my Lord. Wouldst thou share thy thoughts?"

Denethor sighed. "Thengel seemed so old, the last time I saw him. At our oath-taking. And Théoden is a man, already Second Marshal of the Riddermark. I used to bounce him on my knee!" He remembered Thengel's pride in his son and a warm glow spread over him. He would soon feel that self-same pride for his own son, of that he was sure. "And now, he too is destined to have a child. Elfhild is due even before thou art. It seems strange to think of my old friend and captain as being a grandfather."The face of Cranthir slipped before him, hardly age'd. The blood of Númenor made such a difference. It almost hurt. Thengel was seventy-three. It seemed impossible, that at seventy-three a man would look so old, yet Thengel had. Whereas his own father, at ninety-two, was still hale and hearty with many years left to him. He creased his brow and she tried to sooth the wrinkles from it. "Even Théoden seemed old, somehow, though he be just thirty years. The legacy of men is a hard thing. I wondered, in my youth, as to why so many of the lords of Gondor sought for potions and talismans to keep them young. I think I understand now. To see a loved one grow old before my very eyes... 'tis a hard thing," he repeated. "Death is a gift, I am told. I do not think I like such a gift."

She leaned over him. "Hervenn nîn, thou art my love, my own. Turn thy thoughts from these dark paths. Let me see the light of Anor in thine eyes. Turn thy mind to thoughts of our son. The gift of Eru is far from us this day. Thou art to be a father. Joy should be thy feast."

"Yea verily, melethril nîn. It is. And thou art the reason for the feast."He joined her on the settle and laid his head against its back. He pulled her to him. She snuggled close, and soon, he heard her breath slow into sleep. His thoughts had flown from Thengel and Cranthir to his mother. He was desperately afraid. He could not lose her.

Adanedhel, even though retired, came to assist. He would not leave the room. Ecthelion himself paced outside their chambers and did not sleep. Haunted looks covered both men's faces. They frightened Finduilas and unsettled Denethor. Finally, Arciryas had to speak to them. Pulling Adanedhel physically from the room and forcing the two men into an antechamber, he spoke. "My lords, if anything untoward happens, I will call you both. Please, you are frightening the Lady. You must stay away."

Adanedhel interrupted him, a ghost-like smile on his face. "She was well," he muttered, "well. All had gone as planned. She was just a little tired, something to be expected. I left the room. I... I left the room and was called back. She was dead." His voice had dropped to a whisper. "She was well. She was well."

Arciryas stopped. Cold shivers ran down his arms. "Tell me what happened. I must know if I am to save her."

"The babe had become trapped in the passage. I used my hands, as is customary, to turn him. Then everything progressed as it should. He was born shortly thereafter. I made sure he was healthy, then turned to her. Her breath was short, but only from exertion. I read the signs. All was well." The healer closed his eyes. "She was well. I... I know not what happened. Perhaps some malady was upon her before labor started. I know not. She was well." His voice had risen in pitch, turning hysterical.

Arciryas put his hand on the old man's shoulder. "I see. That is good to know. I will now attend her. I will look for other signs, to make sure there is no malady upon Finduilas. And you, my Lord Ecthelion, please do not let her see you. Either of you. She must be at peace, as much as is possible at this time. You bring anxiety with you. You must not enter; I will not allow either of you in the chambers until it is over. You may stay here, if you wish, but you will not be allowed back in that room. I do not want you speaking with Denethor either. Old wounds are coming to the surface and I cannot let that happen. They will transfer to my patient. I will have one of my assistants bring news every few moments. That is all I can do."

Adanedhel made as if to speak, but Arciryas held his hand up. "Nay. I will brook no discussion on this."

He turned towards the Steward, but no words were needed. The man looked miserable and cowed. Arciryas put his hands on his Lord's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "I have learnt much these past years; I will not let her die. I promise." He squeezed the man's shoulder, turned and left the room.

As soon as he reached the door to Denethor's chambers, he motioned for a guard to attend him. "Go to the Houses and tell my assistant, Firieth, to bring the notes of the Lady Rían's care. She knows where they are." The guard bowed and left. Arciryas entered the outer chambers. Denethor stood in the doorway to the balcony, his whole body crunched over. Arciryas stepped towards him, and Denethor, hearing the soft step, turned. His face mirrored the disquiet that had filled the antechamber.

"Nay, my Lord. All is well. Finduilas must be supported at this time. She notes your concern. It causes her concern. May I ask what is the reason for your unease?"

"I have just had word. Théoden's own Elfhild has passed away. During childbirth!" The horror on Denethor's face alarmed Arciryas. The news devastated him further. "We have spoken of this before," Denethor almost hissed. "You know the history of my family. You know what happened to my mother. How else should I be? Is Finduilas' fate to be the same as my mother's, as Elfhild's? Childbirth is not such an easy thing as you would have me believe!"

"You, my Lord," Arciryas voice was firm, "do you have any knowledge as to the number of births I have attended? Do you not remember Morwen's many trials? Did not she survive, and the babes all born healthy? I will tell you now, as your Master Healer, but most importantly, as your friend, that I will not let her die, nor the babe. I will not leave her for a moment. Even after the birth, I will attend her until I am sure she has recovered fully. This is my oath to you, my friend. I will not let her die."

Denethor grasped Arciryas arms, so tight the healer flinched. "I will not let her die either. I will not leave her side, no matter that you order me away. I will not leave her alone." His voice broke.

"I will not ask you to leave her. Come, let us to her chambers. She has need of you. But you must be strong. You must not show any terror." He gently took Denethor's arm and led him through the doors. Indis smiled as they walked in and Denethor's heart eased.

Immediately after, Firieth entered the room, carrying a thin, rolled parchment, which she gave to Arciryas. He sat in a chair by the window and carefully read it. Denethor sat on the bed, holding Finduilas' hand. She smiled at him; then closed her eyes. This was lasting much longer than she had expected. Denethor murmured words of love to her.

Arciryas sighed. He motioned for Denethor to join him and walked towards the bedchamber's terrace. As they stepped through the opening, Arciryas placed his hand upon Denethor's shoulder. "I know now what caused your mother's death."

"When the babe turned, a tear must have opened in her womb," Arciryas stated. "The notes of those who cleansed her for burial witness to a great loss of blood. Adanedhel did not mention it. I believe, since she passed while he was away from her, he did not further investigate. Terror and pain were upon the whole of Gondor. Rían was much loved. And your father took it hard. It is not surprising to me that naught further was done."

As the healer spoke, the warning call of a trumpet sounded. Denethor looked up in alarm; he ran to Finduilas' side. She grasped his arm; he could not leave her. Others would have to answer the call. He had vowed to stay with her; he would not break that vow.

As the day progressed and little advancement was made, Finduilas slept more and more between the spasms of birthing. The pangs lasted overly long, and wore her out, yet seemed to produce little change. Arciryas could not tell when the babe would come, and he was beginning to be concerned. Firieth had brought medicaments to help ease her Lady's growing fear. When she was awake, her eyes mirrored the fright in her heart. Arciryas wished her mother were here, though Indis did everything in her power to help her sister-friend.

Listöwel suddenly appeared at the door, and joy lit Finduilas' face. Denethor started in surprise as he saw her. 'What is she doing in Minas Tirith? Why is she not with Amdir at the garrison of Amon Dîn?' If she were here, would Amdir be also? Where was his friend? She gave him a long look, and turned her attention to Finduilas. "My sweet little cousin," she cried fondly, "you look a mess. Here, let me fix your hair. Indis, plump her pillow. Does no one note that our little one needs some reassurance! 'Tis time to draw back the curtains; let a little light in. And some air; the place smells like the Houses of Healing, herbs and medicaments enough to smother one. This is a good thing that is happening here! How very sad you all appear. And none of us with any experience in birthing a babe! Oh! Forgive me, Arciryas," she giggled and the room smiled, "You have spent much time doing these things. I meant Indis, Denethor and I. None of us have done such a great deed as our sweet one does now!" She leaned over and kissed Finduilas on the forehead, willing herself to smile and throw cheer about the room. The gloom that she had experienced when she entered had all but made her recoil. Coming from the blackness and despair that she had just witnessed... 'Nay. I will think not on that. I must dispel this darkness and help my dear one smile.'

Arciryas could have hugged their friend. She brought fresh hope to the room. 'Just what the healer would order,' he thought. As he kissed Listöwel on the forehead in greeting, Finduilas groaned. Arciryas, quickly examining her, smiled. "'Tis almost time," he sighed gently. "The pains are stronger; he is coming soon." All flew into action; Denethor being pushed roughly to the side. Water, bandages and medicaments all were arranged and Arciryas stood next to the birthing bed, waiting for the babe to appear. Denethor held his breath.

As Finduilas lay in sleep, the child bundled in her arms with Indis sitting next to her on the bed, Listöwel went to Denethor's side. "My Lord," she said quietly. "Amdir must needs speak with you. He awaits outside with your father. A terrible thing has happened. I would not speak of it before, knowing your place was with Finduilas. But she rests now, and it is urgent!"

He remembered the alarm horns. His face whitened and he left the room. Amdir sat in a chair in the antechamber, his face and hands covered in blood. Denethor's cry of 'Amdir' made him stir. He tried to stand, but could not, weariness overtaking him. "Amdir, my friend. What has happened? Why are you returned from Amon Dîn?" Ecthelion and Adanedhel were nowhere to be seen and Denethor wondered, but concern for his friend kept him at his side.

Amdir took a moment to catch his breath. He had been on the edge of sleep, so weary was he, yet he barely rested as visions of death and destruction assailed him. "Orcs, Denethor. Too many. Took the garrison by surprise three nights ago. A great number of them swept down. They were silent, as is not their want. They had o'ercome the guards before any knew of their presence. They were large, Denethor, larger than any I have ever seen and cruel. They came over the plains of Rohan, from the northwest. We had no chance to fight back, hardly any at all. I sent errand-riders out, but none got through. Ecthelion said they had no word of the massacre. And that is what it was, Denethor," Amdir's eyes filled with tears. "Only twenty-three men left. Twenty-three out of five hundred. I did not run, Denethor!" Amdir cried, his voice breaking as it rose. "I did not. I was knocked unconscious. The Orcs left at daybreak. My men, those who survived, found me and brought me back here. We could not stay. They torched the buildings. Once she realized she could fight no longer, Listöwel hid herself and the other women in an underground storeroom, apart from the buildings. The Orcs did not find it. The beacon has been destroyed."

"Nay, just a head wound, but not serious. Adanedhel tried to care for me, but your father drew him away, calling for the guards. I know not where they went."

Denethor could not believe Ecthelion had left Amdir in this state. He gently helped him up and brought him to the bedchamber's door. Opening it gently, he quietly called Arciryas to his side.

When Arciryas saw the state Amdir was in, he made as if to leave the room, then thought better of it. "She sleeps," Arciryas stated, "Yet, I will not leave her. Bring him in here, Denethor. I will minister to him by the terrace. She will know naught of it."

Denethor helped Amdir to a chair in the corner. He glanced towards the bed, noted Indis and Listöwel seated by Finduilas' side, and knew he had a moment to speak with Listöwel. As Arciryas tended Amdir, Denethor drew her from her seat upon the bed. "Thou art and have always been most brave, dearest Listöwel. But that was folly to stay and fight. Didst thou not know the toll thy loss would have taken upon Amdir? Didst thou not know the toll thy loss would have taken on thy friends?" In his concern, he had lapsed into Sindarin.

"My Lord, I could not leave him," she said simply. And tears started to fall. "I could not leave him," she whispered.

He held her tight, knowing the horror that lay upon her. 'Twas difficult enough for a man, a soldier, to see the sights that she must have seen before she retreated. It grieved him to see her pain. He had no words of comfort. The only comfort he had were his arms. Holding her closer, he whispered her name, stroking her hair all the while.

Indis moved close. "My brave, sweet Listöwel. You have proved yourself a warrior, dearest sister-friend, many times over. I am so proud of you. Eledhwen would be so proud of you. We must write to Morwen, tell her of your deeds. She will be sore-pressed to rival them!" Indis had not known the extent of Gondor's loss.

Listöwel turned towards her. "Only a handful left, Indis. Only a handful left." She bit her lip to keep from screaming her horror.

"Nigh unto five hundred. The stronghold burnt to the ground. The beacon destroyed."

"Yes. But look, Arciryas is finished with Amdir. Listöwel, take him to his father's quarters. Ingold will help him, and Elleth will help you. Go, now. We will speak of this on the morrow."

As Listöwel and Firieth led Amdir away, Denethor's thoughts grew dark. "Ai!" he cried aloud, grief for the lost men and for Gondor overwhelming him. "I swear by the Horn of Gondor, Boromir will not endure what I have had to endure these last forty-eight years. I will free Gondor from this Enemy, so that my son may live in peace! I swear by all the Valar!"

He was shaking as he finished his vow. Finduilas, awakened by his cry and frightened at the violence of his manner, quickly pressed the babe closer to her breast. What had started as a day of celebration at the birth of their son had been turned into a day of darkness and pain. Again! Nothing remained beautiful here in Gondor. It was not Denethor's fault. She knew how dearly he loved her. 'But,' she thought, 'there must be a curse upon this land.' Her thoughts, as always, took her back to Belfalas and her home in Dol Amroth by the sea.

Indis hovered over her as she saw the sadness grow in Finduilas' eyes. She came to them from Belfalas, sparkling and alive, one of the fairest flowers of the line of Númenor. Yet, now, just two years after arriving in Minas Tirith, sadness showed at the corners of her mouth and lingered in her eyes. Indis looked at Denethor in dismay. Perhaps flowers from her garden would ease her pain. She ran to pick some, suggesting that they open the terrace doors for air; Finduilas declined. Today of all days, she could not bear the view. She shuddered as she thought of Mt. Orodruin glaring at her, mocking her happiness. She saw in her mind's eye the redness of its fires scorching the blue sky, the black smoke rising upwards, creeping closer and closer to Minas Tirith. She could not abide that sight with her son in her arms! She swore she could feel the tremors of its hateful spewing rock her bed. She drew in her breath. She could not continue this way. Instead, she willed herself to see the sea from her window in the castle in Dol Amroth, on a clear, bright day. She could feel the sea air on her face, feel it gently blowing the strands of her hair across it. Ever, when this mood of gloom fell upon her, she would retreat in her mind to dear Belfalas and her home.

Suddenly, she shook herself. This was her home now. Lovingly, she opened her eyes and stared down at the precious bundle in her arms. She must put that other life behind her. The Valar had sent her a son, beautiful and strong - he held her finger tightly in his little hand - and she knew she must be strong for him. She echoed her husband's vow in her own heart. Somehow, she would fight with Denethor to bring peace to this land, and somehow she would wage her own war against this curse. This child of theirs would not grow up with war and death and evil. 'Somehow,' she thought, 'a weapon must be found to help Gondor, to release Gondor from this evil. To release my family from this evil.' They had been fighting for so long, her husband, his father, and his father's fathers. Could a weapon be found that would destroy evil forever? Did such a weapon exist? She sighed. Perhaps the king would return...

Denethor went again to Finduilas' side. He knelt by her bed, apologizing profusely as he gently stroked her hair, and for the thousandth time he rejoiced at the fate that had brought her to his side. His anger was spent. He could not remain angry in her presence. He had to learn to curb it when he was with her. She must not lose the joy that wrapped itself around his heart when she was near. Tears filled his eyes as she moved the wrappings from around Boromir's face. Ah, could any man be more blessed than he! His son was beautiful. He saw the face of Eärnur in him, and hoped that his son would be as brave as the king who defeated the Witch-king of Angmar. Yet, as soon as that thought, that vision of the face on the statue of Eärnur in the Great Hall assailed his mind, he remembered the ending of that king. Or the supposed ending of Eärnur, for never did he return from the Black Gate. 'It was that king's leaving his throne that has forced the Stewards to rule Gondor until the return of the king... or until the Steward's line itself runs out,' he thought bitterly. Almost a thousand years had passed and yet, as Ecthelion had told him long ago, and as he knew he would tell Boromir sometime in the future, 'Few years, maybe, in other places of less royalty... In Gondor, ten thousand years would not suffice for a Steward to become king.' His duty was to his king, whether present or no. And he would teach that duty to his son. The rightful king would return.

Dark were his thoughts this day; he could not help the shudder that swept his body as he thought of Eärnur not returning... Some foreboding about his son? And then, perversely, he thought of Finduilas' namesake being killed by Orcs. Why was he being tormented on this day of great joy? What other dark feelings would attack him?

He looked again at his son and his wife and willed the thoughts to be gone. He willed peace to settle upon his countenance. He would not succumb to these dark thoughts. He would not succumb to despair - now that he had everything he had ever hoped for...

Finduilas held out her arms and took her friend into them. Whispering Indis' name over and over, she stroked her friend's hair. "My dearest sister-friend, forgivest thou me. I had forgotten thy own barren womb." Her tears mingled with Indis'. "I am foolish and very selfish. Thee and thy friends opened thy hearts to me when first I entered Minas Tirith, and all I have been is a burden. My thoughts ever fly to my needs, forgetting those whom I love. Please, forgivest thou me."

"Nay," Indis exclaimed. "'Tis not true! Wast thou not ready, just now, to have me leave thee and care for Denethor? Thy heart is good and pure, Finduilas. I speak not of my pain for I have Arciryas and that is wonderful and good. I am most fortunate. I think not often of our lack, for a moment here and there, but our bounty is beyond understanding. Think no further on this, my sweet Lady. Think only of returning quickly to thy duties. 'Twill be such fun to join thy family in these years to come, to rejoice at the growth of thy child, to see the love between man and woman develop into an even deeper bond." Indis' quick smile heartened Finduilas. "I love thee, dearest sister-friend. Thou fillest a deep void in me. Left by my sweet sister's absence. To have been given another sister, 'tis a gift from the Valar. Your love is gift to me. I thank thee." She gave Finduilas a quick hug and pulled away. "Now, rest thou whilst I seek out Listöwel, tell her of thy concern, and return within the hour."

Denethor had bidden Arciryas stay with Finduilas, once she had fallen asleep, and quickly left the room. Ecthelion had left Amdir wounded and alone in the hall and he would discover why. For what purpose had he left so quickly and ungraciously? As he turned the corner heading to the Great Hall, he heard loud shouts coming from his father's study. He quickly walked into the room. His face fell as he saw Amdir, standing before the great oak desk, bidden to attention and reporting to Ecthelion.

"Father!" The word came out louder than he had meant. "Father," this time softer. "Captain Amdir has been wounded." The evidence was still clear. Adanedhel, who stood in a corner of the room, had done naught to clean the wound. Listöwel was nowhere to be seen. "Do you not see that, Father?" he asked gently.

"Of course I see it," his father replied crisply, scowling as he leaned forward to speak to Denethor. "I only ask as to the state of the garrison. I will let him be ministered to once I am done with him." He turned to face Amdir again. "Now, again. Tell me where the patrols were? How many had you sent out? What time...?"

"My Lord Steward." Denethor interrupted. "Perhaps 'twould be best to have Captain Amdir," and he stressed the word 'Captain' loudly, "sit? Adanedhel can tend his wounds while you question him." A servant stood by the door and Denethor motioned for him to come forward. "Bring a cup of mead for Captain Amdir. And a decanter of wine for Lord Ecthelion." As the servant left, Denethor strode forward, moved a chair behind Amdir and gently helped him sit. Ecthelion's face was blazing, but Denethor did not care. Adanedhel hobbled forward. It hurt to see the man so old and weak. He remembered how once, a long time ago, Adanedhel had spoken forcefully to the Steward for Gondor's weal.

Ecthelion sat back in his chair. His face still shone scarlet, but Denethor could see the Steward had pulled in his temper. "Captain Amdir," he sneered. "Are you comfortable now?"

Amdir said naught, but Denethor had to clench his hands to keep his fury in check. 'Never would Ecthelion speak thus to Thorongil,' he thought bitterly. He kept his mouth shut. Amdir was, at least, finally being cared for.

"My Lord Steward," Amdir said calmly, and Denethor wondered that his friend had such control. "We sent out ten patrols every four hours, as is our wont. Darkness had come, the fires were lit, and all was quiet. It was almost time for the replacing of the patrols, when a sudden quiet filled the air. I had come out of my office to oversee the changing of the guard. I felt something was wrong, but could not discern what. Everything seemed as it should be. I doubled the guards on the wall. The patrols were overdue, but not by but a few moments. A patrol finally was sighted, the gates were opened, and the Orcs attacked. They had lain hidden against the walls. They had left one patrol untouched, and, unbeknownst to that patrol, used them to gain entrance to the fortress. All the other patrols had been o'ercome and destroyed before the Orcs e'er entered the area. There were more than a thousand attackers. They came in waves. Our archers did their best. We used boiling oil to repulse the ones still on the outside, but they continued to come. Our knights fought as best they could, but the quarters were cramped with the number of the enemy. It was hard to even wield a sword and pikes were nigh unto useless. Sometime, after the mid of the night, I was wounded and lay as if dead. I know not how the other men escaped. The women, after Listöwel saw they could not defend themselves any longer, hid in an underground storeroom. They were not, mercifully, discovered. I awoke to a cold cloth on my head, wielded by my aide, Damrod. It was well into the morning by this time. We quickly searched the grounds for survivors, removed the dead bodies that barred the entrance to the place where the women hid, and quickly freed them. All the horses were gone. We walked to the North Gate. I left my men there and rode here as quickly as I could. There has been no sign of the Orc army since that night." Amdir sat still, not moving a muscle.

Denethor had walked to the nearby window and listened quietly, proud of his friend's courage.

"Men Gondor desperately needs?" The question was not supposed to be answered. "Well," Ecthelion said as he stood up and walked around the desk. "Are you well enough to return to your command?"

Denethor made as if to interrupt and Ecthelion raised his hand and shot him a look of pure rage.

"And where do you suppose you will get the men to replace those you have allowed to be slaughtered?" He paused for a moment, brooking no reply. "Or do you expect me to find you men to fill your garrison?"

Denethor blanched at the cruelty of the questions. Ecthelion had had men under him. He knew what it was to lose men. How could he interrogate Amdir in this manner knowing the depth of sorrow that encompassed the captain?

"I am relieving you of the command of Amon Dîn. You will go to the Houses to have your wounds attended to. I have need of my healer at the moment. Then, you will wait upon my pleasure for your next assignment." He turned his back, strode towards his desk and sat shuffling papers, his entire body saying they were dismissed.

Denethor strode towards Amdir, making sure Ecthelion heard the anger in his stride, helped his friend to his feet, and left the room. Neither man spoke a word until they felt the cool air greet them as they reached the entrance to the Citadel.

Denethor did not know where to start, so many apologies to be made to his friend. But Amdir spoke first.

"I will be fine. The wound is not deep. I would prefer to go to my own home on the Sixth Level, if I may? Please, Denethor. I have not the will to see another at the moment. I know Listöwel waits there for me. She will care for me."

"Tell me this, friend," Denethor wondered, "I cannot see Listöwel letting the Steward take you away from her without words being said."

Amdir laughed, then groaned as his head split in pain. "He called a guard as we left your quarters. The guard took her by the arm before I even knew it. I could hear her curses... yes, my friend, curses that I did not know a woman would know... as she was escorted out of the Citadel. I could do naught. Unfortunately, I hardly had the strength to take care of myself." Amdir laughed again. "You should have heard the words she said. Oh!" He bent over in pain and Denethor swept him into his arms and carried him towards the gate. "Please put me down, Denethor. I can walk."

"I do not think so, friend. I do not think so. And I am not taking you to your home. I am sorry. I am taking you to the Houses. Father may be wrong about many things, but of this he speaks well. You need time with the healers. I will bring Listöwel as soon as I am assured you will stay in the bed they assign you."

"Avo doltho mhorn, tôr nîn," Finduilas spoke soothingly. "Light lives now in thy son - a bright shining star for Gondor. Thou wilt raise him to be all that Gondor needs. Through him, peace will come. Thou, with him at thy side, wilt defeat our enemies. Avo 'osto! I am with thee. Never wilt I leave thee." As she caressed his check, she spoke again, "Dost thou not know that thy father is beset by many burdens? Little does he know that he has only to look to thee to find strength, and courage, and wisdom. I see it in thee, hervenn nîn. I would that he would see it; the cares of Gondor blind his eyes. Do not hold this against him, melethril nîn. Wait, thy time will come. His eyes will open and he will do what is right and good for Gondor."

He hugged her tightly, holding his breath as he listened to her precious voice speaking words his heart could hardly bear to hear. He wanted desperately to believe her, to know that he did have the strength to save Gondor, but he could not see it. If Ecthelion's eyes were blinded, so were his. 'How will I fight this? How can I be what Gondor needs? How can my father ever believe that I can help save Gondor when even I do not believe it?'

She sensed the anguish in his tightened shoulders, heard the in-drawn breath, and wondered if ever she would be able to do as Indis had said she could - give him the strength he needed. She spoke gently. "Melethril nîn, doest thou not believe me? Doest thou think I am only a woman with a woman's foolish thoughts? Doest thou think I married thee for thy looks only?"A gentle laugh. She continued, "I know thee to have wisdom. Might I not have wisdom also? Thy son has much thy look, fair and good. He wilt have much need of thee, garn nîn."

He looked down upon the babe lying between them. A small fist, shoved into the little one's mouth, kept his son's attention. He shivered as the babe held his finger tightly. Tears glistened in his eyes. "Le melon," he whispered to her and then, bending his head to kiss the little one, whispered it again to his son, his Boromir.

Morwen had come. Unbidden, she had come. Indis hugged her so tightly, she thought she would lose all breath. Then, she had her hands grasped and found herself being swung around and around, joyful laughter pealing through the air. Morwen, in mock embarrassment, tried to disengage herself from her friend, but no amount of struggling would tear her from Indis' loving hold.

"Morwen, my dearest sister-friend. You could not have come at a better time!" Indis said as she collapsed on the fountain's encompassing wall. She pulled Morwen down with her, both women catching their breath.

After a moment, Indis pulled her towards her and again gave her such a warm hug that Morwen sobbed with joy. To be back in Minas Tirith again, to sit next to her dearest friend, to laugh and cry together, no words were sufficient to tell of her joy. "Nay, I have been remiss in not coming sooner. How is Finduilas? How is the babe? Denethor, does he father the child well?" Her words tumbled from her and she giggled deliriously. She hugged herself as she looked about the square. Naught had changed here in Isildur's Square. The merchants still had their stalls lining the street, the shops still had crowds coming into and going from them, and the Knights of Gondor still strode through the streets as if they owned them. She breathed a heavy sigh and leaned upon Indis' shoulder. "'Tis so very good to be home." Tears glistened in her eyes. "Home, Indis. Yes, it always will be home, at least in my heart."

Indis had given her friend a moment to settle herself before she answered her questions. "Finduilas does well. Your birth pangs were much worse than hers, but she seems not to have the endurance that you have. And the babe, Boromir," she said the name lovingly, "he is everything you would expect from Denethor. Handsome, strong, blackest hair and lovely gray eyes. To look upon him is to love him!"

"Yes," Indis laughed. "Stolen it and locked away the key. My heart is no longer my own."

"Denethor is beset by many things. How fare's Rohan, Morwen? Are there more attacks this year? Does it seem to you as if... I do not know how to ask. Evil... but I will not speak of these things now. I will only rejoice in your presence. And for Thengel to bring you; that is such a good thing for Denethor. Thengel's presence and wisdom can only help Denethor."

"You speak of harsh things, Indis. Tell me truly. Was Listöwel really in a battle again?"

"Yes! And without us! Can you even imagine such a thing? I was sore-pressed to not be angry with her, having all that fun without me! And..." Indis paused with a frown marking her face, "I understand you have been named 'Morwen Steelsheen' for the ardor of your sword arm! Is that true? You were always so good with your sword."

"'Tis true. My Lord's people shame me by calling it out as I ride through the streets of Edoras." Her face reddened even as she recounted it. "I am no true Shieldmaiden. There are many others who are so much better than I, yet the people honor me."

Indis smiled. Her friend's genuine humility touched her. She had missed this woman, missed her sorely. "Come, my dearest friend. I will take you to your quarters in the Citadel. After you refresh yourself, I will take you to Finduilas. You will meet our Boromir. Then, you will see he is the fairest babe in all the land." Her smile split her face. "After that, we three..." A sudden cloud passed over her face. Her sister's face swam before her eyes. It used to be 'we four.' She drew in a breath, let the pain go, and smiled again. "We three, Listöwel, you and I, will then find some hidden place and squeal and laugh over all the adventures we have had since last we were together!"

Thengel sat quietly, waiting for Denethor to explain himself. He was dreadfully tired. The journey had seemed so much longer than ever it had before. Morwen took it in stride, but he was ready for sleep. He could not rest yet. Denethor had come to him late in the evening, troubled. His pronouncement of Ecthelion's latest movements forced Thengel to question the Steward's good sense. He trusted Thorongil implicitly, all the while understanding Denethor's unease. He knew very little of Ecthelion; the Steward did not readily welcome familiarity with his captains. What could have possessed Ecthelion to send Denethor off like that? He should welcome his son to the proceedings. To all counsels. Thengel leaned his head back against the couch. The thought of his own son, of Théoden, Second Marshal of the Mark, caused his lips to curl in a smile. He heard Denethor's cough and pulled himself back into the moment. Denethor was obviously waiting upon him.

"I do not understand Lord Ecthelion, Denethor. You know I do not. You should have been made Captain-General already. Your postings, these last years, have not been ones that would help you to familiarize yourself with your future duties. Your father, you say, has been devious. I see where you would surmise that." He shook his head. What could he say? "I will tell you this, and I have told you this before, Thorongil is an honorable man. He seems to be a pawn in your father's hands, much as you have been. Do you not see that?"

"I see only that my father leans towards naming Thorongil Captain-General." At the look of shock in Thengel's eyes, Denethor continued, earnestly. "He calls him 'my captain' takes him into his confidences, invites him to meetings that I am barred from participating in, and mocks my men and me. He has made him a captain. Never has someone not of Númenor been made a captain in the army of Gondor. What difference from a captain to Captain-General? What else am I to infer?" He stopped for a moment, poured some more wine for his friend and continued, "My heart is heavily burdened with this estrangement from Thorongil. I remember our friendship. Fate has set our own, my friend, in stone, yet it had been the same for Thorongil, I had thought. Now, my heart cries out in anger and despair. I cannot abide the sight of the man."

"You should have seen Thengel's face the first time I put my sword on in front of him as he sat on his throne. He had thought it was but a passing fancy." Morwen laughed for the hundredth time. "Orcs had attacked very near to the foothills of the White Mountains while the king's éored had been sent on some task. Did he think I would not go out and help defend our people when we were so short of men? Eledhwen joined me and he knew he did not have a hope to combat our resolve. The band that attacked the village was small. Walda's son, Éofor, had command of our half-éored. Hild... Oh, I forgot to tell you that Hild had started training with Eledhwen when we moved to Edoras. She is very good, too. I remember hearing Denethor, when she was but a youngster, call her a 'terror.' Well, that day the Orcs knew what terror was. She wielded her sword and screamed invectives against them as she hewed them down." Morwen laughed again. "'Tis a delight to surprise our men, is it not?" The smile covered her face.

Indis laughed in joy. "You are a delight, dearest sister-friend. It is good to hear your tales. I did not know you had time, what with the children you have been begetting, to even lift a sword!"

Morwen rolled her eyes. "In truth, it seems as if children flow from my womb as waters from the mountains. Do you suppose Finduilas will have more? I never thought I would, after I lost my first."

"That was a hard time for us all." Indis shivered. "Too many of our women have suffered so. It seems the strength of Númenor has left the women of Gondor for other places."

Listöwel sighed. "It seems the birthing of children has left the women of Gondor."

Indis strode towards her friend and hugged her tightly. "Yes, you speak the truth, my little sister."

"'Tis the wizard, some in the City say," Listöwel clung to Indis, all thoughts of merriment banished by the pain of their empty wombs.

"Do not help spread those rumors, Listöwel. Mithrandir is wise and seems to have Gondor's weal at heart. The advice he gives to father is shrewd. Denethor oft bewails the lack of men. If Mithrandir did not counsel the Steward to open our armies to men of other countries, we would be sore-pressed to defend Gondor."

"E'en now, more men are needed," Morwen stated sadly. "But you, little sister," she said as she looked lovingly at Listöwel, "you yourself have been through a deadly battle just recently?"

Listöwel looked up. "At Amon Dîn. You know the horror, mixed with exhilaration, that o'ercomes one in battle. Would that you both were at my side. So many men killed. I am still in shock that the women were saved."

Listöwel blushed. "Ever have you both been my shining lights, my guides on how to live. You give me hope. During the battle, I thought of you, imagined you on either side of me, and that gave me the courage to continue. Seeing Amdir lying as if dead would have totally undone me, though. I am glad I did not see that!"

Morwen shook her head quickly. "We did naught but love you, dearest sister-friend. Now, we must send these morbid thoughts from us. My heart has been eased by the joy of our reunion. Let us now to Finduilas. I am sure she is ready for the company of women. Denethor still scowls too much, even when he holds the babe!"

The others quickly moved through the door, but Morwen pulled Indis aside. "I do not remember the floor shaking so, nor the stench filling the air as it does today? What has occurred?"

"'Tis Mount Orodruin. I have become accustomed to it, I suppose. It has increased over the years. I had forgotten, nor noticed with everything else that has happened. When the east wind blows, it is almost impossible to take a breath. Denethor has had fans made that are secured to the ceiling in their bedchambers. A servant is always working the mechanism while Finduilas is abed these days. She notes it and compares the air to that of Dol Amroth. I feel for her."

Thengel closed his eyes. Gondor was being torn in two. By what forces? The wizard? "How often has Mithrandir been here in Minas Tirith?"

"He practically dwells in our library. He searches for something. I know not what. I myself have met him on many occasions, pouring over old tomes, accounts of battles, and other dust-covered scripts from ages past."

Denethor's face reddened. "I have Gondor's weal as my uppermost concern. My father speaks of the return of the king. I have been studying volume upon volume of the earlier writings of my kin. I am missing something, but I will find it. The key to this mystery." He twirled the goblet in his fingers, face distorted in a frown.

Thengel knew he could do naught to dissuade Denethor from searching for lost history, but it seemed useless to him. Better to prepare his own son to write a new history for Gondor.

"Boromir reminds me of you, Denethor." He smiled at the memory. "I was but twenty-five at the time. I would hold you, now and again, in my arms. He has your look," he said warmly.

Denethor's smile lit the room. "Thank you." A companionable silence filled his study. "Never had I thought such a moment would come. Oft did I wish I could find someone like your Morwen, or Amdir's Listöwel, or even my dearest sister, Indis! And now I have Finduilas, Jewel of Dol Amroth, and I am happy." He gave a short laugh. "With all father's talk of the king's return, I thought there would be no need for an Heir to the Steward. Heir or no, nothing is better than having a son."

"The king will always have need of a Steward, Denethor, especially one of your quality."

"And I will always have need of such a friend as you," Denethor spoke quietly, emotion cracking his voice.

'Will Ecthelion appoint Thorongil Captain-General? Or even worse, will he name him Heir to the Steward?' He paced the parapet, his hand clenching and unclenching his sword's pommel. ' 'Tis a nightmare; one I thought never to have. The wizard has wormed his way into Ecthelion's heart and with him he has brought the enemy. For that is what Thorongil is, the enemy. I am certain of it. Or perhaps more certain of another thing.' He shivered, but it was not from the cold. 'Is he the usurper in more ways than one, a deeper, more sinister way? Not from the line of Anárion, of that I am certain. But of another line, long ago destroyed. The line of Isildur?' His lip curled in scorn. 'If it is as I suppose, my fathers' fathers denied that line and I, if I am allowed, will deny that line again!'

He strode towards the Great Hall, alight with torches. The sight of it sickened him. The torches, the celebrations were all for Thorongil, for his victory this day at Umbar. He had learned too late, always too late, that Thorongil had persuaded the Steward to allow him to lead an attack against the Corsairs. Denethor knew, from the sources he counted as allies, that the men of Umbar were building their fleet to defeat Gondor, but he had hoped, nay, had even asked his father to allow him to lead an attack. 'But when the time came,' he thought bitterly, 'beloved Thorongil was sent.' He stood for a moment before the stairs, holding his hand to his head, and let the harsh tears fall. He turned away and strode into an alley. Leaning his head against the Tower's walls, he wept. 'Father will take my title from me. He will give it to Thorongil and I will be... I will be what?' he sobbed. 'All these years I have put Gondor before everything, and now he rewards me in this fashion. I will leave Gondor. I will go to Thengel in Rohan. Or perhaps to Dol Amroth. What? I will go in ignominy? With my tail between my legs? Dishonored? Is that what I have spent my life for?' The sobs slowed; deep breaths were taken. He walked towards the King's House, deep in thought. 'Have I truly spent my life preparing to throw it away? All those years of banishment, hoping for reprieve. And when reprieve came, little did it matter. Thus it is with my life. Yes. This is what I have spent my life preparing for. If this be for the good of Gondor, then so be it. Has that not been what I have been taught? All for Gondor? I will swallow my pride. If father appoints him heir, then I will bow to this man from the north. Ever has the line of Húrin been Stewards, but no more.' He stopped for a moment; his head hurt from the strain of his thoughts. 'Steward,' he laughed and it hurt his throat. 'Nay, he will not be content with being Steward. He will be king.' The enormity of it struck him. 'If he be king, will I remain Steward? Will I want to be Steward to him?' He started to pace the little alleyway. 'I will continue the line, if for naught but for my son, my Boromir. I will be this man's Steward.' He choked on the thought. 'It will serve no purpose one way or the other. Unless the man be a worker of magic, Gondor will fall, whether I be Steward or he be king, Gondor will fall.' He strode back to his quarters; he did not have the stomach to face Ecthelion.

Indis searched the Hall for him. 'Where can he be?' she asked herself. 'He promised he would come.' She knew his heart, knew that he would be sorely hurt by the betrayal of Ecthelion. She had heard Denethor ask for command of the fleet, and heard the scorn in Ecthelion's voice as he denied him. Their father had not told him of his plans for Umbar, for the attack, for Thorongil. She had known. What good would it have done to tell Denethor? Listöwel and Amdir stepped towards her.

"Nay," Amdir shook his head. "I too have been to his quarters, his study. He is nowhere to be found."

"Finduilas is here, but I will not upset her by asking his whereabouts. She looks happy." Indis frowned. "She thinks the victory will make a difference. And perhaps it will, for the present, but it is not enough. Thorongil has not defeated the One we do not name."

Amdir held Indis' arm. "It will help. It will stop one part of the vice that the enemy plans for Gondor. It will be long before another fleet can be assembled. Thorongil sank every one of their ships. The enemy ran in terror. I wish that I had been there." He stopped for a moment. "Denethor, I know, wishes he had been there, too. That is the crux of the matter. Too long has he dreamed of sailing, the ships of Gondor under his command. Indis," he turned to face her fully. "You remember the tales of Mardil's captain, Vëantur? He even told me of that man's voyages. Ecthelion could find no better way to crush his son than this!"

"I am just glad that Thorongil himself is not here. I understand he is finishing up his reports and then will return to Minas Tirith." Indis spoke quietly.

"Mayhap he wants to give more people time to reach the City so they can welcome him properly." Listöwel put her hand over her mouth. "I am sorry. I should not have said such a thing. But their shouts for Thorongil wound me deeply. I can hardly imagine how Denethor feels."

Amdir pulled her to him. "Your loyalty to Denethor is not to be apologized for. Yet, Thorongil has been friend to all of us here."

"A friend does not betray a friend," Indis said quietly. "Who is the betrayer? Is it Thorongil or Ecthelion?"

He finally had to attend the festivities. His father sent his knights to him, ordering him to the Hall. He sent them back with word that he would follow shortly. Laving himself in cold water helped the swelling from the tears, but not the gash in his heart. 'So long ago, in Rohan, I learned to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself. I must do even better. Tonight he will see naught on my face. No emotion, no thought. I wonder if the wizard will be there, gloating on his triumph? That should not concern me. The wizard now has all he has ever wanted, my place in Gondor is no longer my own. How often I had thought such would be the case. Even as a youngster, never feeling that I measured up to father's expectations. It is the perfect ending.'

He found her as soon as he entered the Hall. Standing with Indis and Listöwel, ever-faithful Listöwel. He remembered how she had fought to be stationed at Cair Andros with Amdir, but the garrison had become too dangerous for the women of Gondor to stay there. She spent more and more of her time in the practice yards, her sword slashing at any that would dare challenge her. The swordmaster had told Denethor that she was better than most of the young esquires. He wished he had her strength, her will to fight. It seemed to desert him now. Yet, in the midst of his suffering, he saw that Finduilas appeared tired. "My love, art thou not well."

"Just tired, my Lord. Boromir fussed and wouldst not let me leave him. It broke my heart. I would go home now."

She shook her head. "I understand." She kissed him gently on the cheek. Indis moved closer and held her. Denethor gave his sister a grateful smile.

He saw Ecthelion sitting in the Steward's Chair, returned Finduilas' kiss, and moved forward. "My Lord," he said and saluted. "You requested my presence?"

"I should not have had to." His father's anger was palpable. "You shame me by not being present. You shame the line of Húrin by not being present. What am I to tell those around me? My son sulks in a corner somewhere? You have never learned to obey me fully. You never will. I have turned my thoughts to another, one who obeys my every order. Obeys my thoughts before they are spoken. I will place you under him, for a time, so that you may learn obedience. Your banishments have never taught it to you, though I sorely hoped they would. When Thorongil returns, I will establish him here, in Minas Tirith. You will be his aide. Do you have anything to say?"

Denethor was caught unawares. He had not thought his father would require any response; he never had before to the charges leveled against him, to the actions threatened. Never had he expected to be made Thorongil's aide! He blinked once; then said, "Whatever is your will, I obey, my Steward. I will await his command. Thank you for seeing me tonight. If I may have your leave, Finduilas is not well. I would take her to our quarters."

'Is he baiting me,' Denethor wondered. He steeled his heart. 'He will not succeed.'

"If that is your thought, then I am sorry. But I must take her home now. If you wish, I will return, once I have seen her safely to our quarters."

"I do not understand it," Denethor protested as they reached their chambers. "How often have I asked father to be stationed at Pelargir? How often have I asked for a ship? I have trained and trained for such an occasion as this, and he sends him instead. And now Thorongil has the victory. He has killed the Captain of the Haven. The Corsairs flee in terror. And all Minas Tirith, nay, all Gondor shouts the name of Thorongil. I expect banners to be made and hung by morning! Now he will place me under him as an aide! An aide!" Fury stung his words. He could feel the anger sliding down his arms. Finduilas touched his arm and the shock caused him to flinch. He saw the pain in her eyes. "My love." He took her in his arms. "Wouldst thou forgive me? My anger causes my whole body to seethe. I did not flinch from thee. I flinched from me. Thou art the only thing in this whole world that has not harmed me, nor forsaken me, nor caused me pain. Only happiness have I received from thee. And only pain hast thou received from me."

"Nay, 'tis not so, le melon. Thou hast always treated me tenderly. Fear not my thoughts of thee. They are only good."

"Good and pure and lovely. As thou art. Naught have I ever done to deserve such a love as thou art to me. There is naught that can come between us. By the Valar, I swear I love thee more than life itself, more than the line of my forefathers."

"And knowest thou that I love thee in full measure, my Denethor. How I love that name. How it feels upon my tongue, my lips."

He pulled her to him, kissing those sweet lips, momentarily forgetting his anger, frustration and pain. Always, when he brought his concerns to her, she turned them into joy. Why did he not confide in her more often, he wondered. Yet there were dark secrets that would terrify her if he shared them. He trembled slightly at the thought of her fair mind and heart confronted by the evil that continued to spread nearer and nearer to Minas Tirith, the evil that would one day claim his land.

She felt the shiver and held him tighter; misunderstanding the cause, she wondered what she could do to help allay this anger. If only he could have been stationed at Pelargir. If only he could have commanded the fleet. Her heart jumped at the thought of the nearness of the sea to Pelargir. She could have been happy there. She tried not to shake her head. She should be happy here. What was wrong with her? Her love doted upon her, their friends were many, her husband's father treated her well, especially now that she had given Denethor a son - what more did she need? And yet, always, there was that sight before her - from the moment she woke till the moment she placed her head again upon her pillow - that horrible sight, belching and rumbling and sometimes waking her in the middle of the night. There was evil there; she knew it. She trembled and he held her.

Thorongil kicked the stone in front of him and Berelach looked questioningly towards him. 'If I stay,' he thought, 'I will continue to damage Denethor's place in Gondor. Ecthelion is foolish when it comes to his son. I know not why. Denethor tries, does everything he can to obey him, and yet he turns to me for council. I will never earn Denethor's trust at this rate. And trust me he must, for he will be my Steward if things come to pass as Elrond sees them.' He sighed. 'My heart is happy here. I love him. I love his son. And Finduilas and Indis could not be more courteous nor attentive. If I leave now, if I do not return to Minas Tirith, perhaps Ecthelion will turn to Denethor and use him. This parting would be most painful though. I love Minas Tirith. I love her people. Would I be abandoning them? Nay, it is more important that I not abandon Denethor, for this is not yet my time. The longer I stay in Gondor, the deeper grows Ecthelion's attachment to me, and the deeper grows the rift between Denethor and myself. I cannot let this continue. How will I tell them? Nay, there is naught to say. I will leave a note and go. Just say that other duties call me. Bitter is this time!' He kicked another stone. 'This is not what I planned.' He turned towards his aide.

"I will not be returning with you to Minas Tirith. I am writing a missive and will give it to you. In fact, I will give you two. One I wish you to take to the Steward and one to the Steward's son. Do you understand?"

Forgive the abruptness of my actions. Some concerns have arisen that must be dealt with. I must be off. I will not return to Gondor.

This was hideous - what else could he say? He quickly signed and sealed it, wrote Ecthelion's name on the front and gave it to Berelach.

He sat back, chewed on the stylus as if it were his pipe and tried mightily to think of something to say to mend the hurts his presence had caused.

I have written to the Steward and informed him that I must leave Gondor. I have said I will not return, but I hope to, one day in the distant future. At that time, I sincerely hope that we may start our friendship anew, devoid of all that encumbers our amity now. Ever have I meant to befriend you. To your mind, mayhap this has not seemed so. I will endeavor to do all I can, when and if I return, to be forthright and loyal to you and the throne of Gondor.

He scratched that part out. If he mentioned the throne... Denethor already looked askance at him. If he put in something about the throne, it would make him question. He looked at the missive again, crumpled it, stood up and threw it into the fire.

I have written to the Steward and informed him that I must leave Gondor. I have told him I will not return, but I hope to, one day in the distant future. At that time, I sincerely hope that we may start our friendship anew, devoid of all that encumbers our amity now. Ever have I meant to befriend you. To your mind, mayhap this has not seemed so.

I will endeavor to do all I can, when and if I return, to support you as Steward of Gondor.

I leave with you the dirk of your kin. I had meant to return it to you upon your taking the Steward's Chair, but that is not to be; I will not be here for that happy occasion.

'Ah, that should help. How do I sign it? Your friend, the usurper, the traitor.' His brow creased. He had done nothing wrong, naught to harm Denethor and yet he felt responsible for the rift between Ecthelion and Denethor. 'I will just sign it Thorongil and leave it at that,' he thought.

He finished the missive, asking Denethor to bid Finduilas and Indis farewell, signed and sealed it, wrote Denethor's name on the front and gave it to Berelach.

"There, it is done. Take these immediately to Ecthelion and Denethor. Please, make sure you give it personally to each."

"Yes, my Lord." Berelach said, then looked on in astonishment as Thorongil, after wrapping his belongings in his blanket and slinging them over the back of his horse, mounted, saluted him, and rode off eastward.

"Well..." was all he could say. Then he mounted his own horse and rode towards Minas Tirith.

The missive burnt his hand and his heart. Long past, his heart had turned against the writer. The eyes reading it could only see danger lurking. "So, he intends to return. For what purpose, I wonder." And then, a sudden longing for friendship long lost assailed him. "Friend I had called him. Nay, closer to brother." Bitter tears burnt his eyes. "My heart recalls his kindnesses, his loyalty, his openness. Always, he shared all with me. Gave me no cause for regret, nor anger, nor jealousy." The tears fell in earnest. "I would go back to those times. I would take him in my arms and embrace him and thank him for everything he has ever done for me, from the moment of healing in the Drúadan Forest, to the negotiations for thy hand, to his friendship. And yet - I cannot forgive him for this... this estrangement from my father."

Her soft voice beside him shushed him. "It seems to me, my Lord, that thy father bears the brunt of guilt here. 'Twas not Thorongil's intent neither to deceive thee nor to tear thee away from thy father's esteem. Thou knowest this."

"I knowest not what to think. Clandestine meetings, gifts given, the people exhorted to cheer his name in the courtyards. What am I to think? That Thorongil was unaware of the repercussions, the destruction that these things brought about. I am the Heir, not he. My mind tells me he and the wizard engineered these things. Swayed my father's heart towards him, and away from me. Yet my own heart would deny such accusations." He pulled her towards him. "I will speak with Ecthelion, in couch'd terms and try to discover where the treason lies. Yes," he said as she pulled away from him at the word, "'Tis treason to plot to o'erthrow the rightful Heir. Is that not what he did?" His anger simmered again. "He and that wizard." He spat the word. "Wizards speak in riddles, tell half-truths, and endeavor to take control of peoples' minds. Hideous creatures. Long bereft of honor." He was droning the phrases, alarming her. "Wizards are not to be trusted. They lie. They steal information. They trick leaders into unwise decisions."

He drew a breath in sharply. Somehow, he had been back in the deep archives of the Great Library, listening to a feared voice. He shook his head to clear it. 'I have endeavored to keep my mind my own. I will not go back to being the pawn of another wizard,' he thought. 'I will not!'

He hugged her quickly to assuage her fears and left her. Striding towards the Great Hall, he toyed with the words he would use to question Ecthelion. How was he to couch his words so that his father would not realize where his questioning was leading? He was, however, unprepared for the onslaught of his father's rage.

"You!" his father screamed as he entered the Hall. "What did you do to make Thorongil leave me? What did you say to him that made him abandon Gondor? With him at my side, there was a possibility that we would win, that Gondor would not fall. But you," he snarled out the word, "you have destroyed all hope with your petty jealousy. Did you not know that my captain would flee from your accurs'd finger pointing?" He slumped back in his Chair. "I... I cannot do this alone," he whispered. "Finally, Gondor had an ally of stature!"

"Father!" Denethor tried not to shout. "I said naught to Thorongil. Naught. Always have I obeyed your will, though you would see it otherwise. Do not blame me for Thorongil's change of mind. Never had he made oath to Gondor, nor pled fealty to you; never had he promised to remain here. His loyalty was a delusion. Always, he looked only to himself, to his own ends. Now those ends have sent him in a different direction and we must stand without him. Know that I valued his quality. Know that I esteemed his leadership. Know you not that his heart was not beholding to Gondor. I appreciate your need of his skills, but father, others have skills too, skills that perhaps you have not seen." He did not want to beg, but suddenly his entire being longed mightily for his father's approval. "Would you not teach me? Would you not use me to help Gondor?" He knelt before the Steward, his heart beating wildly. Perhaps there was the slightest likelihood that Ecthelion would value him. He knew Thorongil was loyal to Gondor, knew it in his heart, and he found it repulsive to use that ploy to sway Ecthelion, but he must use something to further his own cause, and Thorongil had, indeed, abandoned Gondor.

His father stood up. "Leave me now," he said wearily. "We will talk in the morning." He turned as if to leave, then turned back. "Come to the Council meeting tomorrow." Then he turned again and left.

Denethor almost leapt for joy. He had not been admitted to a Council meeting in over five years; summoned once in a great while to give report, but not attend! He could not believe his ears. He ran towards his quarters, ready to envelop his love and rejoice with her in the implied meaning of the invitation.

However, the Council meeting did not go as he had hoped, but it was a beginning. He was not introduced, and that disappointed him, yet the members of the Council knew him well. Why should his father introduce him? He sat halfway down the table from the Steward. The place of honor was given to Lord Amandil. Ecthelion did, however, notify the Council of Thorongil's decision. There were great sighs and harsh comments towards any who would have had any part in that decision. Denethor knew their thoughts accused him. He tried to keep his head up.

Many decisions were made that day that alarmed him. The forces at Pelargir would be cut in half, now that the threat from Umbar was presumed abolished forever, thanks to Thorongil (he cringed). The Gondorian ships used in battle were left to sit at the docks. Funds were not allocated to repair them. Their crews were sent to the garrisons at Pelargir and Dol Amroth. Denethor questioned many of the decisions, but in his own heart he deemed it was not yet his time to partake of the discussions. Ciramir was sent to Pelargir and Amdir was stationed in Osgiliath. Listöwel would be sorely hurt by this decision. No woman was allowed to accompany her husband to the garrison at Osgiliath. Concern for Amdir's safety battled with pride for his friend. Osgiliath was deemed a very good assignment. There was no mention of an assignment for him. He kept his mouth closed. He was, however, placed as a member of the funding board, to learn, as Ecthelion told him bluntly, how to effectively negotiate, use the treasury monies, and contribute to the well being of Gondor. Denethor wanted to gag.

Once the Council was adjourned, Ecthelion called him forth. "I would have you spend the next months in the Great Treasury. I want the items there catalogued. It is a worthwhile assignment, and one that will teach you many things. It will also help you in your role with the board."

The Great Treasury. He ran back to their chambers and hugged her tightly. All the excitement at his inclusion in the Council was mitigated by the task laid before him. "I am to be a clerk," he stated sourly. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. She ran her hand through his hair. "First I was to be an aide and now I am to be a clerk. So this is what I have trained for all my life." He stared at her for a moment. "Wouldst thou forgive me?" he said, looking into her bright gray eyes. "Always, my heart turns to the unpleasant aspects of my life, and away from the gifts I have. Away from thee. I am a fool; nay, more than a fool, I am an idiot. No other, looking at one such as thee, holding a Vala in their arms, and hearing the sweet cooing of their son, would spend one moment on such thoughts. 'Tis folly. And I am sore pressed to make excuse for it. Yet, I would beg thy forgiveness. Thou knowest me too well. Thou knewest me before our oath taking. Art thou surprised?"

She laughed, holding him closer to her. "Nay, thou art the most precious gift the Valar could give. Almost as precious as thy son. Come, thee must see what he hast done this day." And she led him into the nursery. As soon as Boromir saw him, he lifted his arms and cooed. "Ada, Ada, Ada," he sang over and over. Denethor's face blushed at the joy he felt looking upon the little one. "My darling Boromir," he cried and lifted him from the cradle, swinging him around and rejoicing at the gentle laughter emitting from his son. "Nana tells me thou hast been up to some sort of devilry?" He laughed as Boromir looked at him questioningly. "What great feat hast thou done this day, my son?"

Boromir looked shyly at his Ada. "Down, Ada," he said simply. Denethor smiled and placed him on the floor. The little one moved quickly to his cradle and climbed right into it. Denethor gasped. "How didst he learn to do this? Who taught him?" he asked Finduilas in astonishment.

Denethor walked back to the bed, pulled the coverlet over him, and kissed him on the forehead. "Sleep now, my sweet Boromir. Ada is so proud of thee. And Ada loves thee very much." He turned to hide the tears in his eyes, walked towards Finduilas, and buried his head in her shoulder. They walked slowly from the room.

"It... is.... not.... possible. He cannot be dead. He was here, with us, just two years ago. Dead. It cannot be. Too young to be dead." He had slid back into his chair, hands hiding his face. "How?"

"He was not of Númenor, le melon. He just died. It happens." She had not wanted to sound unfeeling, but she knew the frailty of men who were not of Westernesse blood.

He pulled her to him, down onto his lap, and held her tight. "He was more brother than friend, Finduilas. I cannot abide the thought that he is gone. I had wished to fish with him one more time. I sent a missive to him, after Thorongil deserted us, asking for his advice. But he did not reply. I was hurt, at the time. I thought, what with his love for Thorongil, that he would not listen to me. That he thought I was being foolish. He must have been ill then. I should have known better. I knew him well, Finduilas. How could I have thought he would abandon me?" Tears formed in his eyes. "When?"

"Not five days past. An errand-rider was dispatched as soon as... There was no warning, Denethor. He had been ill for only a short time. He died in his sleep. Morwen was at his side. Théoden had returned from the Fords of Isen a fortnight before. Will you go to Edoras?"

"Of course. I must. And Amdir will go too. We must send a rider immediately to fetch him. Recall him from Osgiliath. Indis... Arciryas too. He would not want to be left behind. Oh, Finduilas. Does Indis know yet?"

Indis insisted, once Denethor told her the news of Thengel's death, that Listöwel be allowed to accompany them. "We three, Denethor, are bound as sisters. You cannot separate us. She must attend," Indis stated. And so it was that the entire company of friends, less Elleth who had taken ill, arrived at the gates of Edoras. Dust and heat assailed them as they passed through. Banners hung silent in the dark. It had taken them longer than usual to reach the Rohirric city. Though rivers were only tiny trickles or dried up beds, they were not the stumbling block that caused the trip to be long and arduous. He rued the fact that Indis and Listöwel accompanied them. They did not show it, but he knew the two-week journey had taken its toll on them all. It had been a dangerous journey. Orc bands had attacked at night four times during their long sojourn. Gratefully, he acknowledged that they had lost none of their company; he smiled, though, as he thought of the battle readiness of the women! They would not be put off, nor encircled in protection, but had fought hard and long, as the men guarding them. It irked him to think Orcs would have the temerity to attack a full Gondorian battalion. Gondor must be deemed weak indeed to be held in such disdain.

As Morwen held Denethor's arm tightly, she recounted the ceremony. "I began the song of mourning.... "Bealocwealm hafað... They laid him in a mound prepared for him, the mounds on the left being part of the second line of the Kings of Rohan. Little white flowers have already sprouted from its base. The day was beautiful. White clouds spotted the sky; the mountain snows mirrored their whiteness and the river Snowbourn glimmered in the hot sun. All was white and blue and gold. The roof of the Golden Hall hurt the eye, such was the brightness of the sun that day. How I wish you had been here. I should have sent for you earlier. I could see he was failing, but I would not accept it. Nor did I expect it to happen so quickly." She leaned against him, clinging to his arm. "He bade you farewell, Denethor. He awoke in the middle of the night, clutching his chest, bending near over with pain. It subsided for a moment. His eyes, misted with tears from the pain, suddenly cleared. He looked at me and smiled, gave me his love. We lay together for another few moments, he recounted his love and pride for Théoden, his wish that he could have accomplished more, his thoughts of friends near and dear to him. You, my dearest, Denethor, were part of those such named. Another few moments and Théoden and the healers were at his side. But he was gone by that time."

"He was a brave warrior, Morwen. Songs and tales will be told of him until the end of time. I learned so much from him. A truer friend I have not had. Gondor has indeed lost one of her sons. Ecthelion would have had me use him for Gondor's end: I know he knew that, but I would not sully our friendship with that crassness. I had only the deepest respect for him. Though his years were many more than mine, he held me in esteem. I considered him our finest captain. Will you come back to Gondor with us, Morwen? You are sorely missed. Your old quarters would be prepared."

She looked at him in surprise. "Nay, Denethor, though I would wish it mightily, for I miss my sisters terribly. Théoden and Théodred have need of me. The little one needs a mother, and I am that for him, and always will be. But I thank you for the kindness. He loved you very much."

Laughter swept down the hallway and into the main hall. Théoden, Amdir, and Denethor looked up in surprise. "'Tis the sisters," Denethor said in mock anger. "They cannot stop that cackling whenever they meet. 'Tis a disgrace!" The smile belied his words.

"Yes. They drove your father mad with it. Some nights, 'twas hard to sleep. I think he relished being sent to a far away outpost now and again. I know I did."

All three men laughed heartily. Denethor clapped Théoden on the back. "My lad," his tone grew serious. "Know that I will be here for you. In whatever your want. Need I say that the promise of Cirion, Steward of Gondor, will hold as long as Ecthelion is Steward, and then after, when I am Steward. We will not forsake the men of the Mark. The boundaries will not change, nor your sovereignty. I swear it."

Théoden hugged Denethor. "Father spoke truly of you. He told me that, if ever I was in need, I was to call upon Gondor. That Gondor would answer. Know you also, Denethor, that Rohan will answer any call of Gondor's. We know the oath of loyalty taken by Eorl on the Halifirien, the oath of perpetual loyalty to Gondor. Know that I will keep that oath, Denethor, as long as I have breath!"

"I find it strange, my friend, that we should be swearing oaths that were created by our ancestors so long ago. But the friendship between Gondor and Rohan has been strong, and always will be." He paused for a moment. "Did you know that Cirion's father was named Boromir? I find it strange that I sit here with you as father of Boromir. I think it bodes well for our people. Do you not agree?"

Laughter again erupted from down the corridor and Denethor and Théoden joined it. Amdir shrugged. "'Twill be hard for them to be parted again."

"'Twas," insisted Morwen. "I saw it myself. The wizard had drawn on that pipe he uses and smoke came from his nose! After that," she paused for emphasis, "he blew out a round ring from his mouth that drifted to the ceiling of the Golden Hall. Then it stayed there, till evening came!"

Indis laughed loudly. "I have heard tales of Mithrandir's love of the stuff he calls pipeweed. I remember one time in Minas Tirith, he had some children of the Tower Guard running over the foothills of Mindolluin harvesting bunches of sweet galenas. He brought it to the laundry and spread it on the drying tables. After a week, he went back to retrieve it. He was furious; the laundress had thrown it away. They bellowed back and forth at each other until I was called to settle the matter."

The others laughed with her. "Great was the courage of that laundress, I must say," said Listöwel. "I would not cross the wizard myself. Dark are the memories of wizards for Denethor, that much I can say!"

"Yes," Indis frowned. "He truly distrusts them. All wizards. Yet, I myself, find Mithrandir to be pleasant company. He regales me with many tales of Elves, and great forests, strange creatures - the very type of tales that Denethor loves. But Denethor will not allow himself to be anywhere near when the wizard visits Gondor."

"What is the real shame is that you will be leaving me soon. Théoden said that Denethor plans on leaving the day after tomorrow. I will rue that day, my sisters. Blessed has your company been to me. You have eased my heart. I know Théoden has been lifted by Denethor's presence. Would that we could stay together always. Do you remember, Indis, when I was with child and had the vision of Thengel helpless? Do you remember how you said that, as long as our men were together, they would be all right?" Tears started to fall. "'Twas an omen of this day. We should never have left Gondor. I know Thengel would be alive today, with Denethor and Amdir at his side. I know it."

Indis leaned in and held her sister-friend. "Nay, my sister, you know that the life of an Eorlingas is short. His time had come. Your curse is that of one of Númenor. You chose one of lesser blood. You knew your life would last longer than his. But be heartened, for Théoden's blood flows with yours and he will live longer because of it. That, my sweet sister, is very good."

"Yes," Morwen sighed. "'Twill flow through the line of Thengel forever. That does hearten me, my sweet Indis. Thank you."

Darkness enveloped her and she hid under her cloak, willing it to be gone. But her heart had been o'ertaken by it; she was helpless in its power. Such terror had never assailed her as this did. She felt it, physically, and burrowed deeper into the cloak: the cloak he had given her on their wedding day. Darkest blue with mithril stars scattered about. The cloth was so thick she could not see through it. And this was a blessing. The mountain belched and stormed at her, shaking the very foundations of Minas Tirith, causing her to grasp the cloak in panic. Three times the room had shaken so badly she was afraid she would be thrown from the bed. She clung to the great oaken headboard as her tears fell. 'How could he leave me alone like this? Does he not know I will go mad with this terror? Is there no one who can help me? I am so alone. I am so alone.' The tears fell faster as she cowered further and further into the precious mantle that covered her. Another tremor hit the room and she screamed into the night, "Where is he? Why did he leave me? Why did they all leave me?" But there was no answer. Even the mountain had quieted. The silence almost hurt it was so deep. "Silence before the storm? Is that what this is?" she wondered aloud. But after a few moments, she realized the mountain had stilled. She held her breath for another moment, then slowly moved the cloak back just a bit. The fire still burned brightly in its place, the candles still flickered, but now gently, and she could hear the soft sound of wind blowing outside her windows. Another deep breath and she sat up. Her fingers hurt from holding so tightly to the headboard. She flexed them, then sat up, moved off the bed and walked to the terrace opening. 'Why am I doing this? I do not want to see it.' But some compulsion, some fixation made her look. The sky in the east was lit up as if by the sunrise, but it was no sunrise; it was the flames of that horrid mountain reaching towards the firmament itself. She pulled the cloak tighter about her. The stars were the same as those back home in Dol Amroth. Yet, not the same, for these were being o'ercome, supplanted by the fire and smoke that spewed out of that horrid, cavernous peak. She closed her eyes. Such sadness, such gloom, such despondency beset her that the tears, which had stopped when the shaking had stopped, poured forth again in such torrents it frightened her. 'By the Valar, I will die here in loneliness and grief.' She screamed wildly, "Denethor! Denethor, save me!"

The guard flung open the chamber doors, sword unsheathed, searching for the cause of his Lady's distress. Stepping a few paces into the room, he called her name. When his call went unanswered, he strode quickly to the bedchamber's doors, knocked, then opened them. She lay by the great terrace doors overlooking the Courtyard of the White Tree. Rushing towards her, he sheathed his sword, took her in his arms, and gently called to her. She did not respond, but her chambermaid ran in at the same moment.

The guard shouted for her to be still; then motioned for her to come to him. She wept openly as she tiptoed across the room.

"The Lady Finduilas is ill. Go to the Houses immediately and bring back the Master Healer. Go, now!" he shouted as she looked at him in confusion. With a start, she ran from the room.

Denethor's groomsman entered the room as the chambermaid left and quickly ran to the guard's side. Kneeling, he put his hand on her forehead, touched her cheeks, and finally felt her neck. "Quickly," he whispered. "Place her upon her bed. I believe she has only fainted."

The guard sighed a great sigh of relief, picked her up and placed her under the covers. The groomsman removed the cloak and pulled the covers up around her neck. "I will stay with her. Please inspect the rooms. Make sure there is no sign of an intruder, naught that might have caused this distress."

The guard obeyed. After a few moments, he came back. "There is no one here. Nor any sign that an intruder has entered these rooms."

"Yes. It is as I thought. I believe she has never felt the quaking of the earth before. Though not as hard as when the mountain first awakened, the shocks were strong. She fainted in fright, I think. Go, back to your post. I will stay with her. When the healer comes, send him in."

A few moments later, a man stood in front of the guard. "The Master Healer has gone with Denethor to Rohan. My name is Siriondil and I would look to the Lady Finduilas,"

He held Morwen in his arms, comforting her as best he could. He knew there were no words to assuage her grief. Yet, he was grateful to be with her, to at last hold her and tell her of all that Thengel had meant to him, to Gondor and to the Rohirrim. He knew he did not want to leave her here. And yet, he must. His friend's son needed her. She had such wisdom and strength. He thought, with awe, of the women in his life. Morwen Steelsheen. Aptly she was named. He saw it in the steel of her eyes as she bid them farewell. Indis was weeping openly as was Listöwel, but each waved, smiling through the tears. The entourage went through the gates, down into the valley and towards the road that led home. As much as he wanted to stay, to spend more time with Théoden, he knew he must leave. His heart had been filled with pain these last days. He needed to be with Finduilas and Boromir. He had been gone too long. He had never meant to stay for Théoden's coronation, but the man had begged him, and so he stayed. It had recalled to him Thengel's ceremony. Bittersweet these days seemed to be. To raise a cup of cheer to the new king delighted him, for Théoden had become quite a man, so like unto Thengel, but still, he wanted to still see Thengel seated on the throne. How hard for Morwen to sit next to her son and not her king. 'Ah,' he thought, 'but Théoden is now king. I can only wish the best for him. The days are growing darker. I have warned him about the wizard at Isengard. I hope he takes my advice to heart. Would that my ancestor had never given the keys of Orthanc to a wizard! 'Tis fruitless to follow that line of thought.' He shook his head. 'The damage has been done; the wizard resides in the tower. And I must leave it in the hands of a child.' He had to laugh. Théoden was no longer a child, but his fondest memories of the man were in Minas Tirith, bouncing him upon his knee. How he wished they had more time together. 'Ah, someday I will take him fishing with me. Thengel told me he excels in the sport. Then again, perhaps I will not. I really do not want to have another abject lesson in humiliation. I have never been able to fish well. I know not why.' His smile filled his face.

"I was thinking of Thengel and how much he loved to fish. I imagine he has drawn forth all the fish in the Snowbourn and left none for his son!"

"I too miss Thengel. It is a very hard thing to lose a man such as he was. Besides being a friend, Gondor needed his strength."

"Indeed, sister, you speak well. I cannot forget the pride Thengel had in Théoden. I think Rohan will remain loyal to Gondor, will do her best to keep the evil forces at bay, and will guard our shared border well. We discussed horses, and he has promised another herd to be sent to Gondor within the month. We have needed new mounts desperately." He shook his head slowly. "We lose as many mounts as men in this age. Too many, dear sister. Too many."

She placed her hand on his. "When you are Steward, my Lord, you will exhort men to join Gondor's armies. They love you, the men who serve under you, and all will know that love. You will have no difficulty encouraging the other lords of Gondor to send men to swell the ranks. You are eloquent and wise. They will see the wisdom in your words and they will respond in like. I have no doubt. Ecthelion has been ruled by frustration and enmity towards Turgon and the legacy he left him. If you leave aside these things, you will be strong and Gondor will survive."

"I know not how Gondor will survive, Indis. We have not enough men and the lords of the surrounding lands do not send us recruits. It is as you say; I must persuade them to act and now. Else Gondor will surely fall. I thank you for your confidence in me, dearest sister. It is most needed. If father would only..." he stopped in confusion. Better to leave those thoughts somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind. They only caused pain. "We have been missed, Indis, of that I am sure. If only there were some way to fly over these mountains into Finduilas' arms, 'twould make me most happy."

Siriondil had paced the room for nigh unto a fortnight. She still languished. All the medicaments he used did naught for her. She had not even wanted to see her son. The healer was most concerned. 'Perhaps it is fever. Nay,' he wished it were. He could deal with fever, knew how to fight it, but this was different. It assailed her mind. Would that Denethor would hurry home. Ecthelion had not thought it necessary to send an errand-rider to the party; he thought they would return within the month. Denethor had now been gone almost two months. She was awake and aware, most of the time, yet her speech slurred at times, and her eyes would cloud over. He shivered. 'I must do something.' He jumped at the sound of running feet. He stood away from the bed and turned towards the doors. Denethor pushed them open and ran into the room. His face was terrible to behold. The healer quickly moved out of his way. Denethor knelt by her side, taking her hand into his. Arciryas joined him. Siriondil left the bedchamber and waited in the outer rooms.

"Finduilas?" he whispered. Her eyes were closed, her face gray, her hair lay wet about her face, drenched in sweat. "Finduilas," he moaned. "Lasto beth nîn, cuiva!" She did not stir. "Garn nîn, absenen. Too long have I been gone. Absenen, melethril nîn, absenen!" He turned towards Arciryas. "What ails her? Why will she not wake?"

"My Lord," Siriondil stepped through the doors. "I gave her a draught to help her sleep. The last time she awoke, she was delirious. Screaming about death and fell beasts and I know not what else. Afraid she would hurt herself, I gave her a potion."

Arciryas stepped to the man and walked him back out the door. They spoke for some moments; then Arciryas came back and stood by Denethor. "The potion is weak. She should wake soon. Please, Denethor, take a quick bath; make yourself presentable, so that when she wakes your appearance or your demeanor will not affright her. She needs you strong now."

Denethor quickly kissed her forehead and moved to the antechamber. His groomsman was issuing orders for a bath to be drawn. Denethor pulled Arciryas close to him. "What ails her?"

"Siriondil tells me there was a time of great activity from the mountain while we were away. Three or four tremors hit the tower. She was alone, frightened, and fell prey to a 'madness' - it will pass, Denethor. Once she is in your arms, it will pass. She is weak, however, and I think it best you do not leave her for long periods. Either you or Indis or Listöwel must be with her for now. She should not be left alone."

Arciryas gave him a hug, surprising Denethor. "Brother, her love for you is deep. Let that thought comfort you while she heals. I will stay by her side until you are ready."

Indis ran into the room while Denethor was still in his bath. He looked up surprised and she blushed. "Forgive me, brother. I heard the news of Finduilas' illness. Is it serious?"

Arciryas had stepped through the door as soon as he heard Indis' voice. "She will be well, my love," he said. "You will have to help her regain her strength and her will to live. I am told she refused to see Boromir. He must be brought to her. The child has such life and joy within him; he can only help to raise her spirits. But not for a day or two. I cannot believe they kept him away, even if she had requested the separation. A mother needs her son, as does the son need his mother." He wanted to throttle the nursemaid and her chambermaid. How could they leave her alone during the tremors? It was becoming commonplace to have the tower shake; though, from Siriondil's description, it had been a fairly violent event this time. Still, had the maid hidden under her own bed? He would ask Indis to find another to take care of Finduilas, someone stronger. 'Ah,' he thought suddenly, 'Firieth. She will be perfect. Strong and no nonsense. Finduilas will not be able to order her about.'

Denethor finished dressing and joined his sister and her husband. "I will go to her now. You both should go to your own quarters. I will see you in the morning, both of you. Arciryas, at that time, I would like a full report from your healer."

"Yes, my Lord," Arciryas said, and, taking Indis arm, left the room. Denethor walked to their bedchamber, closed the doors behind him, and lay next to the Swan princess. Tears slowly welled up in his eyes; he let them fall. At last, he fell into sleep.

Awakened by a fist hitting him in the cheek, he sat up. She was still asleep, but her arms flailed about. He tried to grab them and suffered another hit to his shoulder. Gently, he whispered her name. Arms kept flailing and a moan escaped her lips. "Save me," she whimpered. His heart broke. "Oh sweet Finduilas. I am here. Thou art safe. Cuiva. Losto, sedho, hodo." But naught seemed to calm her. As he readied to call the guard, her eyes flew open. "Finduilas!" he sobbed. "Melethril nîn, it is I, thy husband." She looked uncomprehendingly at him, and then her breath hitched and she flung her arms about his neck. "Denethor!" she screamed. "Denethor, save me!" Her eyes were wide and her breath came in ragged gasps. "Finduilas," he whispered, trying to soothe her. "Finduilas, thou art safe. I am here at thy side and I will not leave thee." She clung even harder and he had to struggle for air, but he would not let her go. "Finduilas. There is naught to fear. I am here. Thou art in thine own bed. Guards stand at the door. Thou art safe, garn nîn. Thou art safe."

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. The guard cautiously opened it. "My Lord, is there aught wrong? I heard screams."

"Yes. Thank you for entering. Go to my sister's chambers and bring Arciryas here."

The guard left and Denethor once more turned his full attention to Finduilas. She had calmed to the point that her arms were no longer flailing about wildly, but her eyes still rolled in her head, and drool covered her lips. He was very frightened. She should not look this way. It reminded him of a horse, mortally wounded in battle, not knowing that it was going to die, and pleading for surcease from the fear and the pain. "By all the Valar, she cannot die," he whispered. "She cannot." He tried to still the fear in himself, lest she feel it and her own fear rise further. Whispering her name over and over, stroking her hair, he waited for Arciryas.

When the healer entered the room, he strode immediately to the bed. Indis was directly behind him. After a few moments, he sighed. "Finduilas," he called gently.

She did not react; only continued to keep her arms about Denethor's neck in a stranglehold. Denethor did not attempt to free himself. He continued his litany of gentle, loving words.

"Finduilas," Arciryas called again, and this time, she looked at him. He placed his hand under her chin and smiled. "Dearest sister, Indis has come to visit you. Will you speak with her?"

Indis stepped into Finduilas' line of sight. She blinked two or three times and then started to cry, quietly at first, and then more frantically. Indis knelt and took her hand and held it tight. "It is all right, Finduilas. We are all here now. All here for you. All will be well."

Finduilas sighed and the tears slowed. Firieth had arrived by now and shoved a cup of tea into Arciryas' hands. He recognized the smell of the valerian root. She was smart, this one. She would watch over Finduilas well.

Denethor also recognized it. The odor brought back memories of the horror of the fire at Emyn Arnen and Amdir's near-fatal injuries. Too many bad memories. But he knew the tea would help her. He almost laughed as she pushed it away. He had oft done the same thing, but he took the cup from Arciryas and held it to her lips, gently speaking her name. She looked up at him, and the pain in her eyes lessened. He smiled and she drank. Soon she was asleep. Denethor sat back with a sigh as Indis took the cup and gave it to Firieth. Indis and Arciryas sat down on the bed. Firieth moved to the doorway and sat in a chair nearby. All three sighed with relief at the same moment. "I fear it will be a long night," Denethor whispered.

"Yes, but she is much better than any time previous to this, according to Siriondil. That heartens me," Arciryas whispered back. "If you do not mind, I will stay here with you. I am sure she has turned for the better, but I would be amiss if I left now." He turned towards Indis. "You may go back to our room if you wish."

"I cannot leave her," she smiled sadly. "My heart breaks for her. Such a little thing. Like a tiny bird, pushed from the nest too early. We should not all have left her. Our thoughts were for Morwen, though, and who could have envisioned such a quake at this time. It is almost as if the mountain itself knew she was here alone." She shivered.

"Do not give the mountain power over you, sister. It cannot do such a thing. It is only moving because of its nature. Not for evil purposes." But in the depths of his heart, Denethor wondered.

Adrahil gasped when first he saw her; then, quickly he put on a smile as he pulled her into his arms. "My beloved daughter. How happy I am that you have returned to your home." He smiled an apology to Denethor, but it was not needed. Denethor knew she must feel safe if she were to heal, and here, in her childhood home, safety dwelt. "And Lord Denethor. It gives me much pleasure to greet you again. I hope your stay will be long?" he hinted.

"We hope not to o'erstep your generosity, Prince Adrahil, but we also hope to stay for quite some time."

"Your chambers have been prepared. I have placed you at the front of the palace, o'erlooking the Bay. It is a spectacular view, and one of my dear Finduilas' favorites. What think you of that, my darling daughter?" the prince said as he turned towards her once more. "Does it please you to be in the 'Elven Wing?'"

A smile, weak, but a smile nonetheless, graced her face. "Father! You know how much I love that part of the palace. Thank you!"

Denethor saw the look of weariness that passed over her and took her hand, gently pulling her away from Adrahil. "My Lord," he said quietly. "We look forward to spending time with you, but at the moment - our journey was long, may we be excused? I would rest for a time, and I believe your daughter is also ready for a rest."

"Of course." Adrahil's voice boomed out, "Ivríniel, come, take your sister and Lord Denethor to their chambers." He turned towards Denethor. "Perhaps, after you have rested, you will join me for dinner?"

"We will see," Denethor stated simply. "I am grateful that your kind invitation included my sister and her husband." Indis bowed and Arciryas smiled. Denethor led Finduilas away.

Adrahil called after him. "They have chambers set aside on the south side of the palace. My son, Imrahil, will show them the way," but he realized Denethor did not hear; his focus was on Finduilas.

And so he found himself once again in the guest chambers at Dol Amroth. The sea sparkled in the sunlight, reflected light shining into the room and lightening every corner. He shuddered briefly. It was in this very room that he had seen his first Elf. He had come to court Princess Finduilas, so very long ago, and yet... What? Was it only eight years ago? It felt so much longer. They had been wed now these past four years, happily wed until this month. When he had returned from Edoras, the guard at the Great Gate had greeted him with the news that the Lady Finduilas had been taken seriously ill. He had commandeered a fresh stead from the Rangers' stables and ridden as fast as the horse could struggle up the interminably long streets to the Sixth Level and the entrance to the Citadel. When he opened their chamber doors, his heart stopped. She lay on their bed, face as white as the sands of Belfalas, hair drenched in sweat. He did not even see Siriondil; he knelt at her side, taking her cold hand into his. He remembered calling her name over and over. She lay as if dead. 'Death!' his mind screamed. 'I cannot abide it!' He had poured every ounce of his being into his voice, into calling her back from wherever she had wandered off to. That was all the remembrance he had. The memories of that horrid, fearful night of vigil would come back to him, eventually. Now, his mind pushed them away.

'Not tonight. Tonight we will sit on the terrace and watch the sun set over the bay and listen to the sound of the waves, and she will be well again,' he hoped with all his might. He heard the rustle of her skirts and turned from the beauty of the Bay to the beauty of Finduilas. Pale green dress sculpted her body. 'Too thin,' his mind screamed, but he pushed that thought away, too. Black pearls about her neck, a welcome home present from her sister Ivríniel, accented the pallor still left over from her illness. The gauntness of her face half hid beneath her black hair, that hair which had once been so shiny, soft and beautiful. It looked thin, dull, and flat. He fought back the shudders that engulfed him. She would not see his anguish. He smiled and walked to meet her, forcing his thoughts towards the healing she would receive here in her home, and far away from the terror-filled sights that assailed her.

"Garn nîn! Thou looks most lovely." Her eyes were sunken and terror again filled him. "Art thou warm enough?" he continued, steeling himself to uphold her, to give her comfort and hope. "I thought we might take our lunch here, on the veranda instead of going to thy father's dining hall. I would keep thee to myself, melethril nîn. Then, we could watch the sun set over the bay, after thou hast rested. Would thee not like that?"

How could he hold her without breaking her? She seemed so fragile, like the whitest snowflake. Here for only a moment, then melted away. 'By all the stars of Varda, I must not think like this. I must be strong. I must be... happy.' He took her gently into his arms, cradling her head in his large, battle-weary hands. 'A new battle I fight,' he thought. 'The battle to save my beloved.'

Kissing her hair while whispering tender words, he built his own courage and strength from the love that o'erwhelmed him in that moment. 'She is worth fighting for,' he thought furiously. 'I will fight till my last breath to keep her alive and well and happy. But how?'

Many days passed before they joined the family for anything. The journey had been too long, Denethor feared, for Finduilas lay abed for almost a fortnight, unable to rise by herself. Arciryas tended her. Each morning, Denethor would carry her to a chair on the veranda and sit and urge her to eat. Arciryas would come twice a day, bringing medicaments and tales of the splendor of the palace and of Dol Amroth itself. He had never been to Belfalas before, and the wonder of the place astounded him. Indis would join them every day for lunch. Her light-hearted laughter echoed through the room. She brought fresh flowers and regaled Finduilas with her findings. She delighted in the variety. She and Finduilas started to plan for a new garden area in the courtyard off of their chambers in Minas Tirith. At last, she was speaking of Minas Tirith again. She strengthened in those days and hope, however fragile, kindled in Denethor's heart.

She was sleeping now and he had walked out onto the veranda, his attention caught by the sound of a crane calling. His thoughts turned to Boromir. How the little one loved the great cranes that walked the little streams outside Minas Tirith. He missed the lad mightily. Listöwel would be taking good care of him, but, nonetheless, he wanted to hold him in his arms and bounce him on his knee. He would be changed when they came back. Babes grow quickly when they are little. Every day, when he went to the boy's nursery, he would note that he had grown a little taller, his face had lengthened a little, and his hair had darkened a little more. What would he look like when they returned? He stifled the groan, looking quickly towards the bed, but she did not stir. As much as he loved to hold her in his arms, those arms longed to hold his son. 'My son,' he thought. 'Never had I thought to have a son, and such a one as he. Brave and fearless already.' He remembered how the lad had climbed into his crib all by himself. Not afraid in the least over the height that he had to negotiate to complete the task. 'And quick of wit,' he smiled. 'Knows my footfall from any other. Yells my name before I even open the door. I love him so very much. Is it possible to love a child so completely?' He walked towards the wall. 'He would love this place. The gulls, the beaches, the water. Oh, how the child loves the water.' They were hard-pressed to keep him from splashing through every puddle in Gondor, every stream on the Pelennor. Another smile lit his face. 'Never clean. Always into some mischief to tear at his garments and besmirch his face.' He chuckled. And then grew solemn. 'Was I such an abysmal child that my father should hasten to separate us at every opportunity? Nay, 'twas the absence of my mother that caused our estrangement. It must have been very difficult for him.' Finduilas' illness had opened his eyes to the grief his father must have felt when his mother passed away. He heard her stirring and strode quickly back into the room. She smiled as he flung himself upon the bed.

"Thou art mussing the covers, my Lord," she teased. "What wilt my father think?"

He threw his head back and laughed. "Dost thou think that I care what thy father thinks when thou art at my side."He quickly took her into his arms, where she settled with a sigh.

She went to bed early. Indis walked with her to their rooms. Adrahil had asked Denethor to stay, after supper, to speak of Gondor's weal. It was now three months since they had arrived in Dol Amroth and Finduilas was well recovered. Denethor planned to leave in the morning. After the women left, Arciryas, Denethor, and Adrahil sat in front of the great stone fireplace in the prince's study.

"I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your kindness to Finduilas," Denethor began. "I had no other recourse but to bring her here. You see I was right in that decision. She needed to see the sea again, feel the salt air on her face, and look upon beloved faces again. I will not let so much time pass before bringing her back to Dol Amroth, if that is agreeable to you."

"Of course it is," the prince said dryly. "I could not refuse my daughter anything. Did I not give her hand to you when she asked it of me?"

Denethor smiled. The animosity between the two families had lessened over time, but a touch of it still lingered.

"It is. I would have Imrahil return with you to Minas Tirith. He is an asset to me. Well, you have a son. You know he is more than that. But I would have him experience more of the world than what we have to offer here in Belfalas. He will be prince. Heir to my throne. Besides that, it would do Finduilas well to have family at her side."

Denethor bristled, but kept his face from any sign of discomfiture. 'He would send his son to watch over his daughter. Obviously, he has not faith that I can take care of her. Yet, in truth, I have not done well. He must think I abandoned her when I went to Edoras without her, though I thought it wise not to burden her with that tedious trip. It was a mistake, not taking her. But who could have foreseen such a thing.' He held his breath for a moment. When it came to Finduilas, he had no foresight. He had not thought, nor recognized that fact before.

Adrahil was speaking and Denethor had missed some of what he had said. "...if you would not mind?"

"There is not enough room in the barracks for the sailors that Ecthelion sent from the Pelargir. Would you speak with your father? Ask him to station them at other posts? There must be three thousand, at least."

"More than that, I think, yet, did not Dol Amroth need everyone of them during the battle against Umbar? Would you have had less under Thorongil? Methinks Dol Amroth would have fallen had not Thorongil attacked. Is there no gratitude for the sacrifice made by Gondor?"

Adrahil paused for a moment, color rising in his face. "All of Belfalas rejoiced at the defeat of the Corsairs." He stood for a moment, trying to restrain the anger he felt. He had forgotten that Denethor's tongue could be wicked. "I only ask for the comfort of your people. They are cramped."

Again, Adrahil flinched. "If that is what Gondor needs, then Belfalas will provide. Yet, I do not see the need for such a great contingent of men to be stationed here. With the threat of Umbar gone, their presence would serve Gondor better nearer the eastern borders, do you not think?"

"I will take Imrahil back with me. He will be commissioned as a captain, for I have seen his skill in leading men. I will take your request to my father. But," and he paused for effect, "but Belfalas must send more men to Minas Tirith. There is no excuse, now, to keep your men here. Would you not agree?"

'How does my daughter love this man?' the prince wondered, struggling again to keep control of his own tongue.

Denethor could see the struggle on the man's face and relented. He knew what it was to control oneself in front of an unyielding, demanding Steward.

"Belfalas is next to my heart in my love because of your daughter. Gondor is, of course, first. I will remember that, when I go to my father regarding the number of men required. We will not leave Dol Amroth unguarded." He stood and walked to where Adrahil stood. "My father," he began tentatively and in Sindarin. Adrahil looked up in surprise. "Thy daughter is most dear to me. Think not that I will let aught happen to Dol Amroth for her sake, if not for Gondor's. Trust me in this. I will not fail thee, nor thy people. If Gondor falls, and thou knowest this, then Belfalas will be o'errun by the refugees of those battles. And then, eventually, Dol Amroth herself wilt fall. Thou knowest this also, Father. The Unnamed One will prevail if all of Gondor does not unite. Wilt ye send men to Minas Tirith, to train in her armies, to defend her, and Belfalas?"

Adrahil put his hand on Denethor's shoulder. "The Swans have always been faithful to Gondor. We wilt not betray that faith."

Lasto beth nîn - listen to my words
Cuiva! -- wake up!
Garn nîn -- my own
Absenen -- forgive me
Melethril nîn -- my love
Losto, sedho, hodo -- sleep, be still, lie still

Thengel dies, 75 yrs. old; Morwen 58; Théoden, son of Thengel, becomes 17th King of Rohan after the death of his father, age 32.

"He is my only son, Finduilas, and he must know our history." Denethor spoke without reproach, with a firmness touched by warmth. "I have waited longer than was my wont in deference to thee, dear heart. He is going to be five soon," he offered in apology. His thoughts flew back to the time he was five. Bittersweet thoughts, tinged with regret. 'I wonder if I will e'er be able to look back at my childhood without bitterness and longing for better.'

"Ah, but he wilt not be thy only child, garnnîn," she interrupted his thoughts as she lightly stroked her stomach.

Denethor gently removed his left arm from around Boromir's shoulders, quickly stood up, and hastened to Finduilas' side. "What art thou saying?" he asked, bending down to her. He knew well what she meant, what the small gesture meant, but it seemed too much to hope for. It had been over four years now and, though his love for her grew deeper each day, his hope for another child had slowly faded.

"Thou knowest of what I speak, my Lord. By this time next year, another child wilt giggle as it bounces on thy knees."

Once again, his love had surprised him. He turned his face away from her to hide the tears that sprang into his eyes. He grinned with astonishment as he saw the two great sand cranes striding in the stream before him. As soon as he saw them they started majestically away, but the sight had brought further hope, for the great cranes were harbingers of good news. Now he was glad he had decided earlier this morning to bring his family to the southern edge of Minas Tirith for a picnic. The southern ramparts blocked the view of Mordor, so that all Finduilas could see were the White Mountains to her right and the plains stretched in front of her. He was sorry now that he had started to tell Boromir of Melendil. It had been a peaceful, beautiful afternoon, and though he knew in his heart that his son must learn all he could impart as quickly as possible, he vowed not to teach him ever again in her presence.

As soon as they returned to their rooms, he would summon the Master Healer and have Arciryas assess her to make sure all was well. A messenger would have to be sent to notify Prince Adrahil at Dol Amroth. His heart ached for a moment as he thought of his sister, 'Wen. How he wished she were here to share his joy. She had never seen Boromir; she had been long dead, and now he would be stopped from sharing his second child with her.

"What art thou thinking, my Beloved?" Finduilas asked. "Hast thou already assigned him duties, sent him commanding great battles before thou even knowest if thou art to have another son?"She laughed lightly as she spoke.

Denethor shook his head, took her hand in his and quietly shared his sense of loss. She placed her hands on either side of his face and pulled him gently towards her own. She kissed him lovingly and sighed. "Another of the many reasons I love thee."Tears formed in her eyes."How I wish I had known thy sister, melethril nîn, for from her has come a great man. Would that I could have learnt from her how to raise our children." Denethor put his hands on either side of her face and returned her kiss. "Thou needest no lessons, melethril nîn. Boromir wilt be great among our people because of thee. Neither of my sisters could do better." She shrank into his arms and rejoiced at the warmth of his body next to hers.

Boromir tired of watching them; naught they said interested him. He was oblivious to the fact that another child was joining their family; he just knew that his parents were no longer paying attention to him. A small white heron had appeared on the ridge on the further side of the stream and his little legs quickly took him towards it. The long neck bobbed back and forth as it foraged for food, and therefore, it did not notice Boromir's coming. But the small splash of water as Boromir entered the stream caused it to raise its head and look towards him. Boromir saw he had startled the bird and quickened his pace for a closer look when, suddenly his foot slipped on the moss-covered rocks at the bottom of the stream. He scrambled to regain his balance but did not succeed.

The silence in the air, the warmth of the sun on her face and the strength of Denethor's arms holding her lulled her into a light sleep. But Denethor's shout of "Boromir!" quickly roused her. He jumped to his feet, looking frantically about, and she was standing almost as quickly next to him. She cried Boromir's name too as her heart dropped. There was nowhere to go. Where was he?

They ran to the brook, hand held tightly in hand, and looked with horror at the little body laying face up in the shallow stream. Water ran gently over the open eyes of their son, but no movement came from him. His little mouth was slightly open. Finduilas collapsed sobbing at the top of the ridge as Denethor ran down the slope and scooped his son from the water. He laid the body next to Finduilas and gently pushed on the little stomach, trying to push out whatever water might be in the lungs. Finduilas took Boromir's tiny hand in hers and repeated his name over and over. Finally, the eyes blinked and Boromir started to cough, small rivulets of water running from his mouth. Denethor sobbed and hugged him to his great chest. Boromir tried to squirm away; he did not know why his parents were crying, but he joined his tears with theirs.

His father picked him up and carried him back to their picnic area. Boromir's head was hurting and he was thirsty. He put his hand to the back of his head and it came away bloodied. Finduilas gave a tiny shriek when she saw it. Denethor quickly whipped the blanket from their now spoilt picnic, cups and plates, fruits and cheeses flew in the movement, and wrapped his son in it. Quickly he helped Finduilas to her feet and they both ran towards the Great Gate. Even though in his father's strong arms, Boromir felt every jolt and every step. His head was hurting even more now and the tears were for the pain more than from the fear that had gripped him before. Denethor cursed himself for not bringing a horse - the gate was far north of them. It would take forever to reach it and then up the six levels to the Houses of Healing; time they did not have.

Berelach appeared in the distance, riding one horse and leading another behind. Gratitude filled Denethor's heart at the faithfulness of his aide. He knew he must have been watching them, ever vigilant from the ramparts, seen what had happened, and reacted with his soldier's instincts. He quickly dismounted, took the child from Denethor's hands and, once Denethor was seated, handed the child back to him, turned the horse and slapped it on its flank. "I will bring my Lady. Go! Now!" Denethor gave the horse its head and galloped away with no backwards look, his thoughts solely focused on the Great Gate and getting as much speed as possible from the horse.

Horns blew wildly as he entered the gates: horns of alarm. The horse's hooves quickly ate the distance and they were in front of the Houses of Healing before he knew it. A servant girl was at the door and took the child from his arms as he dismounted. The last he saw of her were her heels as she raced down the corridor. Boromir had ceased crying as they rode the horse through the streets of Minas Tirith, but being held by this stranger now terrified him and he let out a wail. Denethor caught up with them, took the child in his arms, and immediately Boromir ceased his crying.

Denethor kissed his cheek over and over as he ran, saying the boy's name tenderly and telling him all was well. The familiar smell of his father calmed him and the tear-laden kisses made him sad. He touched Denethor's face with his pudgy little hand and said, "Do not cry, Ada. I am all right. Really I am."

The servant girl led him to a room with a small bed in it and Denethor sat down - hard. The healer was next to him in an instant. Denethor pulled the boy's head towards his chest so Arciryas could look at the wound. The blood flow had stopped. The girl brought bandages and hot water. Arciryas tried to have Denethor lay the child on the bed, but a cave troll would not have been able to separate these two. Arciryas gave up and gently washed the wound. He was grateful to see that the cut was not too deep, just ragged. The swelling was on the outside of his scalp, which was always a good sign. If no swelling were apparent, that would mean the swelling was inside the skull. That would have been very dangerous. He wrapped clean bandages around the wound and then around the child's head, tucking the ends in the front.

"Firieth's daughter. The girl who took Boromir from your arms when first you arrived. Surely you knew she had a daughter? Have you not met her?"

Denethor had not even noted her presence, but now, shamefacedly, he thanked her. She curtsied and began to speak, but Arciryas interrupted her.

"You should find his mother," said Arciryas, hoping to still the young girl before she got started. She had the most annoying habit of continuous speech.

At that moment, Finduilas appeared at the door of the little room and, at the sight of her, Boromir started crying once again. Finduilas sat at the edge of the bed as Denethor passed their son to her. Boromir clung with both arms wrapped tightly around her throat. The crying had stopped as soon as he was in her arms. He hiccupped and laughed. Her eyes widened. She looked at Denethor who smiled. The hiccups continued and the three of them laughed together, relief washing over them.

Indis' delight brightened the room. She clasped Finduilas to her, tears filling her eyes. "We have so needed another pair of little feet in the halls of Minas Tirith. Firieth will be so happy. Since her own Ioreth left to work in the Houses, she has been lonely."

"Yes, that he is, but a most delightful handful. Have you sent word to your father? Does your brother know? Oh dear!" she blushed, "Now I am starting to sound like Ioreth, never stopping for even a breath!"

"Your questions are welcome and necessary. I had not even thought of Imrahil. A missive was sent home to mother and father as soon as I told Denethor. But my dearest Imrahil. He will be furious!" She laughed at the thought of her younger brother. It had been a joy having him here with her these past years, always a reminder of the love that flowed from Belfalas. She had only gratitude in her heart for Denethor. He had welcomed Imrahil with open arms and the two seemed to get along quite well. The difference in age was like unto Thengel and Denethor, so her husband had befriended the young Swan. She could see the friendship was genuine and it did her heart good. Her one fear, when she had learned of her father's request, was that the enmity between the two families would spread to her brother. But it had not. Imrahil thought highly of Denethor, thought him a fine leader, and looked to him for wisdom.

"If you do not mind, I will send for him now. I cannot let him hear this from others. He is such a comfort to me."

"I understand. I will tell the guard. You sit and rest. Arciryas has told me you are fit. There should be no problem with this child."

"Yes. After having one child, my fears have lessened. I acted like a foolish child with Boromir." She blushed at the remembrance.

"Nay, you did not. You acted like any first time mother. I was most proud of you and how you fought those fears."

Imrahil sat in silence for a long moment. Finduilas wondered. Turning towards her, he hugged her fiercely. "I love you, dearest sister. I am happy for you." He paused and she sensed his hesitation.

"Denethor must be about the business of Gondor. You have kept him close to the City because of your needs. Will this not make it even more difficult for him to leave you when duty calls?"

She sat still, stunned by the question. Her heart knew what he was saying, but truth did not alleviate the pain she felt. Was her brother trying to make her feel guilty? How would she answer him? "I do not keep him in the City. His father has need of him."

"Gondor has need of their captain. He is the greatest swordsman I have ever seen. He should be fighting the enemy, Finduilas. I want to serve under him in the field. I learn only diplomacy here. I have learnt that in Dol Amroth. I do not say this only for myself. Do you not see how you hold him back? Do you have such little faith in him that he will not return? I will protect him with my life. Will you not let him serve Gondor in the way he should?" He looked at her stricken face and blanched. "I am sorry. I have no right to speak thusly. What occurs between a man and his wife is none of my business." He tried to hug her, but she pushed him away.

"Nay. Just leave me. Now. I am sorry. I cannot think. Please, Imrahil, leave now."

It was a long labor. Denethor paced for hours it seemed and still there was no news. What could be wrong? Why did not Indis come out and tell him what was happening? Finduilas had seemed so tired these past few months, more so than when she carried Boromir. The babe was here too soon; it was not yet time and yet labor had started and Arciryas' medicaments could not stop it.

Boromir had run to Denethor earlier in the day crying that he wanted to see his Naneth. Denethor wanted to see her too. Arciryas was concerned and suggested it would be better if Denethor waited outside their chambers. So, Denethor obeyed. He lifted Boromir in his arms and walked him back to the Seventh Level, to the White Tree. He knew immediately that was a mistake. The tree was dead and a shiver ran down his spine. He did not, would not, let this be a sign of warning. He quickly walked away from there and into the Great Hall. The statues of the kings of old always gave him a sense of security. One day, the king would return and all would be right in the world. Evil would be overcome and the burden of the Stewardship would be lightened for his father. He felt a longing for the return of the king. He recited each name to Boromir, holding him close to each statue and making Boromir repeat the name as they moved towards the Throne. Finally, exhausted in mind and body, he sat at the foot of the Steward's Chair. Arciryas found him there, laying with Boromir sound asleep across his chest. The healer smiled.

Denethor was instantly awake. "What? Is she well?" he blurted out as soon as he saw it was Arciryas waking him.

"She is well and you have another son. Almost full-grown even though the length of her carrying was shortened. He is doing well. His mother suckles him as we speak. Would you like to see him?"

"Finduilas first. She is well?" he asked again in concern. At the nod from Arciryas, Denethor passed the sleeping Boromir over and ran out the Hall. He took the steps two at a time. He slowed as he entered their chambers, smiled, took in a breath or two and walked through to their bedchamber. She looked beautiful. His heart hurt to see her, so much in love was he. She smiled back at him.

He took two steps towards the bed and stopped. Indis smiled at him as Firieth prepared a tea in the corner. He could smell its sharp odor and smiled at the thought of Valerian tea. 'Too oft used,' he thought, though he was grateful to know Finduilas was being so well cared for. He walked slowly towards the bed, fearful of waking the little one. He bent over her and kissed her forehead, then sat gently down next to her. She lifted the covering and he looked at Faramir. They had decided the name a short time ago. Sindarin for sufficient jewel, they felt it encompassed their joy at the fulfillment of their family. He was to be their last; Arciryas had made it clear, Finduilas could not carry again.

He cupped her chin in his hand. "Thou, my own jewel, hast given me two wondrous jewels. No man could be happier." He kissed her again.

He took the bundle in his arms. The babe's eyes opened and Denethor gasped to see the depth of the great gray eyes that looked back at him. Truly, the child bore his visage. He kissed the little one gently on his forehead, touched the cheeks, and laughed as Faramir started trying to suckle his finger. "He is hungry," he laughed and gave him back to Finduilas.

As she took him in her arms and prepared to feed him, Indis came forward. "He is darling, is he not, brother?"

Finduilas called his name quietly. "Denethor, I would see Boromir. Wouldst thou bring him hither, please?"

"Of course, garn nîn, I wilt return shortly." He kissed her again and left the room.

As he ran down the stairs, he started to hum the tune that Damrod had sung many years ago. The song of Gondor. It suited him, reminded him of Finduilas and the treasure she was. "Ah," he sang aloud:

Gondor sits, mirrored moonbeams
Light her walls in Elvish dreams
All is well; Eärendil shines
'Pon my City, beloved, mine.

Stirring the fire furiously, he let all his anger flow into the poker. Never would he understand his father. Never. When he had told him the name they had finally chosen, Ecthelion had grunted. "Faramir, what curse'd name is that? Do you not remember what trouble the first Faramir caused? He disobeyed Gondor's rules; he went to battle in disguise, and was killed, along with his father and the heir. Disobedient brat! I am not surprised. 'Twould have been a more appropriate name for my own son."

Denethor had clenched his teeth to keep from speaking words that would have been useless anyhow. He reined in his anger. He should have told him at a Council meeting, where he would have had to check his tongue. Nay, cowardice. He had not expected Ecthelion to react in such a fashion. Perhaps Ecthelion had expected them to name the boy after him? Nay, he would not... But a possibility, nonetheless. He would make certain that Finduilas did not hear of this. He had forgotten the first Faramir. He had been fond of the name when first she had mentioned it to him. He preferred to think upon the meaning, not its ancestry. He cursed quietly. Let his father think what he would, there was naught Denethor could do to change his mind. He had tried for too many years, with only failure as the outcome.

"Denethor?" Startled by the calling of his name, he turned around. She stood before him, beautiful as always. "My Lord, thou art poking the fire as if it wert thine enemy." She upbraided him gently. "Is thy anger against something I might help thee with?"

He gave a short laugh. "Nay, melethril nîn, 'tis naught. A problem with the Treasury that father asks me to solve. I must work with Lord Amandil and thou knowest how much I relish that task." It was not quite a lie; Ecthelion had spoken of such a project. "Come, sit by me. Art thou well? Thy eyes look tired."

"I am tired. Faramir nurses more oft than Boromir didst. Perhaps 'tis because he was born early. I do not know. He does not seem to do well with Firieth either. He only wants me near. But he is so sweet, I canst not deny him." She paused for a moment. "It has been two days now, garn nîn. Thou hast not asked to see Boromir in all that time. He misses thee terribly, asks for thee constantly."

"And I have truly missed him, but father has called two Council meetings a day, as well thou knowest. He hast assigned me the task of negotiating a new treaty with the Corsairs. Though they have been beaten, they still cause problems. They do not abide by the terms won by Thorongil. I am concerned, though the Council is not. Fools!"He stood up and paced about the room. "These lords do not seem to see the seriousness of the Corsair threat. Nor does my father," he said, brow furrowed. "It is as if Thorongil could do no wrong. Though that is not the issue. He didst well. In fact, he won a stunning victory, but that does not mean we can sit back and rest on his accomplishment. I am sure he didst not mean for us to disassemble the fleet. Nor send the sailors off to different garrisons with no hope of serving together again. He didst have, I must admit, a cohesive group of men under him. They worked well together. If we had kept the lot, put Amdir as their captain, I would not worry so much. But - Ecthelion didst not do any of this."

He walked back towards her. "Another thing that disturbs me. I have seen naught of the wizard since Thorongil deserted Gondor. I wonder what that means. I have never trusted wizards, yet it is best to keep an enemy close to hand. That way, he can be watched."

She pulled him down. "Hush. Speak not of enemies, speak of thy sons, or thy love for me," she giggled. "I wouldst think that I have lost my allure by the way thou speaks."

He pulled her close, stroking her hair and then, finally, kissing her. She blew out the candle on the table beside them.

In the morning when she awoke, she saw he stood by the door to their garden, shoulders slumped. She hurt to see him thus. Had Imrahil been right? Oh, she could not think of that possibility. Yet his fuming over Lord Amandil and the Treasury nudged at her heart. There had been a nervous energy flowing through him last night. He had spoken of Thorongil with respect, and that was most unlike him. She understood the Corsair threat. Had not the ships of Belfalas oft been attacked by those horrid men! She knew her father would agree with him. She remembered their last meeting, of how her father had pleaded with Denethor to return the sailors to Pelargir.

He had even dismissed the thought of Boromir. She knew it was not that he did not love their son, but the demands of Ecthelion... 'Ooh, sometimes I just want to... She reined in those thoughts. Ecthelion had been kind to her these past years. He doted on Boromir. Gave him a pony last spring. But he also gave him his first sword and urged Denethor to begin his training. And Denethor had agreed! "Ooh!" She jumped from the bed, stamping her foot in fury. He heard her and turned.

"Tolo sí, hiril nîn." He said as she walked quickly to him, melting into his arms.

"Le melon!" was all she could say. Tears sprang to her eyes as she realized her brother had indeed spoken the truth. Denethor needed to be out and about. No sitting in a dark treasury, cataloguing jewels, gold and silver for the Steward's Heir. She blushed in shame. 'I am so weak, so silly. How do I not learn from Indis and Listöwel? I have heard them speak, when they knew not that I listened, of their battles, their sword work, their deeds of valor. Yet, I sit in shadows and fear everything. I will not continue this. Indis will help me. I know she will. She will help me become strong. Perhaps, I could learn to fight too. Yes, I could do that, I am sure.'

He looked at her, quizzically. "What art thou thinking? Thy brow is all furrowed. Art thou not well?" He held her arms a little too tightly, anxious at her expression. "Is aught wrong?"

"Nay, melethril nîn. All is well. Please, sit here. I would speak with thee." She pulled him to the outer chamber and sat on the settle. "Please?" she motioned with her hand.

"Thou hast not broken the fast yet and the floor is cold. The fire has not been stoked. Please, garn nîn, come back to bed."

His smile tilted slightly sideways. "Of course," he said as he walked her back to their bed. Pulling the cord for the servant, he lifted her off her feet and set her down gently. Within a moment, his manservant entered. "Bring us breakfast and start the bathwater."

The man bowed and left. Denethor joined her. As he started to kiss her, she laid her hand over his mouth. "Melethril nîn, I am serious. I must speak with thee."

"Wouldst thou interrupt me at my every word! Lasto beth nîn. My brother has been stationed in the City since he arrived. He has done naught but listen to Council meetings and lords airing their disagreements. He could have stayed in Dol Amroth and done the same. I believe father meant for thee to teach him of strategies and tactics and such. Dost thou not think that is what father had planned for him?"

"Of course I am. I... I am just... surprised. Of course thou art right. As always. I have been remiss in his training."

"I wilt send him to Osgiliath under Amdir. He wilt learn much. Amdir is a fine warrior. I trust him with my life. I trust him with Imrahil's."

"Thou art not listening to me, hervenn nîn. Didst not I ask where wilt 'thou' take him?"

This time his mouth dropped open. He raised his hands to speak, but no words would come. He touched her forehead and she giggled.

"I have not a fever. Nor art my brains addled. My brother is thy responsibility. Thou canst not send him out by himself, no matter the trust thou hast in others. When whilst thou go?"

He shook his head. "I wilt speak with father. In a fortnight, we wilt ride to Osgiliath. And how long am I to stay there?" he inquired mischievously.

She stared at him. "How am I to know such things? Thou art his teacher. Thou must decide. But first, please, garn nîn, spend some time with Boromir. He misses thee mightily."

"Perhaps 'tis time thou shouldst see thy brother? He misses thee mightily."

Boromir indeed missed his father. Though only two days had gone by, he had become accustomed to an early morning visit, nuncheon and after dinner play. Two whole days had seemed like an age. When Denethor entered the nursery, he screamed shrilly, "Ada, Ada," and ran to Denethor, demanding with every fiber in his little body that he be picked up. Denethor hugged him tightly and walked to the garden door."Hush, little one. Thou wilt wake thy brother. Then Firieth wilt be cross with us and we wilt be banned from sweets for the rest of the day. Thou wouldst not want that, wouldst thou?"

"I do not know what the cook has planned for the day. Shalt we go to the buttery? I, in truth, am famished."

The boy squealed in delight as Denethor put him up on his shoulders. Ducking out of the room and from the disapproving looks of Firieth, the two went down the stairs.

"Yesterday, I think. I tried to go to see thee. Firieth become very cross when she found me. I almost made it to the Great Hall, but she stopped me and I was very angry. I wanted to find thee, Ada!"

"Oh, and Adadhron came out of the White Tower as we were going back in. I was happy to see him. And he hugged me, Ada, real tight. And then he put me down and asked me why I was not practicing? He said I must practice, Ada. He said I would not be a good soldier if I didst not practice. I want to be a good soldier, Ada." Denethor felt Boromir's hand under his chin. "Ada. Art thou listening?"

Denethor gently removed Boromir from his shoulders and sat on the stair, sitting Boromir on his lap. "Boromir, a soldier does not only use his sword. He uses his mind too. When thou art with Nana and I, we help thee use thy mind. And that is important too. These past days, thou hast been part of a great thing. The birth of thy brother. It is important to see how new life comes into being. And so, at times such as these, a soldier puts aside one part of his training for another. That is being a good soldier. And thou wilt always be a good soldier, ion-nîn."

He had no opportunity to meet privately with his father, before the next Council meeting. He would have to wait a little longer before he proposed a short trip. He would emphasize short for, whether or no she had bid him leave, he knew Finduilas was not strong enough, yet, to be left alone. And his heart did not want to be gone o'erlong from her side. So, entering the Council chambers, he put his needs aside and sat. There was Lord Amandil, sitting next to Ecthelion. Denethor wondered what hold this lord might have upon his father. He did not seem to possess any great wisdom, nor wit, to sit at his father's right hand. Only wealth. 'Hmmm,' Denethor thought, 'seems 'tis a waste to put wealth before wisdom. But who am I? My father must have his reasons.' Ecthelion motioned and the assembly quieted.

"Three long years have passed since my first choice for Gondor's Captain-General was thought of. The position has lain open too long. I have decided. Denethor." He beckoned and Denethor, striving to keep a closed face, stood and walked towards his father's chair. He saluted and waited, never sure of what his father would do next.

Denethor placed the sword on Ecthelion's lap and took the hilt in his hand. The long remembered, long cherished oath flowed from his lips, though his hands trembled on the sword.

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor," He was grateful his voice sounded strong, echoing through the chamber, "and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, of the Line of Húrin, Steward to the King."

"And this do I hear, Ecthelion son of Turgon, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance."

Then Denethor received back his sword, put it in its sheath and started to walk back to his seat.

"Stop." Ecthelion said quietly. He turned towards Lord Amandil, whispered to him, and watched as the man left his chair. "Come, Captain-General Denethor, and sit at my right hand."

Denethor near staggered in amaze, but continued to hold his face firm and still. He walked to the proffered seat and sat. The nobles nodded in approval. Then his father continued with the meeting. It was over and done with quickly and the nobles started leaving the chambers.

"Wait for me," his father requested as he turned and bid each member farewell. Denethor sat, still stunned by his father's actions.

"You might wonder what my reasons are for the suddenness of your appointment." Ecthelion smiled and walked away from his chair. The smile chilled Denethor's heart. "Since you had caused me to lose my first choice, I was at a loss as to what to do. You know Thorongil was my first choice? He would still be my first choice if he were here. But I live and die for Gondor, as it would behoove you to set your mind to do. And Gondor must have a Captain-General. Since it seems the line is now continued, thanks to Finduilas, you are the next logical choice. I say logical, for it is not in my heart to give this to you. I expected only the best to sit at my right hand. It is not to be." He turned with fury on Denethor. "I expect total obedience from you from now on. Do you hear me?" His shout lifted the hair on Denethor's neck. "I will not continence any type of disobedience whatsoever. Else you will find yourself in the lower recesses of this Tower, chained to a wall, bereft of everything you hold dear. Do you understand me?" His voice dropped to a whisper as he hissed these last words.

Once free of the Council chambers, he ran to their rooms. She was asleep. He cursed quietly and walked into the outer chamber. Despair flooded his heart and he dropped to his knees in front of the fire. His eyes lifted to the bright light and warmth that flowed from it. 'Ah, to be an ember burning brightly, no thought nor care, nor worry. 'Twould be a peaceful end,' he thought. He felt the hand on his shoulder and turned.

She gave a small moan as she dropped to her knees, and gathered him into her arms. "Melethril nîn," she repeated over and over again as his tears wet her garment. "Le melon, le melon, hervenn nîn." She stroked his hair lightly and continued to whisper. "Avo 'osto. Gerich veleth nîn."

Slowly, his sobs slowed. He lifted his face to hers and she smiled; the madness had left his eyes. "Denethor?" She wanted to know what happened, but was afraid to ask, afraid it would bring that cold, wild fire back into those beloved gray eyes.

He gasped and pulled her tightly to him. "Finduilas. Thou art all I need, all I want. I must remember that. Thou art my life and my love. Thou art the morning and the evening. Thou art Anor and Ithil. Light and dark. I cannot live without thee."

"Hold me," he whispered. "Father has made me Captain-General." He spoke the great news quietly.

After a few moments he spoke again, still whispering. "I have waited for this for so long, Finduilas. I had hoped for this for so long. Yet bitter is this time." He held her away, his eyes darting about and fear filled her again. "He thinks me worthless. He thinks I wilt fail him; that Gondor wilt fall because of me. Does he know something? Something he has not told me. Has he seen something?" His voice rose in pitch.

Quickly, she pulled him close, whispering his name. "He knows naught. He is a stupid and foolish old man. He would tear thee down."

He looked at her wildly. "Does he wish me to fail? Is that it, Finduilas? Wilt it serve him if I fail? What am I to do?"

"Thou wilt hold thy head high. He knows naught," she repeated. "Since Thorongil left, he is bereft of guidance. His mind falters. He knows not what he says. Thou wilt serve Gondor well, melethril nîn. Thou art wise and kind and fair. Thou art the best of Númenor. Do not forget that, hervenn nîn. Thou hast the blood of Númenor flowing through thee. Thou canst not fail."

She sat, holding him. Finally, night fell and he slept. She had heard Firieth come in twice and quickly leave. She thanked the Valar for the woman's discretion. Once again, she heard the door open and she called out.

"My Lady," Firieth answered quietly, walking towards the fire. Her eyes grew in alarm, but she kept her mouth still.

"All is well, Firieth, but my Lord needs his rest. Please, ask his manservant to come in and help him to bed."

They rode out with the wind in their hair and the sun on their faces and Denethor exalted in the joy of it all. His heart beat wildly in his chest; he had forgotten the thrill of mounting a new expedition. Imrahil looked over at his Captain-General and smiled. He too felt the excitement coursing in waves off of Denethor. The men behind him had started a song in time to the clinking of their horses' livery. 'Finduilas had been right,' Denethor thought. He needed to be out of the City, much as he loved it. He listened to the song and felt the hope in his men's hearts and he smiled. "Ah, today life is good, little brother," he said to Imrahil. The prince smiled back at him. "So, I am finally a part of this family? It has taken some time, my Captain."

"Nay, no time at all in the grand scheme of things. Life is short, 'tis true, even for those of Westernesse, but it is full of joy too. I must remember that more often." He smiled again and Imrahil, proud to sit horse next to him, smiled back.

The young man had long waited to do battle under Denethor's command. He had oft heard tales of the logic of the man during combat. Imrahil did not doubt for an instant that they would engage the enemy. Orc activity had increased ten fold in the last few years. The Corsairs' defeat seemed to fuel the anger of the Unnamed One and Orcs spilled as water from the lush forests and mountains of Ithilien.

Amdir rode out to greet them. He jumped off his horse as he came near to the company's line and Denethor jumped off his horse at the same moment. The two men strode towards each other and hugged fiercely. They pulled away; then continued to pound each other's shoulders, laughing and speaking at a furious rate.

"Captain-General!" Amdir bellowed out the title. "My Lord, my Captain-General, welcome to the garrison of Osgiliath. Your men wait for you." He whispered in Denethor's ear. "All Gondor has waited for this moment, my friend. Too long coming, but well worth the wait. Now, I have hope in my heart." He squeezed Denethor's arm and turned him towards the garrison's gate. The battalion stood at ready, white banners flew from the ramparts, musicians played, and the men threw their hats into the air crying, "Denethor! Denethor! Denethor!" The troops that accompanied him from the White City joined their voices with the battalion's. Denethor stood, shivering from the unexpected show of loyalty and love. 'If only Finduilas were here,' he thought, 'this would be perfect.'

Amdir put the map on the table, opening it wide; he used report books to hold it open. "Here, Denethor," he pointed. "A little south of Henneth-Annûn and west of the Mountains of Shadow."

"He has not returned to Blackroot Vale? I thought he had married and left Gondor's service?"

"He had hoped to leave this year, but your father asked him to stay for another year."

"I would think his father would greatly desire his return. He is getting old and Dúinhir will soon inherit the fiefdom. I am surprised he has not had heirs yet."

"You are correct. He married last spring, but she is waiting for him in the Vale. She is not yet with child."

"Hmm, we must think of a replacement for him then. I want someone strong at Henneth-Annûn. It is pivotal to our defense; it always has been, always will be. Have the scouts returned yet?"

"When they return, bring them directly to me. Let them not rest. I must know the whereabouts of the Orc band. I want to take Imrahil on a little hunting expedition." He smiled.

"My own Finduilas threw me out of the City. Said I was becoming gruff and quarrelsome." He laughed. "Nay. I have been charged with young Imrahil's training. Since the defeat of Umbar, there are no enemies near Belfalas, at present, to learn warfare from. Prince Adrahil asked me to bring him to Minas Tirith and teach him." He pulled on his chin. "Though I believe he sent him to watch over Finduilas. And not without reason. Life in Minas Tirith has been hard for her. I know not what to do to make it easier. She longs for the sea and her people. Yes, her people. She does not consider us as hers. It has been seven years, Amdir, since she came to live in the White City. I was sure she would love it as I do." He shook his head. "I must think of other ways to make her happy. Truly was I surprised when she suggested I leave Minas Tirith for a time. What do you think it means?"

Denethor laughed loudly. It felt so good to be back with Amdir, to be back in the fray. "If I may have my old quarters back?"

"So very sorry, my Lord. As Captain-General, you are billeted in the best room in the city. It even has running water!" Amdir showed him to the door. "Will you break fast with me on the morrow?"

"Of course, if the scouts have not returned by then. If they have, I want the captains brought together as soon as possible. We must plan our little sortie. Now, to bed with you, too. It is has been a long day for us both."

The scouts returned long before morning came. Denethor was roused as soon as they returned. The captains all gathered in the dining hall, excitement in the air. The patrol had found the band of Orcs, close unto five hundred of them, marching on the east side of Emyn Arnen close to the Harad Road. The Orcs were on the move, going northwards towards the Morgulduin. The noise created by this news was close to deafening.

Denethor raised his hand. Quiet settled quickly. He could feel his face prickle with excitement. This is what he had been born for. "My captains. We will only sting a small part of the enemy's forces, but we shall sting him nonetheless. We will break the battalion into three divisions. Amdir will command the northern forces, Imrahil will command the southern forces, and I will command the western attack. I will show each where you will wait for my signal. First, we will create a diversion. We will send a small patrol directly towards the enemy. I will lead this patrol. We will position ourselves as close to the Orc band as possible; our scent will draw them to us, and we will then turn and run. This should cause the Orcs to disobey their own captains and follow our group. As soon as we reach the western group, I will give the signal. Then, we will attack. All three companies must attack at once. It will be a slaughter, if, and only if we are disciplined. No one must loose an arrow before the signal, no matter the reason. No one must leave their position until the signal. Even with our great number, if we do not work as one, we will fail. Orcs have no fear of us; their strength is greater than ours, and they do not care if they die or not. Do you understand? Can you convey this message to the troops under you? Else we will fail, I assure you."

The captains' voices rose in agreement. Denethor was pleased. After ordering the men to take a quick meal, he turned towards Amdir. "Your scowl is deep enough to fall into," he laughed. Amdir just stood staring at him. "I will be quiet and listen to what you have to say, since I will have no rest if I do not."

"How can you put Imrahil in charge of one of our divisions? He is but a young man, not skilled at all in war, yet you put him in command?"

"Sit." He ordered some coffee brought to their table. "Imrahil has been in charge of many of his father's companies; he has worked closely with me the few times I was stationed at the garrison of Dol Amroth, and he is clever and quick. Also," he held up a hand to stop Amdir's interruption, "I put him in charge of the southern flank. The Orcs are moving from the south. If he obeys me, and his men obey him, he should be fairly safe. The Orcs will first notice your group, after the signal to attack. Then they will notice mine. We should be well into the fray before they notice the southern division. Does that satisfy you?"

"Yes. One more thing. Why are you commanding the diversion and the western division? If something goes amiss, if you are injured or worse, there will be no one to signal, no one to lead the western group. I think you must put someone else in charge of the patrol."

Denethor's face burned. Amdir was correct as usual. He put his hand on Amdir's shoulder. "Thank you. As always, you see things I have neglected or forgotten, or wish not to see," he said with a smile. "I wanted to lead the diversion; I admit it, and I must not. I need to be with my men. It is, however, a very dangerous assignment. We will need someone who can think quickly. Do you have a suggestion?"

"Yes. He has been stationed here under me for three years. He is astute and quick witted. If aught goes wrong, he will be able to react quickly and save his men."

Baranor strode forward, black hair and dark face smiling at Denethor. "My Lord," he said, the grin widening. "I am most grateful to see you again. The last time we met was by the Drúadan Forest, do you remember?"

"Of course, that was a difficult time. You were most helpful to Amdir, if I remember correctly. In fact, every time we have met or perchance been brought together, it has been at a time of crisis. And you have always shone forth as a stalwart and brave warrior. I have a request. I could make it an order, but I will not. We need a diversion, as you heard. I thought to lead the patrol myself, but Amdir, as you well know, has better judgment than I do, at times." Denethor smiled.

"If I may stop you, my Lord. I would like to volunteer for this, if it pleases you."

"Thank you, Baranor. It does. You will have to leave within the hour. The Orcs will set up camp before daylight. This must be done before they camp. I want them spread out, away from their captains, and as helpless as we can make them."'

"Captain-General," Baranor smiled as he honored Denethor with the title. "I have one request."

"Yes. Go, and may the Valar be with you. Leave in one hour's time. The rest of the battalion will be right behind you. Do you have a copy of the map?"

"Yes, my Lord. We know where to set the trap. I will look forward to hearing your signal." His grin covered his face.

"Yes. I have a sense about this mission. I hope I am wrong. Even though we are well prepared, I am concerned." He turned to Amdir. "Send out five more patrols. We will leave within the hour, but I want to make sure there are no surprises for us."

Denethor and Finduilas speak to each other in Sindarin. I have tried to be consistent and use italics for their speech. Just an FYI.

The older woman held Finduilas in her arms. "Of course, he is with Amdir. They will be fine and Imrahil will learn what he needs to learn. You were most brave, sending him out like that."

Finduilas sighed. "Most brave when he held me in his arms, but as soon as those arms let me go, my fears took hold. How can I fight these fears, Indis? How have you fought your fears all these long years?"

"With the help of those I love. And you will do the same. You must not think you can fight alone. Denethor will tell you: no man can fight alone. It is in the strength of his fellow warriors that victory is won."

"Listöwel and I will help you. If Elleth was better, she would also help. The poor thing. My heart goes out to her. In fact, I think it best I see her today. Would you come with me?"

They found Listöwel in the buttery, planning the month's needs, and dragged her, willingly, along with them. As they sat with Elleth in her kitchen, Indis remembered other times spent here. The making of their wedding gowns, the nights worrying about Amdir and Denethor and if they would recover from their burns, the tea sessions that lasted long into the night as they contemplated how they were going to tell their men of their sword fighting lessons, the preparing of herbs for Finduilas as she carried her babes - so many moments spent together in joy and hope and fear. For a moment, her heart ached. 'Wen was dead and buried; Morwen was in Edoras, widowed too young; Finduilas was heartsick; and Elleth's health was failing. She looked at her friend. So many years now, they had known each other, laughed and cried and loved through trials and tribulations. Her heart ached for Elleth. Arciryas' medicaments did naught to relieve her friend's pain. Yet, Elleth, as always, smiled and served them and enjoyed their company. 'What a dear sister-friend? What can I do to help her? What can I do to assist her?'

"What grave matters cloud your eyes so?" Elleth laughed. "If it is my sweet rolls, then I am most saddened."

Indis laughed. "Your sweet rolls are still delicious. You have not lost the knack of those, my dearest. However, a long time ago, we spoke of breaking into Ingold's wine. I do not think we ever did, did we?"

"Sounds very good to me," Elleth agreed. "Though at the moment, I think I should not. My balance is not as good as it used to be. 'Twould not look good for me to fall on my face this early in the day."

Indis howled. "You are right. I can just hear the ladies of Gondor speaking about us!"

"Nay, I... I cannot take a sword. I must confess; I hate war, I hate fighting, I hate violence. It tears my heart apart." Finduilas bowed her head. "I am a failure as wife to the heir, am I not?"

"Nay. There are other ways to support Denethor. And to keep our fears at bay. First, we must vow to help each other, here and now and for always. Then, we must keep our hopes high. If we look to the future, to the children, to Boromir and Faramir, and know that all that we do is for them; if we keep our hands busy, whether with our weapons, or with our needlework, or with soothing fevered brows. That is it!" Indis jumped up. "We should volunteer in the Houses. Arciryas is always complaining about the help, about how women are needed for keeping the woundeds' spirits lifted. We could do that once a week or so. We can give hope and receive hope from our warriors. What think you of that?"

"'Tis a fine idea," Elleth said. "Even I can work one day a week. If Arciryas does not mind not having a set schedule, for I may only work when the body is able."

Listöwel put her hand on Finduilas' shoulder. "You seem reluctant? Is there aught wrong?"

"I am weak and useless," Finduilas started to cry. "I am afraid to see sickness and wounds and death. I do not think I could do this."

Indis walked over and took Finduilas' tear-streaked face into her hands. She slipped into Sindarin in her grave concern. "Thou art not weak, nor useless, nor foolish, dearest sister. Thou art but a fair flower that hast been transplanted, whose roots have not yet taken hold. Thou wert sheltered by thy father. Little steps wilt help thee. As wilt thy friends." She knelt before her. She spoke in the Common Tongue again. "Perhaps you can sit in the garden and read to those who are close to recovery, who are far from illness and death. You will find strength in giving, but it will be in a safe place, away from those things that disturb you now. Who knows, mayhap after a short time doing that, you will be ready to come into the Houses and help in other ways. If not, that would be sufficient, I think."

Finduilas' eyes shone. "I could do that. I know I could do that. I love to read. And in the garden, I could feel the fresh air and smell the scent of the flowers and not dwell on illness and... and other things." She smiled.

"Then it is settled," Indis jumped up and smiled. "I will tell Arciryas that we will all come tomorrow morning, and he can show us where we can help most. And dearest Elleth, if you are unable tomorrow, then next week perhaps."

Shouts echoed off the banked eastern side of the road as dust rose. Denethor could see the patrol coming their way, horses at full sprint, running from the Orc band. He ordered the signal and then the charge. With shouts and banners flying, his division overtook the patrol and continued towards the enemy. Baranor waved to him as the sortie turned and joined his men. They continued onward and soon found themselves in the midst of battle. As Denethor had thought, the Orcs first looked towards Amdir's division; they were caught unawares when Denethor's joined the fray. Already swords were heavily laden with the black blood of Orcs.

He looked to the right and saw that Imrahil's band would converge in a few moments, helping to further confound the enemy. It would be a rout. He drew his sword as the first of the beasts came towards him, lunged and drew the blade across unprotected flesh. The Orc fell, but another replaced it and fury filled its face. It ducked as Denethor lunged, then jumped and grabbed his arm. Denethor kicked it in the face, and the beast fell back, but not before it too was mortally wounded. His men slashed and hacked at the band with a fury inflamed by the audacity of the enemy. Even in the face of the large number that attacked them, as Denethor had thought, the Orc band gave no indication they were the least fearful. Another and another came, but they were slowly being beaten back. Denethor had ordered that none be left alive and the battalion was doing its best to see it done.

A brief respite came and Denethor wiped blood off his sword in anticipation of further attack; then wiped blood off his face and sword arm. As he looked up, he saw Amdir, still battling in a pocket of men who seemed surrounded by Orcs. Denethor spurred his horse forward and hacked his way through the wall of bodies. He reached Amdir's side just as an Orc prepared to swing at his friend. The Orc soon lay dead on the ground. Amdir smiled; then screamed in fury as another attacked him. The brief respite was over; Denethor was full in the battle again. For well into the morning, the battle raged. Men and Orcs lay dead on the road and the nearby forest floor. As the sun rose, the Orcs' faces fell. The sun became Denethor's friend as the Orcs tried to escape it and the Knights of Gondor. But these men would not let them escape. No matter the cost. They would kill every last one of them, every one that would dare to trod the roads of Gondor.

"Long they dwelt in their first home by the water under stars, and they walked the Earth in wonder; and they began to make speech and to give names to all things that they perceived." Finduilas read and the soldier sat, spellbound. "Themselves they named the Quendi, signifying those that speak with voices; for as yet they had met no other living things that spoke or sang." She stopped. "Do you want me to continue? You look tired."

"Yes, please," Hirgon begged. "I knew naught of Elves before. Is it true, what you read?"

"My father says it is. I found this book in the Great Library. It is one of my favorites. It tells all about the Elves and how they were found. There are parts that are sad, but the beauty of the Elves o'ershadows everything, in my mind's eye. I am glad you like this book. But you do look very tired. I think you should return to your bed. I will come back next week, I promise."

Finduilas took a deep breath. "I will walk with you to the door, then the doorwarden will take you inside. I will see you next week, I promise."

As they approached the door, Indis stepped outside. She smiled at the soldier and moved aside. The doorwarden met them and helped the man inside.

"Nay," Finduilas gave a small smile. "He asked me to take him to his room, but I could not."

"Better for you to know your limits than to be so uncomfortable that you are unable to return. I am most proud of you. And Denethor will be too. But come, I am finished for the day and would visit Elleth. She was not able to come. Her bones creak louder than the willows at the creek, she says."

"I am tired myself. If you do not mind, I would like to go home and rest. I have not seen the children since morning and I miss them." She blushed.

"That is a very good reason to go home!" Indis laughed. She hugged Finduilas, waved farewell, and walked towards the Great Hall.

Finduilas turned towards the Citadel, but a loud crash drew her attention back to the Sixth Gate. An errand-rider had jumped from his horse, overturned a flower urn in his haste, and was rushing towards her. She put up her hands in alarm, but he ran past her and into the Hall. She hurried after him, fear closing her throat. The man strode to the Steward's Chair and halted. She could not go forward. Ecthelion would be most upset if she dared to enter the Hall without his permission, but she needed to hear what was being said. Slowly, she skirted behind the statues lining the Hall until she stood almost parallel to the Chair. She still could not hear. But the look on Ecthelion's face was grim. She crept back towards the entrance. She would stop the soldier as soon as he passed through the door. Perhaps, as Denethor's own, he would answer her questions. She stood waiting, impatiently tapping her toe as her heart beat faster and faster.

The soldier stood and spoke for such a long time that Finduilas thought she would scream. At last, Ecthelion dismissed him and he turned. She stepped outside into the sunlight and waited. The soldier started when she called to him, but came over, bowed and asked what she needed.

"Is all well with the garrison at Osgiliath?" She would not mince words; she needed to know immediately.

"Mayhap you would ask the Steward, my Lady. I have no authority to give out information. I am sure Ecthelion will speak with you, if you ask."

"Nay, I need to know now. There is something wrong, is there not?" Her voice rose and the soldier looked about him in concern.

"Please, my Lady, sit here and I will go and ask Ecthelion if I might speak with you."

"Nay, stop now." She almost screamed and willed herself to a measure of calm. "Please, I must know."

"My Lady, my orders were to report to the Steward. I cannot divulge anything without his consent. You would ask me to disobey my Lord and that I cannot do."

Finduilas broke into tears. "Something has happened to Denethor! I know it. Please tell me, please!"

The man sat on one of the benches outside the door and gently pulled Finduilas down next to him. "My Lady. You are asking me to commit treason; for disobeying my liege lord is treason. Punishable by death. Please, my Lady, do not ask this of me."

Indis came hurrying out from the foyer. "Finduilas! What has happened?" she cried.

"I know not, but this man will not tell me. Make him tell me, Indis, make him tell me."

Turning towards the errand-rider, Indis asked, "Have you made your report to the Steward?"

"Then I will go speak with him. Stay here with the Lady Finduilas until I return. You have no orders that you need to obey at the moment?"

"Thank you." She hushed Finduilas, turned and ran up the stairs and into the Hall.

"Father," she bowed as she stood before him. "An errand-rider has come from Osgiliath. Is there aught wrong?"

Ecthelion looked perplexed. He was to meet with his Council and had just been about to leave the Hall. "Why do you ask?"

"You mean she grows hysterical. I have seen this before. Is there naught you can do about it? I do not like these fits of hers. Unnerving. Mayhap she should return to Dol Amroth. The nurse can take care of my grandsons. It would be best for all if she left."

Indis stepped back, horror written on her face. "Father! You could not ask that!"

"I could and I will if she cannot compose herself. The entire Citadel is up in arms every time some small thing happens to disturb her. 'Twould be better for the whole City if she left."

Drawing in a deep breath, Indis stood tall and straight. "She is the mother of the heir. She is needed here. For the sake of Gondor, she must stay. I bid you reconsider, Father."

"Indis," her father took hold of her arms. "You have always been most sensible. Do you not see the chaos that forms around her? Do you not think it would be better for her to leave? Yet, I see you do not," he said with a sigh. "Well, I will bow to your wisdom in this. I tell you, I like the woman, but I am deeply concerned about her fits. I place her in your care."

"Ah. A band of Orcs was spotted and Denethor has decided to attack. It is a little thing, something he has been trained for. I expect another missive ere the end of day. Come back at the sixth bell, and I will tell you more." He waved her off and walked towards the Council Chambers.

Indis quickly walked outside, thanked the soldier and waved him away. She sat next to Finduilas. "All is well, for the moment. There is an attack planned by Denethor. We will know later today how successful it was. Finduilas," Indis took her in her arms, "This is why Denethor went. This is why you allowed him to leave Minas Tirith, and this is why you are trying to learn courage. You must trust that he knows what he is about. He is a great warrior. He has many battle skills. And Amdir is with him. Try to put aside your fears and trust him."

"When I saw the rider, and the haste at which he ran to give his report... my heart stopped. Forgive me. You are right." She took a huge, shuddering breath. "I will go to my chamber and rest. I cannot see the children now. I am too distraught. They would notice. Poor little lambs. I dare not put my fear on them. But, I thought you were going to see Elleth?"

"I was. I was on the balcony with her when I saw the rider come in. I left her as soon as I was able. And just in time, I think."

"Ah, sweet sister. You will learn in time. Do not be harsh with yourself. May I walk you to your rooms? Mayhap we can share a cup of tea?"

Soon, Denethor had to search for a beast to kill. Their numbers were greatly reduced and the battle won. As Denethor sat back in his saddle, he searched the remaining men for a glimpse of Imrahil. The lad was still fighting a small group of Orcs, though others had joined his division to help. Denethor rode towards the pocket of combat, sword still drawn. As he approached, an Orc swung at Imrahil. Denethor knew it was a killing strike and he quickly maneuvered his horse between the beast and the man. The blade struck Denethor's back, fire igniting every part of it. He fell to the ground, but Imrahil dispatched the Orc and knelt next to him. "My Lord Denethor," the lad cried out, but Denethor was past hearing.

When he came to, he found himself in his own room in Osgiliath. Siriondil was leaning over him, forcing tea down his throat. Denethor started coughing violently, and the healer pulled back.

"He is unharmed. I am re-bandaging your wound and then we will move you to Minas Tirith. You need to be in the Houses."

"Now! I must see Amdir now." The coughing started again; Siriondil helped him sit up. Pain coursed through his entire body, and he stiffened and gasped. Siriondil held him close. "Hold on to me, my Lord. It will pass. The tea will take affect soon. Hold on just a little longer."

Knowing Denethor's stubbornness, Siriondil shouted orders to a guard stationed nearby and the man ran out of the room. Within moments, Amdir was at his side.

"Denethor. You must not speak. You must stay still and let Siriondil care for you. It will not be long. We have a cart ready to take you home.

Trying to grasp his arm, Denethor grimaced in pain. Tears filled his eyes. His breath came in short gasps as throbbing filled him. "Promise me."

Siriondil turned to his captain. "He must not stay here. The wound is deep and will easily become infected."

"He will not be moved. Prepare a note for Arciryas as to the supplies you will need and a description of Denethor's wound. I will send an errand-rider immediately. If he does not want to go home, he has his reasons. He is not a raw recruit, Siriondil. He knows the extent of his injury. There must a reason strong enough to cause this decision. We will obey him, do you understand?"

Siriondil took in a breath himself. "Yes, Captain. I will do what I can. Arciryas should be here by morning. I will try to keep him alive until then."

A moment later, the errand-rider stood in front of the healer. Quickly, Siriondil wrote, folded the missive and handed it to him. "Ride fast. Our Captain-General's life depends upon your speed. Stop for naught. Speak to no one. Take this to the Master Healer, to Arciryas, and no one else. Now, go!"

Amdir walked back into the room. The rider saluted; Amdir gave him another note, whispered orders to him, and the man ran. Moving quickly towards the bed, Amdir knelt down taking Denethor's hand into his own. "Hold on, Denethor, my friend, hold on."

"Soon, my love, my own. Very soon. Hast thou eaten all thy carrots? Thou needest carrots to see. Bunnies see very well. And dost thou know why?"

"It is because they eat carrots. Thou wants to see well, dost thou not, Boromir? So that thou canst stand at the top of the cliff near Dol Amroth and see the whales?"

"Oh, Nana, that would be wonderful!" The boy breathed a sigh of joy and ate all his carrots. How often his Naneth had told him tales of the whales that swam in the sea. He wanted to see them with all his heart. "When wilt we go to the sea, Nana, when?"

She sighed. "Soon, my love. Soon. Thy father promised me we would go in the spring. Uncle Imrahil wilt come with us too. We shalt run on the beach and feed the seagulls and watch the waves crash." A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away, but the lad was quick and saw.

She hugged him to her. "Soon. We wilt go soon." She took in a deep breath. "It is time for thy nap. Wouldst thou like a story?"

He clapped his hands and giggled, and the laughter was infectious. "Ah, Boromir. You are my light."

She hugged him even tighter. "I wilt not forget Faramir. He wilt come with us too. Is that agreeable to thee?"

"Oh, yes, Nana. Faramir must come. Though I think he wilt probably cry. It is a long way to the sea. He wilt want to eat." Boromir clicked his tongue. "All he does is eat." He suddenly looked up at her. "When wilt he be able to play with me, Nana?"

Picking him up, she kissed him over and over again, on his eyes, his nose, his ears, his chin. The child laughed in joy and Finduilas joined him. Reaching the rocker, she sat and hugged him tight. "What tale wouldst thou hear?"

She settled in the rocker and started the tale of Huan. "He wast a hound, Boromir, the biggest that ever lived..."

The sixth bell had not finished ringing when Indis entered the Great Hall. Ecthelion sat in his Chair. An errand-rider was just leaving. He bowed to her as they passed each other. She stood still, waiting for her father to bid her come forward.

"Indis. You are a timely little thing, are you not! Come to me. I have received word of Denethor. He has been injured. It is not serious, I imagine; else they would have brought him to the Houses. Mayhap you would want to journey to Osgiliath yourself, to see him. I believe Arciryas is going in the morning. You could accompany him."

"Thank you, Father. I will do that." She kissed him lightly on the cheek and he blushed. "Thank you!" She turned and forced herself to walk towards the door. As soon as she was outside, she ran to the Sixth Level and into the Houses. Arciryas was not in his office. She walked the halls, hoping she would see him. She turned a corner and almost ran into him. He spilled what he was carrying and she laughed. "Let me help you." The look in his eyes stopped her. "What is it, Arciryas? What has happened? Denethor! Finduilas was not mistaken. What has happened to Denethor?"

"He has been injured. He does not want to return here, but Siriondil says the injury is serious. I am going to him now. I believe he did not want Finduilas to know."

"I am coming with you." She turned on her heels and ran out the door, his voice followed her, calling her name.

She went first to Finduilas. She hated lying. What could she say? "Father has bid me visit the farms on the Pelennor. There has been some dissension about the harvest and he wants me to act as peacemaker. I will only be gone a short time. Would you please remember to visit Hirgon in the morning? He will not expect you until next week, but Arciryas has told me he needs his mind taken from thoughts of his last battle. Would you do that for him?"

Finduilas mouth dropped open. "Well, of course, if you think I can help. But Indis, how came this sudden order?"

"Finduilas. You know I must obey father. As I said, there was some altercation and a member of the Steward's family must go to iron out the difficulty. He would send Denethor, but he is on patrol. I will return," she said quickly, noting the concern in her friend's eyes. "I promise."

"Nay, I must pack tonight so that I will be ready in the morning. I will leave at first light." She hugged Finduilas, threw a kiss to Boromir and ran out of the room. As soon as she was packed, she ran to the Houses. Arciryas was waiting for her. Two horses were saddled. "I have left a message that I am tending Lord Forlong in Lossarnach. It is a day's ride away and will cover my absence. That should dissuade Finduilas from trying to discover where I am. Have you told her something that will keep her from fretting?"

"It is necessary." He helped her mount and then turned to his own horse. Pulling himself up, he smiled at her. "Denethor is strong. He will not succumb. Now, let us hurry," and the tone of his voice belied the words of comfort said.

Siriondil had done everything in his power to keep Denethor alive. Arciryas, bending over his friend, congratulated the healer on his excellent stitches, his assessment of the wound, and his quick thinking. Siriondil smiled at the praise. However, he was more grateful that the Master Healer had arrived when he did. Fever and infection had been his main fear, but Arciryas knew how to prevent those things even better than he did. He stood back, took a deep breath and walked away. He had others he must tend to.

Denethor's back healed quickly. Though the wound was deep and long, the medicaments and attention of the Master Healer of Gondor prevailed. Indis returned to the City after a fortnight. Within a month, he was up and about, able to at least hold his sword, though it would be at least another two months before he would be able to wield it with any strength. The men, especially Amdir, who had sat by his bedside for the first week, hailed the Master Healer one night in the main dining hall. Ale was set for all. Songs and laughter filled the room. No Orcs had been spotted since the battle, and the garrison stood in peace, for the moment. Tomorrow, Denethor would return to Minas Tirith; tonight the men would bid him farewell with a soldier's night of feasting. Long into the night the festivities continued, but Denethor left early, still plagued by fatigue. Amdir followed him to his room.

"I would have you come with me, Amdir, back to Minas Tirith. Too long have you been gone from Listöwel's side. I will ask father, upon my return, to station you in the City."

"I will come back to Minas Tirith, Denethor, but only for a short visit. What we do here is most important and I have grown to love this forsaken piece of land. I ask your generosity in letting me stay here."

"Friend I call you and have much need for you at home. Yet I cannot put my own needs over those of Gondor. You speak rightly, as you always have. Come with me tomorrow. Stay in the City for a few months, and then return. I will leave Baranor here. He will lead the men while you are gone."

"Then I will come with you." He smiled broadly. "It has been almost six months since last I saw my bride. 'Twill be good to hold her again."

"It is settled, then. We leave on the morrow. Finish your revelry with your men and leave me to my bed." He clenched Amdir's arm tightly. "And thank you, my friend."

He lay on their bed, a light sheet covering him, waiting for her to join him. He could walk, and sit, and breathe without a twinge, yet the scar was deep and not yet completely healed. He would keep his back from her.

As she lay down next to him, he held her close, keeping her arms at her side. The night passed and he fell into a deep sleep. She woke before morning, turned towards him and ran her hands lovingly down his arms. She kissed his shoulder; then slipped her arms about his waist. He did not stir. Affectionately, she stroked his back, then stiffened in alarm. Slowly, she moved her hand again and found the wound she knew she had just felt. It was new! He had been injured! She pulled her hands back and moved off the bed. Walking to the other side, she pulled down the sheet, and looked in horror at the long, deep red welt that went from his lower left shoulder to his right waist. The wound was still ugly, stitch marks quite visible, and it wept slightly. She put her hand over her mouth and fled the room.

He woke sometime later and felt for her. The bed was cold. He sat up and looked around. She was not in their bedchamber. He stood, put his robe on, and walked into the outer chamber. She stood, cold and stiff, by the garden doors. He walked to her and took her in his arms; she pulled away.

"You lied to me. Everyone lied to me," she spat out the words, anger overtaking her. "When did it happen? When were you going to tell me?" She looked at him in revulsion. "You were not going to tell me, were you? You were going to treat me as a fool, hide things that should be known between husband and wife! How could you?"

"Lasto beth nîn, tolo si," he tried to assuage her anger, tried to touch her, but she moved away.

"Speak not to me in terms of love. I will not hear Sindarin again from your lips for you have turned it into a language of deceit."

"U-chenion. I tried to protect thee." He understood at last. "The wound hast healed. I am well. Goheno nîn. I thought only of thee."

"Daro han!" she yelled, forgetting herself. "I wilt not stay here to be lied to, to be deceived."

He turned and left her. Putting her hands to her face, she bent over and wept. He heard her sobs. Running back into the room, he knelt at her feet and cried, "Hiril nîn, garn nîn, absenen. I canst not live without thee. 'Twas wrong of me to deceive thee, but fear took my heart, fear that thou wouldst fall into despair. Canst thou not understand my fears?"

She looked at him in astonishment. "Thou canst not fear. Thou art Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, mighty warrior, Knight of the Tower of Guard. How canst thou fear?"

"I am a man, Finduilas. I am only a man who loves thee passionately. And would die if thou shouldst leave me. Doest thou think I cannot be afraid? I am afraid always, that thou, fairest flower of Belfalas, Princess of Dol Amroth, wilt grow to hate me and leave me. I couldst not bear that."

She knelt beside him. "I couldst not bear it either. Im naer." She kissed him.

"U-moe edaved. I should have trusted thee. I should have told thee immediately. I will ne'er keep secrets from thee again. I promise." Taking her into his arms, they knelt together. The wind stirred and he rose. Taking her hand and helping her up, they walked into the garden. Winter would soon be here and the flowers would fall. They walked to the great pool and sat beside each other. He held her close; she felt the scar under his robe and she wept. The mountain rumbled, but she did not notice.

Tolo sí – come here
Hiril nîn – my lady
Le melon – I love you
Lasto beth nîn – listen to my words
Hervenn nîn – my husband
Ion nîn – my son
Adadhron – grandfather (paternal)
Hervenn nîn – my husband
Melethril nîn – my love
Garn nîn- my own
Avo 'osto – fear not
Gerich veleth nîn – You have my love.

Melethril nîn – my love
Lasto beth nîn – listen to my words
Tolo sí – come here
U-chenion – I do not understand
Goheno nín – forgive me
Man pennich – what did you say?
Daro han – stop this
Mar bedithach – when will you leave?
Hiril nîn – my lady
Garn nîn – my own
Absenen – forgive me
Im naer – I am sorry
U-moe edaved – it is not necessary to forgive

Indis stared at her. "But, Finduilas, we are going to Osgiliath, towards the... Are you sure you want to come?"

"If you do not mind. I thought I should see more of Gondor than just Minas Tirith."

"Well, of course. That is a splendid idea, but why not Lossarnach or Lebennin or some more pastoral place?"

"Because you are not going to those places now, and I want to be out of here, out in the open, with fresh air, and space, and new people, and trees, and..." she rambled on.

Indis laughed. "If you would like to accompany us, then I am sure Listöwel will not mind. Have you asked Denethor?"

"Of course. If Denethor approves, you may join us. It takes a few hours to reach the garrison. We will be traveling with the supply wagons. They leave at first light; will you be ready?"

"Then I will come for you first thing in the morning. This is a pleasant surprise, Finduilas. This will be most enjoyable."

Denethor was as amazed as Indis. "I dost not understand thy sudden need, but, if thou wishest it, then thou hast my permission."

It hurt to hear her say this. He loved his City. Yet, he had to admit, there were times when he found it refreshing to leave. What was he saying! If he did not take a sortie out every now and again, he would lose his mind! He laughed. "When wilt thou return?"

"The day after tomorrow. Indis said something about the peace that has settled and some things she has to do at thy uncle's house. So we wilt not even be staying in the barracks."

"Uncle's house? What could she... Well, thou wilt be missed. Ecthelion is sending a full company with you?"

"I know naught of the arrangements, just that we will be leaving at first light. I best be off to bed."

"I have work still to do. I will join thee presently."He smiled. "Wouldst thou save a spot in our bed for me?"

Before the sun rose, she was dressed and ready. The evening before, she had given instructions to Firieth for the children. Her heart tugged. To leave them. Only once before had she been parted from Boromir; never from Faramir. 'I must, though,' she thought. 'I cannot stay here with only the small tasks allowed me and everything so tedious and hemmed in.' She stood before Indis' door.

"Oh my. You are in a hurry, are you not?" Indis laughed. "Well, come along then. We have a cart ready and waiting."

"When was the last time you went riding, Finduilas? It is a four-hour trip to Osgiliath. It will take even longer with the supply train."

"Yes," she sighed. "I had not thought of that. I used to ride - at home. But it has been a long time. Well, if that is what must be."

"We will return shortly after nuncheon, Firieth," Denethor said. "If any come for me, tell them I will return in time for the afternoon's meeting."

She handed him a food-filled basket, gave a quick hug to Boromir, and turned towards her darning.

He quickly stooped and kissed Faramir, asleep in his cot, took Boromir upon his shoulders, and walked out the door.

He hummed as he walked and Boromir beat the time on his father's head. Every now and again, he hit a little too hard, and Denethor had to gently scold. But after the scolding would come a quick tug to the lad's foot, and Boromir would giggle, knowing that was his only punishment.

The long walk to the Great Gate produced laughter, nods, and smiles from the people of Gondor. Seeing the Steward's son in such high spirits lifted the entire City. Guards on the parapets started into song as Denethor and son passed. Denethor greeted each with a wave of his hand, and, unbeknownst to him, Boromir mimicked him, waving furiously, much to the delight of the knights. Denethor's smile broadened. 'Good men and true,' he thought. The sun shone brightly upon the sight before him.

Once they reached the First Level, he stopped at Ranger's Headquarters, picked up the bundle he had left there the day before, walked out the Gate, and turned southward. Boromir was prattling on about some event that had happened in the nursery the day before, but Denethor paid no heed to it until he heard something that chilled his heart.

"I know not, Ada. She wast telling me a story about her Ada and the sea. I felt wet on my head. She wast crying. Why wast she crying, Ada?"

Denethor stopped, lowered the lad onto the road, and sat next to him. "Dost thou remember when I went away for some time?"

"Oh," the boy cried out loudly. "I missed thee, Ada!" and jumped up, hugging his father furiously. He said it so fervently and his actions were so earnest that Denethor had all he could do to not cry himself.

"Well, sometimes, even when we grow very big, we miss those we love. So even Ada and Nana can miss someone enough to cry over. Nana misses her Ada. Dost thou understand?"

The child squealed with delight when Denethor picked him up again and placed him on his shoulders.

Denethor's mind, however, did not join in Boromir's delight. 'I must take her home again. I promised I would this spring. I have let the things of Gondor o'ercome my resolve. I must take her home."

By this time, they had reached the little river that ran from Mt. Mindolluin into the Anduin. Denethor laid a blanket down, pulled out poles, and handed one to Boromir.

"Yes. As was all of Osgiliath. Denethor has sworn that one day we will again walk her streets and attend plays and visit the planetarium. Oh, that that day would come soon."

"There has been peace for almost a year. Perhaps things will be better now?" Finduilas hoped aloud.

"Perhaps." But Indis knew that Denethor hid much from Finduilas. "Well, I have papers I must find and some heirlooms that I had hoped to bring back with me. Make yourself at home, Finduilas. Tonight we will sup with Amdir. After that, you and I will come back here. I have had two rooms cleaned and readied for us. I hope Listöwel is enjoying her visit with him. I do not know how she endures it, being separated from him for such long periods. I could not do that."

"Of course. But do not get lost," Indis laughed. She turned her back and entered the study.

Finduilas moved about the house. So many rooms and all showed signs of having been well appointed with large pieces of furniture about. Though paper hung off walls, floors were covered in dust and litter, and an occasional mouse scurried by, it was apparent the house had once been quite lovely. She found a number of bedrooms, furniture covered in cloth to protect each piece. She would peek, now and again, at a piece. Each one was beautiful, well appointed and perfect for the room it was in. She came at last to what she discerned was Cranthir's own chambers. It was a simple, but large room, with a beautiful cedar chest and oak wardrobe. She opened the chest and found some old clothes, bits of paper, and... 'What is this?' she thought in surprise. A very large and ancient looking box, etched with leaves and vines, was hidden 'neath all the other paraphernalia in the chest. She struggled, but finally was able to pull it out. She wanted to sit on a chair and open it, but it was unwieldy and heavy. She contented herself with sitting on the floor. Holding her breath, she undid the latch and the box opened on its own. Before her was a handsome piece of marble, about two inches thick. Black pieces abutted by white were laid in a checked pattern. Under that was another box, just as beautifully carved. She opened that. Before her was a stunning oak 'Kings and Stewards' game set. She picked up the King and studied it. The carving was exquisite. She ran her hand over the features on the piece. 'Beautiful,' she thought, 'just beautiful.' She picked up the Steward and laughed. There was the rod of office in the Steward's hand. 'Oh my," she inhaled quickly, 'Denethor would love this.' She giggled in delight.

"Indis!" she called loudly and ran from the room. "I have found something Indis. Please come and look. May I have it? Oh please, may I have it?" She ran into the study, giggling. Indis turned in surprise.

"Nay," Indis said. "Though his heart longed for children, it was not to be. He would have been a splendid father. The affection he showered upon Denethor was so touching. You know that game you found today? Well, Denethor and he used to play it once a month when Denethor was quite young. Are you planning on giving the set to him? Or were you thinking of someone else?"

Finduilas laughed. "Who do I ever think of besides Denethor? Yes, I was hoping to clean it and give it to him. But now, knowing the history has made it even more precious to me. Boromir and Faramir will be able to play it with their father, and tradition will be handed down. That very much appeals to me."

Indis bit her lip. 'Ecthelion never played one game with Denethor,' she thought, 'not in their whole lives.' She turned her heart towards the Valar for one request - that Denethor would never be the father to his sons that Ecthelion had been to him.

The talk turned towards Dol Amroth. Finduilas' friends encouraged her to speak of her home, hoping to help her ward off the homesickness that plagued her. She spent the rest of the evening describing the good things of Belfalas. Listöwel and Amdir spoke of their meeting, laughing at the difficulty of trying to meet secretly with the whole household in chaos because of the festivities around Ivríniel's birth. Indis recalled the wonderful parties held there. The evening ended none too soon for Amdir. Listöwel would leave in the morning and he wanted to spend time alone with her. Their guests had the sense not to linger too long and soon, Indis and Finduilas were on their way to Cranthir's, with a suitable escort, and instructions to meet at first light for the trip back to Minas Tirith.

"Where didst thou find this?" he asked incredulously. "I have been there, to his rooms, and never did I find it. He had promised it would be mine someday." Tears filled his eyes. Many memories of Saturday after Saturday spent in joy and love and fullness of friendship swam before his eyes. The pain of loss still stung deep.

"'Twas in his chest, in his bedchamber. 'Twas under many mementos. I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it, but I did not know, until Indis told me, that it had special meaning for thee. Doest thou like it?"

"I was not there when he died. I had not seen him for many years." He tried to contain the sobs. "Life can be difficult here, Finduilas. Though thou art aware of this. But it was by his death that father and I were reconciled. To a degree," he said ruefully. "Never to the degree that I had hoped. But in some way, there was reconciliation."

"Turgon was not an easy man to live with, Finduilas. He stuck his head in the sand, as the large birds of Harad do, the ostrich I think they are called. His councilors spoke of peace. They counseled against anything that would disturb that peace. Yet, there is no peace without vigilance. He would not let father protect Gondor. Many men died because of this. Ithilien was near wiped out. Father could not persuade adadhron to change. The burden was very great. He blamed many deaths on Turgon, even my sister, 'Wen's. My father is a mighty man, but much has turned him to bitterness. His bitterness turned towards me, especially when mother died birthing me. I know this; yet I find it difficult myself, at times, to forgive him. But I do forgive him, Finduilas. Now that my heart is so taken by thee. I never understood his loss, the pain he has lived with these many years, the darkness that engulfs him." He pulled her to him fiercely. "Do not leave me, Finduilas. I could not bear it. I will do everything in my power, I will die, to protect thee."

Preparations had all been made. The carts were packed to overflowing. Finduilas could not sleep. Tomorrow they would depart for Dol Amroth. A month it had taken to organize all that was needed. Both Boromir and Faramir would need so much. It boggled her mind. She laughed ruefully as Firieth wondered at all that they were packing.

"They must have their own toys. They must have enough clothes. Denethor said we might stay for the entire summer! That will mean clothes for the beach, for swimming, for parties... So many clothes needed. And their toys. They will not be satisfied if we do not bring at least some of their toys. Besides, they will need them to keep them occupied on the journey. I am worn just thinking of it." Her laughter belied the grievance of her words.

Firieth smiled. "I am glad the Lady Indis and Listöwel are coming with us. I have never before been in Belfalas. I am almost afraid."

Finduilas dismissed her worries with a wave of her hand. "There is naught to be afraid of, Firieth. If you have lived in Minas Tirith and all the awfulness of what occurs here and out on that mountain without being afraid, then you will be pleasantly surprised at the peace and beauty of Belfalas. Dol Amroth sits on the sea; every part of her looks out upon it in joy. Oh, Firieth," Finduilas breathed a sigh, "it is most beautiful." Tears came to her eyes. "I cannot believe I am going home." She sat on the settle and hugged herself.

"Imrahil says that there are many dogs in Dol Amroth and that I can bring one home with me. I want a big dog, Nana."

"We will not bring a dog home with us, Boromir, but thou mayest play with any dog thou wishest whilst we are in my father's house. What sayest thou to that?"

"I am sorry, ion nîn, but thou wilt not have a dog. And we wilt discuss this no further."

Denethor's heart raced as he ran along the Citadel halls, trying to breath through the painful catch in his throat. How surprised he was to feel the hot tears burning his cheeks! They had feared this day for the last month. They had postponed their trip to Dol Amroth, much to Finduilas chagrin. He promised her, once his father had recovered, that they would leave. He had ordered the carts remained packed. She had been strong and understood he was needed here in the City. However, it became quite apparent this would not happen soon. Ecthelion was dying.

He stopped in the doorway to his father's chambers. Swiping the tears from his face with the sleeve of his tunic as he had done as a child, he paused to compose himself. Never, since he was nigh unto twenty, had he allowed his father to see any emotion. He could not let Ecthelion see the despair in his eyes. He could still hope. His mind flew back to the night Thorongil had told him about hope. They had been fishing on the way back from Dol Amroth. It would be their last trip together. He had been distressed by his father's estrangement from Prince Adrahil, and wondered aloud if there would ever be anything but animosity between the two houses. Thorongil had spoken of his own love and the barriers that stood between his beloved and himself. He had said there were two disparate families involved also. But he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would be together and that their binding would bring the families together. He had urged Denethor to continue to hope, to continue to do all in his power to breech the gap between the Swans and the Stewards. Denethor had been unsuccessful in bringing Adrahil and Ecthelion together, but he and Imrahil's friendship had grown strong. And for that, he was most grateful.

The thought of Thorongil brought a sharp pain to his heart. He suddenly missed the man terribly. He shook his head, wondering where the former captain was. 'I must stop these thoughts.' He drew in his breath and walked to Ecthelion's bed. Finduilas was already there, holding Boromir's shoulder as they waited for his arrival. Indis was bent over the bed, whispering to their father. The tears would come, but he blinked them away.

How had his father grown so old so quickly? The fever had ravaged his body, leaving only a gaunt man lying before him. Indis pulled back, tears streaming down her face. Denethor realized with a start that Ecthelion's death would be hardest on her. He squeezed her shoulder as he moved past her. Kneeling by the bed, he took his father's hand in his own. Surprised by the heat that still engulfed the dying body, he looked towards Arciryas. The Master Healer shook his head sadly. Denethor turned back towards his father. Startled to see the eyes opened, he leaned in.

"I go now to the Halls of Mandos and to wherever my final resting place will be. I have tried to give you my wisdom, instill in you the pride of Númenor, but you have ever been willful and followed your own heart." He paused for a moment, his eyes softening. "Perhaps, if your mother had lived, things would have been different. I have spoken with her, on occasion, you know." His eyes dimmed and became tear-filled. "I have tried to do right by you, boy. I have not succeeded and I fear for you and for Gondor." He sighed. "Would that things had been different." He looked up again into Denethor's face. "Bring Boromir to me."

Denethor stood and led his son forward, not letting go of the boy's shoulder. Though Ecthelion loved the boy, Denethor was afraid of what his father might say to the lad. Yet, he stood proud as Boromir walked forward, straight and tall, and waited for Ecthelion to speak.

"Boromir, you are the hope of Gondor. I have seen your determination and strength, your pride in our City. I know you will protect all I have worked for. Come, sit by my side." The lad did as he was bid and Denethor stood back. "Your mother is sweet and kind, Boromir, but she is weak. Do not follow her example. Be strong in everything you do. Gondor needs you strong. Continue your studies of warfare, no matter what your mother thinks. Never let your guard down. Trust no one. I had trusted someone a long time ago, and he deserted me. Trust only yourself." Ecthelion started coughing. Arciryas stepped forward. "My Lord, you must rest."

Ecthelion feebly batted his arm aside. "Rest! For what? I shall be dead soon and will have all the rest I will ever need. Boromir," his voice turned harsh as he clasped the lad's shoulder, but Denethor stepped in and moved Boromir back to Finduilas' side. His father scowled up at him. "You will fail me. You will fail Gondor. Let me speak to the boy. He will obey me."

"Father, I have always tried to obey you, to be what you wanted me to be. I promise you, I will strengthen our defenses. I will work to make Gondor strong. I will not fail you."

But the words fell on deaf ears. Ecthelion had passed away. Denethor stared for a long moment, then turned and shepherded his family out the door. Arciryas would tend to the final details. Boromir started crying and Denethor picked him up.

"We wilt take Adadhron to the Steward's House. Then we wilt say our farewells. He loved thee very much, Boromir. I hope he did not frighten thee."

But a frown creased Finduilas' brow as they walked back to their own chambers. Indis stayed behind to help Arciryas prepare the body. The embalmers had already been called and would arrive soon. There was naught for Denethor to do at the moment. He would first see to Finduilas, then go to his father's study and look to the needs of Gondor.

As they entered their chambers, the nanny came and, after both his parents hugged and kissed him, took Boromir to the nursery. As soon as he closed the door, Finduilas turned towards him, storm clouds in her eyes.

"War! That is all he speaks of. That is all any speak of here in this City. Am I to give my sons to pain and death? Wouldst thou see them bloodied upon the battlefield?" She was in tears, her voice rising. "I didst not bear sons to see them dead. I wilt leave here first. I will leave thee first! I wilt take them to my father. I will not let them die!" Hysteria tinged her voice and Denethor's eyes widened in alarm.

"Finduilas." He took her wrists in his hands, appalled to find them shaking. His thoughts flew to the time the earth had quaked after Thengel's death. Gently pulling her close, not letting her resist, he held her, whispered her name over and over again. He could not tell her their sons would be spared. There were no guarantees. The Unnamed One was growing stronger. As if to confirm this, the floor began to shift. Finduilas screamed and tried to run towards the nursery. He held her tightly. "The mountain cannot topple Minas Tirith, Finduilas. I promise thee. Our sons are protected. Stay thou here, by my side." He pulled her down onto the bed, lifting her feet off the floor so she would not feel the lurching under them. She shuddered and clung closely to him.

"Wilt thou not come with me and thy sons? Wilt thou not take us away from this hateful City, this evil, this horrid mountain? Please, Denethor," she begged. Looking into his eyes, she knew he would never leave Minas Tirith. Suddenly she began to wail and he pulled her more tightly to him.

"Finduilas," he whispered. "I canst not leave Gondor, not now. Her people need me. Need us. They believe they are leaderless and wilt lose all hope. I canst not allow that. But, in the fall, we wilt all go to Belfalas for as long as thou wouldst. The children wilt play in the sand and the sea. And thou wilt know that Gondor is worth fighting for. Thou knowest the beauty of Lamedon and Lossarnach, the worth of the Rohirrim, and the wonder of Dol Amroth. All of these wilt fall if I do not do my duty."

"Duty!" she spat the word as though it were a curse. "Thy duty would see me dead and thy sons with me."

"Nay, Finduilas," he tried to hush her. "My duty wilt save all that we love. I promise thee. Stand by me; I beg thee. Tell me thou believest that I can save Gondor and all that we love. Please, Finduilas. I must know that I have thy trust. I must."

She collapsed into his arms, sobs racking her body. "I want to, Denethor, truly I do, but I only see death before me. I have lost all hope."

"Nay, melethril nîn, lasto beth nin, estellio nin. I will do everything in my power to save thee, to save our sons." His tears mixed with hers. Slowly her breathing steadied.

"I will trust thee, hervenn nîn." He laid her head against the pillow and kissed her, speaking soft words till she fell asleep. He sighed. He could not go to his father's study tonight.

The body lay in state five days. Lords from all corners of the land came to pay their final respects. The City lay hushed. The mountain had only stirred twice more. Thankfully, he had been with her both times and allayed her fears.

Friends and warriors from his early years returned to the City. Most nights, after he was sure Finduilas slept, he would join them at 'The Three Fishermen' reminiscing about battles long ago won. Théoden brought Morwen and his son, Théodred. The lad was turning into quite a warrior. He reminded Denethor of Thengel. Éofor, Walda's son, also came with the delegation from Rohan. Dúinhir, now Lord of Blackroot Vale traveled to offer his respects. Denethor's heart was lightened by the strength and courage of the men gathered about him. One day soon, he would have to meet with the Council and decide who would stay and who would go. How he wished he could persuade his friends to return to Minas Tirith for good and become part of the Council, but he knew he could not ask it of them. They had their own fiefdoms to govern and he needed strong men stationed all over Gondor and Rohan if he was going to succeed in protecting Gondor.

During this time of mourning, he met with each of the Lords and the members of Council, testing their loyalty, firming their resolve to answer Gondor's call, and discovering their weaknesses and strengths. He would have need of every tool at his disposal to overturn any decisions that ran counter to his own. He would not let the Council rule Gondor as they had under Turgon. If they did not agree with him, he would use other means to obtain their 'yea' vote. Gondor's might had been reduced to almost nothing because of this weak Council. He would not allow them to further erode what strength remained.

On the fifth day, the procession left the Great Hall and found its way to the gate before Rath Dínen. The call was made, the guard came forth, and opened the door. It seemed all of Gondor followed the bier down the street and into the Steward's House. After the proscribed words were said, and the last of the incense burners doused, the mourners slowly turned, heading back into the City itself. Denethor spoke quietly to Indis, who nodded, then led Finduilas and Boromir to the gate. Boromir at first refused to leave. He clasped his arms around Denethor's leg, not saying a word. Denethor bent down, gently loosened the lad's hold, and pulled him into his arms.

"Go with thy mother, Boromir, she hast need of thee. I wilt come along presently. I have a duty to perform before I may leave this place. Wilt thou do that for me? Wilt thou care for thy mother a few more moments?" He wiped the tears from Boromir's eyes and set him down. Boromir looked unsure for a moment, then took his mother's hand and walked away.

Imrahil stood beside him. Denethor looked at his friend. "'Tis time for you to return to Dol Amroth. Tell your father his rival has passed."

"Denethor," Imrahil said gently. "My father was not your father's rival. 'Tis true he challenged him on many things, but there was respect there. And honor given. Do not let bitterness grow in your heart towards my kin."

"Of course not," Denethor whispered. "You will hold your oath to Gondor, will you not, Imrahil. If Gondor calls for aid, you will answer?"

"You do not have to ask. I have been a shrewd student of yours. I have learnt well the things you have taught me. I will never fail you. Never."

Denethor clasped his shoulder. "Then go. I have promised Finduilas a visit to your home, but I cannot see that happening now. Our people have need of me. Mayhap we will journey next spring."

Ion nîn - my son
Adadhron - grandfather (paternal)
Melethril nîn - my love
Llasto beth nîn - listen to my words
Estellio nin - trust me
Hervenn nîn - my husband

An illness swept through the Houses. The source was unknown; a cure was unknown. More and more of those already deathly ill or battle wounded fell to its unchecked rampage. Arciryas worked night and day, not with healing, for naught seemed to heal, but with herbs and incantations to ease suffering, then spending hours pouring over ancient books trying to find anything that even remotely displayed the same symptoms, but to no avail. He would have to evacuate the Houses. The malady could not be stopped. Yet, as suddenly as it had started, as suddenly as the filth of it sped through the Houses of Healing, it ceased. No new patients were touched by it for over a week. Those in the last throws of its hold lingered. Some lived. Some did not.

Ioreth was one of the last to be infected by it, but her youth seemed to lessen its hold on her. Firieth came to the Houses to care for her daughter, and instead, succumbed herself. One of the last to die, she clung to life for hours. Finduilas screamed to be allowed to care for her, but Denethor could not, would not let her near. Indis went instead, much to Denethor's horror. He was trying to save his wife, why would his sister tempt fate? At last, Firieth surrendered. Ioreth held her in her arms; her lips silenced for once. Indis sat by her side.

Finduilas was nigh unto inconsolable. Firieth had come to her the day she had arrived in Minas Tirith, welcoming her with a lavender nosegay and a warm smile. They had become friends almost immediately, even before Arciryas asked Firieth to become Finduilas' handmaiden. Denethor remembered Firieth's discomfiture at such a request. She had spoken of her humble lineage, saying she was not worthy. Then, when Boromir was born, the bond between the women firmed, solidified into deep friendship. 'Ah,' Denethor remembered, 'they called each other sister-friend.'

She would not let him hold her. She stayed in her bed, pulling her arms around her, moaning quietly. He called for Arciryas who brought teas to ease her heart and potions to help her sleep. After a time, it seemed she improved. Indis was able to convince her to walk in the gardens. At last, Denethor sent for his sister.

"Indis," Denethor sat opposite her on the settle, twirling the flagon in his left hand. She smiled. He always did that when he had something unpleasant to ask. She loved him dearly, but he would have to speak; she did not know what he wanted.

"I also know he loves to study the old books and formulas and such to find new cures for what ails the men of Gondor."

She waited, not knowing what he wanted to say, what he wanted from her or Arciryas.

"Finduilas is... not well. No matter what I do for her, she fades. Father's death has been hard for it has changed my life completely. I cannot spend the time I used to with her nor with the children. Sometimes, I work from dawn to dawn. There is naught else I can do. You know full well that the defenses of Gondor must be reinforced. I have met with the Council every day, trying to convey to them the desperate needs of our land before the needs of their own fiefdoms, but it is trying work. Besides the meetings, I spend much time reading father's logs, trying to find what was done and what has not been done. On top of that, troop movements... I do not know why I am saying all this. You know, better than anyone else in all of Gondor, what the duties of the Steward entail." He paused and took a long swallow, put down the flagon, and turned to her, brow furrowed. "She also has not fully recovered from the loss of Firieth. I cannot be with Finduilas as I would wish, nor as she would wish. I hope to ask Arciryas to become my family's personal healer. Do you think he would agree? Would you agree?"

Indis sat back. "Yes, he will, if you command it. But I do not know if he will be happy with the decision."

"Would you be? I would do naught to harm you. He is most valued as Master Healer. I do not want to do this, but I see no other way. I cannot send her to Dol Amroth. I could not live with her gone. Yet, she needs constant care, more than I can give. I have given much thought to this. I have tried to discover another solution, some way to help her live here in ease and contentment."

"Yes. Her reading to the soldiers has been told to me. Their gratitude is profound. But she does not seem to think it worthwhile, or helpful. She has not been back to the Houses since Firieth's death. Nor do I want her there, at least for a time."

He laughed ruefully. "I do not know. She is not a child. I do not know. All I know, Indis, is that I love her and I must do everything I can for her, short of shirking my duty to Gondor."

She put her hand on his knee. "There may come a time, Denethor, when you will have to chose between Gondor and Finduilas."

He knew she was suffering. It had now been almost a year since Firieth passed. Was it Boromir and Faramir? Him? Did they require too much care? It seemed a deep melancholy lay over her. She sounded well when he asked after her, but the Elvish sparkle, the one that had caught his heart when first he saw her in Dol Amroth - that sparkle had left her eyes. She walked as an old woman, barely picking up her feet, where once she had run gaily, lighter than the wind. Her skin was sallow, dry, and hung off her body like lifeless bark on the river birch. Her hands, the precious hands that soothed his brow - so kissable and dainty - could hardly pick themselves up from her lap. Dead members hung from them, pretending they were fingers. He shuddered violently as he watched her from the window overlooking her private garden. She had not seen, or, having seen, had not the energy to greet him. Tears fell in heavy torrents from his eyes. Arciryas stood beside him.

"What ails her?" he asked his healer, overwhelmed with the change that had come upon her this last year.

"I do not know, Denethor. There seems to be no malady of body to explain her state. I have tested her, using every tool at my disposal, but I have learned naught from them."

Denethor turned to him, shoulders sagging in defeat. "I cannot lose her," he whispered.

Arciryas took his friend into his arms and held him. "We will not lose her. Mayhap, if she went to the sea for a time..."

"Then you must consider this. I believe she longs for the sea and all it stands for. She hates the mountain. Do you not see her, even now, staring at it? She must have peace around her. And the only place, in all of Gondor where she will find peace, is Dol Amroth."

"I know," Denethor choked on the words. "I will send her away with the children. Listöwel will accompany her."

"Yes, but as you said, she is too weak, at the moment, to travel. If you but tell her the news, that will surely lighten her mood. She will have something to look forward to."

He straightened himself. "I know you speak wisely, my friend. Always, you have counseled me well. How long before she is well enough to travel?"

'The sea,' Denethor thought, walking along the escarpment after Arciryas left him. 'She needs the sea.' Suddenly, his eyes lit up and he ran to the Great Hall.

He carried her down the hall from their chambers, kissing her brow and chattering about Faramir and Boromir and what they had been doing this morning - their lessons and such. His heart broke as he noted how she tried to listen, but fatigue overwhelmed her and he saw the dull glaze of her eyes. He quietly set her on her feet at a closed doorway. "My love, thy needs are mine. I have created a place for thee. I wouldst that I could give thee all that thou needest, but please, accept this as a token of my love for thee."

With that, he opened the door and she gasped and would have fallen had he not been behind her and quickly held her close to him. He picked her up again, walked into the room, and closed the door behind them. Gently, he placed her upon the beach chair. He sat next to her, letting her drink in his creation, and then, with the softest pride, he began pointing out the features of the room.

"The sky. I hope 'tis the right shade? See - it fills the entire ceiling. And dost thou see the clouds and the little gulls, painted there and there? The plants along the walls, are they not like the plants that grow in the rocks at Dol Amroth? And here and here," he pointed again, "dost thou see the creatures, crabs and starfish? And in the little rock pool painted over there - there are the seahorses thou lovest so. Look over here, my love. See the waves crashing against the rocks; over there is the shore, which leadeth into the room. The sand on the floor wast brought from our little beach in Belfalas. Thou must remember it, my love?" He could not read her face, so he continued, desperately pointing out more and more. "There are the chairs and table where we used to sit and drink honeyed wine." He started to sob. He had commissioned the finest artists in the land to create the room, to make it look exactly like the seascape looking out her window at the palace of Dol Amroth; yet, she gave no reaction. He left his chair and knelt in the sand at her feet, laying his head upon her lap. "Melethril nîn?"

She was silent. He could speak no longer. He had poured out all his love upon this room, hoping it would fill her and bring her back to him, from whatever place she had gone to.

His body trembled when he felt her hand touch his head, slip through his hair, and gently caress his cheek.

"Thou didst all this for me?" Her voice, unused these last months, cracked as she questioned him.

"Tancavë, melethril nîn, solely for thee. We mayest sit here," hope flared in his heart and the words stumbled over each other, "listen to the water and drink wine..."

She could hear it, water gently falling over rocks, and she turned and saw that a small waterfall played its music almost directly behind her. She sighed. "It is most lovely." Then she closed her eyes and slept.

He knelt back upon his heels and watched her. Her sleep was deep. Long had it been since she had slept so deeply. He covered her with a shawl and then sat again in the chair next to hers. Soon, his head fell forward.

"She has been there for hours. The boys are with her. I believe your ploy has worked, Denethor. She walked without help this morning. I cannot believe the change in her!"

Denethor's eyes sparkled with unshed tears. "Yes, it was worth every coin and every hour of work. Speak truly, Arciryas. She does seem to be getting better?"

"If thou leavest me and returneth to Dol Amroth," he choked on the words, "thou wilt not return."

The mountain had spent the entire month foaming and spewing noxious fumes into the air, shaking the halls of Minas Tirith. She had cowered more and more. Not even her hideaway helped keep the fear from her. At last, he knew he must send her away.

"What art thou saying, my love? Thou art my life, my very breath. To thee I wilt ever return," she promised.

He took her in his arms and held her very close. The thinness of her body once again startled him. He had to be so very gentle. Almost - he was afraid she would break in his arms. When had he first noticed this gauntness? He felt her lean against his embrace, the warmth of her body next to his, the bones of her shoulders jutting out into the palms of his hands. Hope seemed to flee from him, but he dragged it back and clung to it. He turned his face away from hers, as the tears, unbidden, fell. He moved his arm so his tunic would catch the tears and she would not feel them. She could not see him weep. She could not know the despair that flitted at the corners of his mind as he held her. She must think him strong, think that she could rely upon him in all things, that he would survive while she was gone, think that he would be able to care for their sons. Faster the tears came at the thought of his dependence upon her. How was he to bear this time apart? And yet, Arciryas thought the sea air would revive her, would help her to heal. Arciryas had always been right before. The forced separation must be the cure for her malaise. It must be!

She gave a small groan and he realized his vehemence of thought had transferred to his arms. "Melethril nîn, absenen," he cried.

"Nay, 'tis I who shouldst ask for forgiveness. To be forced to leave thee. My heart shouldst be stronger. My will falters. Thou deservest more, better..."

"Shush," he said as he put two fingers to her lips. "Say naught foul about my love, my own. Thou art the fairest, strongest, bravest woman in all of Gondor."

She smiled up at him and saw the tracks of his tears. "Melethril nîn!"' she cried.

"Shush," he bid her again. "Think only of thy return to me. Thou knowest I wilt be here waiting."

He kissed her gently and then carried her to the carriage. The children were waiting beside it, their nanny crying. He wanted to flail her. How dare she cry openly in front of the children?

Listöwel came forward and touched his arm. "We will return shortly, my Lord. I will do everything in my power to make her well again and to bring her home soon."

He kissed her on the forehead and spoke words of praise and strength to his old friend's wife.

"I am deeply grateful that you are accompanying her. I would be hard-pressed to let her go with anyone else."

Listöwel opened the carriage door and he gently placed his love inside. He lifted their eldest to the seat next to her. The lad's eyes were large and tear-filled, but the tears did not fall.

"Thou must care for thy Ada, Boromir. He wilt need thy strength until I return. Wilt thou do this for me?"

"Of course, Naneth." Tears threatened the little face, but blinking stopped them.

"And thy brother? Wilt thou comfort him in the night, wilt thou promise not to fight with him, and wilt thou love him until I return?"

"Oh Nana!" This time the tears fell and Boromir angrily batted them away with his sleeve. "Thou knowest I wilt love him as thou dost. I wilt never leave him, not let him cry out in the night, nor suffer any harm to come to him, whilst thou art away." His chin shook and she took it gently in her hands and kissed his sweet lips.

"Thou art a true son of Gondor, my Boromir. I knowest that thou wilt keep thy word. Knowest thou that I love thee."

He took the child from her, stood him on the ground, and passed their youngest to her. Faramir tried to climb onto her lap; she had not the strength to lift him, and so Denethor picked him up and placed him there.

She held him close to her chest, rocking him ever so gently, and then kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. "Thou art my sweet and precious son, Faramir. Obey thy Ada, love thy brother, and wait for me. I love thee."

The child clung to her and wept bitterly. His little heart knew not what was wrong, only that somehow his whole world was being torn apart. Then he felt his father's hands pulling him away and he howled in surprise and pain, "Nana!"

He stepped quietly into the carriage, took her tiny hands into his large warrior ones, covered them with kisses, then kissed her forehead, her eyes, her ears, her nose, her cheeks, her chin, her neck, and finally, with tender passion, her lips.

And then he left her side, stepped down from the carriage and helped Listöwel into it. With a signal to the driver, the carriage started to move away. Faramir tried to run after it, but he picked him up and showed him how to wave farewell. Boromir stood close, his hand clutching his father's tunic. Listöwel's heart broke as she saw the little trio standing in the Court of the Fountain with the dead White Tree behind them.

The errand-rider arrived before the sun set. He heard the hooves on the marble of the courtyard and his heart turned cold. He sat on the Steward's Chair, his hands clutching the black marble. His mind screamed, 'Nay! This cannot be. It is news of someone else. It is not of her. It cannot be of her.'

The Steward did not blink an eye; he stared forward and the rider, thinking he had perhaps not heard, repeated the message. "My Lord, we have lost the Lady Finduilas."

The errand-rider jumped at the suddenness of the question, the breaking of the silence. "The company has turned round and should be here by morning." Silence.

"Do not bring her here. She does not belong here. She belongs by the sea. Send a rider to the Company and tell them to turn around and go to Dol Amroth. Have another rider prepared. I will give him a missive to take to Imrahil."

He sat at the desk, Thengel's oaken desk, and pulled out parchment and pen. The sun was lowering in the sky before he began to write.

She is gone, taken from us, the fairest flower of all Middle-earth, indeed of even Westernesse itself. I would tell you all that is in my heart, but you, dearest Brother to my Beloved, know it all, for oft have we spoken of the quality of that fair Lady.

I try to think, but find my mind is empty. There is naught left. Her departure has swept every vestige of sanity or thought from it. It aches with the violence of her life's removal. My heart has been stabbed as if by a Morgul-knife. The pain is beyond words or thought or comprehension. I can hardly swallow for the constriction that unshed tears have forced upon my throat. I can say these things to you and no other, for I know as you read this, that you are now my Brother in sorrow.

I will survive this, for my mind, what little is left of it, tells me I must go on, for our sons, for Gondor, but I tell you, my heart recoils at the thought of living without her sweet presence... The days stretch before me and I quake at the thought of the loneliness that lies there, the desolation of the time to come.

My lips tingle with the remembrance of our last kiss, gentle lips pressed to mine, and I would shut my eyes, and put out everything but that remembrance. Imrahil! May the Valar be with me. I cannot do this alone!'

He lay his pen down and leaned back, resting in the great oak chair that Thengel had helped him build. Dead these past eight years, but not forgotten. Another face drifted before him. Amdir, his friend, his right hand, his brother-in-arms. He must call Amdir home from Osgiliath. Tears finally stung his eyes. He did not sob nor shake; they just fell in torrents unbidden, uncontrolled, unhealing... Never had he felt such tears. They reminded him of the falls of Henneth Annûn, flowing constantly, great torrents of water, eating away at the cliff. He could feel the tears now eating away at his face, carving great gullies where they ran. In the back of his mind, he wondered, 'Where do all these tears come from? Is my body being squeezed like the sea sponges? Will I look like one after, if there is an after, the tears have stopped? Shriveled up and full of holes and hard to the touch? How will I hold my sons if I am hard and shriveled and scratchy?' At the thought of his sons, the tears, impossible to think it, fell even harder.

Baranor stepped into the room. "My Lord," he said gently. "The errand-rider is ready."

'I cannot come to you, to Belfalas, to Dol Amroth. I cannot. I would have you place her in the Houses of her Fathers in the Númenórean way. Princess of Dol Amroth, as she deserves - not Steward's wife. Nay, she was much more than Steward's wife, though she deigned to be that for a time.

I know not when I will come. Give Listöwel my leave to stay in Belfalas for a time, if that is her wish. If she deigns to stay, please give her all my love and tell her I will never forget her or her kindness to her Princess. Tell her I will station Amdir at the garrison of Dol Amroth.

I bid you farewell for now. With my deepest sympathy to you and your family, I remain

Ithilien - always it had been a place of sunshine, sweet smells and refuge. It had also been a place of pain and death. However, he needed to be alone; he could not bear to stay within the confines of Minas Tirith. He left the City in the care of the Council and prepared to ride out with Baranor.

As he started to mount, he heard a child's voice calling, "Ada!" It was Boromir - how had he escaped the nanny? When he returned, he would get rid of that woman. Twice in the past twenty-four hours she had failed him. He took the child in his arms. "I must leave thee for a time, my son, but I promise thee, I wilt return."

Boromir placed his chubby hands upon his father's cheeks. "May I not come with thee, Ada? I am almost of age."

Denethor lifted his eyes away from the boy's intent gaze. If it had been Faramir, the child would have known immediately that something was wrong, like to himself be that boy. Boromir only wanted to be with his father and away on some adventure. How...? When was he to tell them? He bit his lip. He would not let the boy see him cry. "I have important duties to perform. Thou canst not come with me. I wilt return shortly," he apologized. The word 'duty' silenced Boromir, as Denethor knew it would. The child understood duty - not like Faramir. 'Ah, but Faramir is so much younger,' he thought. 'He will learn in time.' He put Boromir down, ruffled his hair as he always did, mounted and waved as he turned the horse into the tunnel by the Sixth Gate.

He rode hard and fast across the Pelennor, hoping the speed, the wind in his face, would flush all thought from his mind. The wind only slid the tears faster across his face, turning his hair sodden. They would not stop, these tears. He did not even need to be thinking of her. All these tears needed was a moment - a time when he was thinking of naught, and they would fall in torrents. Large tears. He had not known there were different sized tears, as there were raindrops. It made sense. He thought them all the same, but since yesterday, when the sky had fallen and the rain had entered his mind, he knew sizes. He disliked these great drops. He preferred his childhood tears - small, quickly fallen and then stopped as quickly as they started. But these - these were quick to fall and would not stop. 'No sobs either,' he thought. He was surprised by that. The tears would fall and, not till they were almost spent, did the sobs come. But the sobs were so great they racked his entire body, and he had to hold on tightly with his thighs to his mount else he fall.

This ride was useless. He only hoped when he reached the garrison at Osgiliath he would find some distraction. She only came here once - he never allowed it again. Soldiers hailed him as he rode through the ruins. He could smell the morning fires. The men would soon be breaking their fast. He would not stop here though. This was not his destination. Emyn Arnen. His ancestral home - the burial place for Cranthir and Morwen. He started to cross the bridge when he heard his name called. All these distractions - were they not what he wanted? But he had discovered, as soon as he passed the Rammas Echor, that distraction did naught to ease the pain in his chest, the burning in his eyes. Single-minded he was today. He had no wish to converse with anyone.

"I am in a hurry. What is it you need?" he snapped. A hand on his horse held him up.

"My Lord, is it true?" Ciramir saw the look in his Steward's eyes and stopped. "My Lord, I am so sorry. She... Where are you off to my Lord?"

"My Lord, you know the law. The Steward must not be about without an escort. Who is stationed at the Great Gate that let you leave with only one attendant?"

Denethor wanted to scream. Long years at the command of Ecthelion, however, had taught him control. "I do not wish, nor will I countenance, an escort further than I have. Leave me be," he almost begged.

"Yes, my Lord," Ciramir said, "but wait just a moment, please." He did not wait for a reply, but ran off. In the space of Denethor's fuming, he was back, mounted on a horse with a small sack, his bow and quiver, and a sword hitched to the side of his horse.

"I am going to Ithilien myself. Mayhap you would like to accompany me?" Tears were in his eyes. "Amdir has taken a patrol out. I would meet with them."

Denethor sat back in his saddle, not having realized he had been standing in his stirrups. As much as he wanted to, he could not order the man back. "Ride behind me, if you must," he growled, hit the reins to his horse's neck and plunged over the bridge, followed quickly by two friends.

The landscape started to change as the forest of Emyn Arnen came into view. They rode into the middle of it and then past to the land of the House of Húrin, and up to the tombs. Baranor and Ciramir stopped their horses a little way back, dismounted and walked to a clearing far enough from the tombs to give privacy, but near enough to guard their Captain-General. Denethor rode to Cranthir's tomb, dismounted and sat heavily on the stone. Next to Cranthir's was Morwen's. The whole area was in disarray. 'Who had been commissioned to care for these,' he wondered and again wished their remains had been placed in the Steward's House.

He returned to Osgiliath the next morning and, as the sun finally fell in the West, walked to Anduin, then headed north. He could not be among his men. Their looks of concern and pity drove him mad. The waters of the Great River were cool and pleasant. They washed tears away with ease. But they did naught to ease the heart. He had yet to return to Minas Tirith. It had been two days. He had bedded in the garrison, using Amdir's rooms. He could not go back to the City, to their room... He could not. He ducked his head into the water again. When he came up, a hand was on his shoulder.

"Your children wait for you," a voice said quietly, with no hint of condemnation.

Denethor turned. His breath caught and he stood still. The tears had not stopped. He tried mightily, but to no avail. "I cannot..." 'What! What can I not do?' he thought. "I can do naught. I cannot even breathe. I cannot even think. I cannot go on..." He realized he had been screaming the words, his thoughts betraying him aloud.

Amdir moved closer and took his friend, his Captain-General, in his arms. "I am so very sorry, Denethor. I would that I had been there and not on patrol. What can I do? What can I say? I am so sorry." He buried his head in Denethor's shoulder, his own grief spilling out in hot tears.

Both men sank to the damp bank of the river, the river that brought life, peace, joy, death; all things unto itself. Clinging to each other, they knelt and wept.

Baranor watched from a discreet distance, as he had watched his Steward try to assuage his grief in the rushing waters of the river. A sound to the north took his eyes from the scene. He screamed, "Orcs!" and pulled his sword. Denethor ran to retrieve his own as Amdir rushed towards Baranor.

'There are only three,' Denethor thought ruefully, wishing there were more; battle always cleared his head. He dove for his own sword. Amdir killed the first, but an Orc ran past Baranor and rushed him, its weapon aimed at Denethor's head. Vaguely he wondered why the Orc did not shoot. Mayhap, he smiled wickedly, it did not know how to fire the weapon. He quickly ducked and slid in the mud of the riverbank. The Orc slipped and fell also, but never lost hold on the crossbow in its hands. The Orc lay on its back. Denethor jumped up, straddled it, his dirk pressed into the creatures throat. At that moment, the arrow released and shot out. Amdir stopped it with his chest. His eyes opened wide, a grunt escaped his lips, and he fell to his knees.

"Amdir!" the moaned name dragged out for an age, the only sound that Denethor's grief-torn ears could hear. He sliced the creature's throat and in the same motion caught Amdir as he fell forward. Cradling him in his arms, he looked in horror at the wound, gushing blood onto Amdir's tunic and Denethor's hand. He looked from the wound to his friend's face. The eyes were already glazed, blood spewed from his lips, and breath rasped from a mortally wounded lung. "Amdir!" he sobbed, but life departed. Denethor fell forward, clutching as much of his friend's body as he could and bringing it as close to his own as possible. He knelt, keening softly, his whole body trying to be one with Amdir's, trying to give some of his own life to his friend. But no transfer of spirit could be realized. He pushed back the black hair that had fallen over Amdir's face and kissed the white forehead.

Baranor reached them after he had killed the remaining Orcs, despair filling his heart and his mind. "Nay!" he screamed. "No more! No more!" He stood guarding his friend. Yet, the failure he felt assailed his whole being. 'What good have I been? What guard have I been for him?' Sobs tore through him and tears fell. "Amdir," he quietly sobbed, "Amdir, my friend."

At last Denethor let go Amdir's body. He stood up, his face livid with rage. "Kill the guards who let them through," he screamed and when Baranor did naught, confusion rampant on his face, he grabbed him by his mailed sleeve and brought his face nose to nose with Baranor's. "Kill them, I said! Do you not understand me?" he continued to shriek. "Or you will be next! Do as I command."

Denethor struck him full in the face, the force of his anger and the motion of the strike sending both men into the mud. He tried to pick himself up, Baranor reached a hand to help, but as their legs straightened, they both slipped and fell again. Denethor's screams tore the air. "Nay!" he wailed. "I cannot... I cannot!" He crumpled into the mud, held his head in his hands, and sobbed. Every fiber of his body grieved. "I cannot..." he whispered. "I cannot..." Baranor held him close, sobbing as they knelt on the muddy bank.

Ciramir ran from the high grass along the river's edge where he had watched the ambush in horror and shock. "Oh no," he gasped, thinking all three were mortally wounded. "Nay, this cannot be." He ran towards the bodies and stopped. He recoiled from the grief he saw in Denethor's eyes.

'Alive, yes, but mayhap 'twould be better if he were dead,' the harsh thought flitted through his mind. He realized that it was Amdir who lay dead. The blood on Denethor's body was that of his friend. "My Steward," he said quietly, reaching out to help him to his feet. But Denethor's body was heavy as if in death, and he could not raise him. Guards from the garrison at Osgiliath heard the commotion and sent reinforcements. Ciramir motioned for two of them to come forward. They put arms under each of their Steward's and lifted him to his feet. Ciramir helped Baranor stand. Another four soldiers went to Amdir's body, gently lifting it up and carrying it towards the barracks. They walked in a silence that was broken every now and again by a sob from one or another of the men. 'Fate is beyond cruel,' Ciramir thought. 'To lose Finduilas and Amdir in the space of days...' He shook his head.

He woke to screams and flailed his arms, trying to defend himself; from what, he did not know. The screams turned to moans and he realized the voice he heard was his own. A torrent of tears fell and he found himself overcome with grief. Sobs racked his body. Why was he sobbing like some grief-stricken child? He kept his eyes tight shut. He had no idea where he was; he did not want to know. He wanted to solve this mystery, to find why grief assailed him so. 'My mind must be playing tricks on me. Surely I am home in my own chambers, safe and secure.' He slowly forced his eyes open. He was in Osgiliath, in the infirmary. He recognized it immediately. Thorongil was at his side. Nay, it could not be Thorongil. He had betrayed him many years ago. Amdir! It was Amdir; he knew it. It must be. He tried to choke out the name, but no word would come.

"My Lord," Baranor leaned over as he saw the eyes open. He brushed back the black hair that had fallen into his friend's eyes during his thrashing about.

Denethor looked wildly about the room, eyes straining from side to side. "Where has Amdir gone? He was right here beside me. Amdir!" he screamed, "Amdir!" Baranor knelt, trying to hold him down. The garrison's healer came into the room and knelt on the other side of Denethor's cot, helping.

"My Lord," Baranor said over and over, hoping with every fiber in his body that his Lord would finally be comforted by the sound.

"Amdir!" he screamed the name over and over until finally, he fell back, taking in huge ragged breaths. The tears continued to fall and he knew Amdir was dead. His face fell. "Amdir," he whispered once more, "my friend." Sobs began to shake his body. The healer attempted to pour a liquid past his lips, but he spat it back into the man's face.

He tried to sink deeper and deeper into the cot, trying to lose himself as if in a tomb. Baranor ordered the healer away. When Denethor heard the man's retreating footsteps, he opened his eyes. He stared into Baranor's face. 'Oh! Such pain,' Baranor cringed.

Denethor took his arm and clenched it tightly. He took three deep breaths. "If Amdir is dead," he sobbed, his voice breaking, "then... then she is dead? It was not a dream?"

Baranor sucked in his breath and sobbed aloud. He put his hand on Denethor's and held it tight.

"Nay!" The piercing wail split the night air. "Oh nay, nay, please, nay..." He kept murmuring again and again until his body, overcome by exhaustion, took him into sleep.

Baranor bowed his head, the sobs continuing into the night. The garrison lay still, shock and horror filling every heart.

Ciramir finally came into the room. Helping Baranor into the cot next to his captain's, he pulled his boots off and covered him. "Sleep now. I will stand watch."

His eyes were swollen and they burned when he tried to open them. His mouth was parched; he tasted blood as he ran his tongue over cracked lips. His tongue felt swollen, too. His throat ached as if he had screamed for a thousand years. But naught felt like his chest. The pain was still there, like a knife embedded to the hilt; so great he could scarce breathe. He turned his head sideways and saw Ciramir sitting on a chair next to his cot. His feet were up and the man was deeply asleep. So too was Baranor, he saw when he looked further left, asleep in the cot next to him.

'I should feel happy to have such friends by my side,' he thought lugubriously. "I do not want friends," he mumbled. "Never again do I want friends." His throat started to constrict, but he willed it not to. "I will have no friends." His eyes felt hard. He took a deep, ragged breath, swung his legs off the cot, and stood up. He put on his boots, picked up his sword, along with the Horn of Gondor, and quietly walked out of the room. Guards saluted him and quickly moved out of his way as he crossed the courtyard to the stables. Picking up his saddle and blanket, he put them on his horse and pulled himself up. Turning west, he headed towards the City, not noticing that the sun, just coming over the mountains, blazed like a spike of pearl on the White Tower.

Boromir had been fidgeting all morning. The tutor finally gave up and sent him out to play. He ran to Faramir's room, caught his hand in a grip that made the little boy cry out, startled, and said, "Ada may be coming home ere long, Faramir. Please, wilt thou come with me to the point? We may see him coming." Faramir, who had been miserable these past three days since both mother and father had left them, clapped his hands in joy. If Boromir was going to the point, he would not be left behind. He quickly pulled on a woolen tunic and ran to catch up with Boromir who was already out the door and bounding down the stairs. The two boys ran past the White Tree and out onto the parapet. At last they reached the point. Boromir laughed. "I beat thee again, Faramir. Thou must learn to run faster," and he hugged his little brother in the joy of the day, in the hope of his father's home coming.

As the sun rose higher and higher, Boromir's enthusiasm started to wane. He pulled finger tops from his pocket and gave one to Faramir, then started to twirl his own, counting how long he could keep it spinning.

At last, Faramir started to cry. "I am thirsty, Boromir, when mayest we leave here?"

Boromir's face fell; he bit his lip in the same way his father did. "I have promised Naneth that I would care for thee. We wilt go to the kitchen for a snack." His face brightened again. "We may return here once thou art refreshed!"

Faramir stuck his hand in Boromir's as they walked away. Neither noticed the dust on the road from Osgiliath.

The sun shone brightly. The wind blew gently. His horse rode silently towards the Rammas Echor. Turning his stead to the left, he passed through the guarded gate and rode south. His mind was numb. He must find Listöwel. It became a rune that ran through his mind, the only thing that he heard or felt. He must find Listöwel. She would know what to do. She would... 'Nay,' he thought. 'I must find Indis.' His brow furrowed, his mind trying to clutch at some anchor that he could hold onto in the midst of the pain. He pulled up and looked about him.

'Where am I?' he wondered. 'How came I to be here?' He dropped the reins and clutched his hair, pulling it back. 'I am going mad,' he thought. He shuddered and jumped off his horse. Kneeling on the ground, he bent over, holding his stomach and retched. Finally, the sickness passed. He sat back on his heels and looked up. The sun caught the Citadel, shining on the White Tower. Sobbing, he held out his hands, trying to touch her, his City. Then clouds sped over the sun, and the sight was gone. He lowered his head again, sobs tearing from his throat. At last, he fell over, exhausted. Sleep came.

His soldiers found him that way. Lifting him gently onto his saddle, Ciramir joined him on the horse, and the Knights of Gondor moved towards Minas Tirith. He did not wake. The trumpet, as the group approached the City, sounded and Denethor stirred. Ciramir hushed him, hoping that his Steward would not wake till they reached the Houses. But the long sleep had revived him. He pulled up with a start.

"My Lord," Ciramir said, "please stay still, else we will both end up on the road."

"We found you on the Pelennor, my Lord. You succumbed to fatigue. We could not leave you there. I deemed it proper to bring you home. Indis will be waiting for you. She has been distraught since you left."

'Indis!' He remembered; he had wanted to see Indis. "Yes," he said with fervor, "I must see Indis. You will take me to her?"

"He would make better time if he only carried one," Denethor said pragmatically.

Ciramir was relieved to hear the tone of voice. "I will dismount, my Lord." He wanted to ask if Denethor would be all right, but he dared not.

Denethor clicked after Ciramir alighted and his horse went forward. By the time he reached the Citadel, his head was hurting. A soldier took his mount when he reached the Sixth Gate.

Ciramir took another horse and followed Denethor to the Citadel. He quickly dismounted, caught up to, and followed behind his Steward.

Indis ran from the White Tower. "Denethor," she whispered as she held him tightly. "I have been near to distraction waiting upon you. Please, come to your chambers. I will have a bath drawn and send your servants to help."

He sat down heavily upon the steps. She looked about wildly and fixed her eyes upon Ciramir. He put his finger to his lips and looked sadly at Denethor.

She would have fallen down next to him, eyes wide in horror, if Ciramir had not caught her.

Ciramir sat down beside them. "It is true, my Lady. Orcs attacked at the riverbank. Amdir was mortally wounded. A company is bringing his body back, e'en as we speak."

Denethor looked up at that. "Are they now?" he said hopefully. "Thank you, Ciramir. Loyal and trustworthy have you always been. I thought you would have gone with Thengel, when he was called back to Rohan to become king. I am grateful you did not."

Ciramir sighed at the sound of Denethor's voice. Hoarse still, but strong and sound. He was relieved to hear it.

Arms flung themselves around Denethor's throat and he jumped in surprise. "Ada! Ada!" the little voice cried. "How happy I am to see thee. I thought thou wouldst not return. Boromir and I waited and waited and waited..." Squealing again, the arms tightened. Denethor sat in silence. He did not know what to say.

Indis grabbed the little one away and walked him towards the door. "Faramir. Ada is tired from his ride. He will come to you after you have your nap. Now go to your chambers and wait for me. I will tuck you in."

"But Ada... I want to see Ada," the little one wailed. His nanny had come to the foot of the stairs and waited for Indis to give him to her. They walked up the stairs, the child's wails echoing off the walls.

She came back and helped Denethor to his feet. "You will find the words, Denethor. Go to your chambers now and refresh yourself. I will send up food. Then, I will make arrangements for Amdir's body."

"He must be embalmed, Indis. Please, see to that. And reserve a place for him... I would have him in the Steward's House, but that is not possible. Find a house nearby and have a place prepared for him." He turned and slowly walked up the Tower stairs.

Boromir could not understand why their father would not see them. Faramir had come running into his chambers announcing that their father was home and would not play with him. 'Something has happened,' the lad thought. 'I must know what it is. I will find Indis; she will tell me.' He hugged Faramir and took him to the nursery. "Faramir is hungry. It is past nuncheon. See that he is fed," he told the nanny. He heard Faramir crying in the background, but he could not wait. Some sense told him that he could not bring Faramir with him.

Once outside, he made his way to the Great Hall. If anyone were about, they would be there. But the Hall was empty. His father must be in his own chambers. Where should he look next? He could go to Indis' chambers, but he did not think she would be there. Perhaps she would be with his father. He started to walk back to the Citadel when he noticed activity by the Sixth Gate. Soldiers milled around. As he walked up, they immediately stopped talking. No one hailed him, and he began to be frightened. No small thing had occurred if the men were so quiet. He smiled anyhow and asked for Indis. One of the men pointed through the Gate and said she was in the Houses. Boromir thanked him and walked down the path. Silence lay at his back. The hairs on the back of his neck started to stand up. 'What has happened?' his little mind asked.

An assistant at the door stopped him. "You are too young to enter the Houses without an adult, my Lord Boromir. You know that."

"I must see my amma, the Lady Indis. Would you please tell her I am out here waiting?"

"I will. Sit on the bench and I will bring her if I can." He turned and went into the building.

Boromir sat, his legs still too short to touch the ground, so he swung them back and forth, clutching and unclutching his little horn as his father did with his sword.

Indis came and sat next to him. She remained silent so he said naught. After what seemed an age to him, he started to fidget. She turned towards him, picked him up, and placed him upon her lap. Now he was really frightened. He had not sat on anyone's lap since he was seven. He started to cry.

"Oh," Indis cried, "I am so sorry. Your father has told you the news," she assumed from his tears. "Your mother was a great lady, dearest Boromir, and I loved her as much as you did. We will all miss her greatly." Indis tears joined with Boromir, who sat, stricken.

What was his amma saying? Why would Indis miss his mother? He sat bolt upright, taking her hands from around his waist. "What are you saying? What has happened to my mother? She will not return? Why? Why? Is she angry with me? Have I done something wrong?" His voice rose. He tried to jump out of her lap, but she realized her mistake and held him close.

"Oh, dearest Boromir. I am so sorry. I thought you cried because your father had told you. Oh, Boromir, Boromir." She could not speak but the child was furious.

"What has happened to my mother?" he screamed. "What has not my father told me? Tell me!" he screamed even louder, "Tell me!"

"Thy mother is dead, Boromir. She was most ill. Thou knewest that. She died on the way to Dol Amroth. She wilt be buried in the tombs of her fathers."

The lad sat in silence, his mouth moving, but no words came forth. The tears had stopped. His mind could not fathom what she was telling him. "My mother is not dead," he said quietly. "Father sent her to the sea to heal her. She will return soon. She promised," he said pragmatically. "Nana always keeps her promises."

"She would if she could, Boromir, but she cannot keep this one. The sickness o'ertook her and she will not return. I am so sorry, little one."

"Yes," Indis sighed. "We will both go to your father." She placed him on the walk, took his hand, and started towards the gate.

Denethor sat at his desk, fingering the leaves etched into it, remembering Thengel.

He had returned from Edoras for a visit; it was the year that Finduilas had come to Minas Tirith for the state party. They sat in this very study, and Thengel had laughed at Denethor's desk.

"You cannot use that desk as Steward's Heir. Let us go to the Drúadan Forest. We will harvest a great oak and make you a desk and chair befitting a Steward. What say you to that?"

And so they had gone, found a tree that Thengel thought worthy and brought it back to Minas Tirith with them. For weeks they labored on it. It was an excuse for Thengel to stay a little longer in the City he loved. Morwen, too, had been happy for the extension of their visit. It gave her the opportunity to rekindle the friendship of the four sisters. It had been a glorious time. The desk and chair were more magnificent than he had thought possible. At last, the time to part came. It seemed harder than ever to say farewell to his friend. But Thengel was gone now.

He heard a commotion at the door. Sighing he stood and walked forward. He did not want to be disturbed.

"Ada!" he heard the young voice scream. Fearful as to what might have happened to occasion such a scream, he reached the door and flung it open. In front of him stood Boromir and Indis. Indis had tears streaming down her face, but Boromir's was red with fury. "Ada!" Boromir screamed again. "Indis has lied to me. Tell her she is wrong. Tell her, Ada!" Denethor knelt down and Boromir beat his chest with his little hands. Denethor took them into his own, held them tight, and looked into Boromir's eyes.

Indis eyes beseeched him for forgiveness. Denethor immediately knew what had happened. 'By all the stars, I had not wanted this moment to come so soon,' he thought. He knelt in front of his son. "Boromir. Indis has never lied to you. Apologize to her."

"Yes, my son. She tells the truth. Thy mother is dead. She hast joined thy adadhron. She wilt not return." He held his tears at bay. "We must be strong, now, Boromir, strong for Gondor. Our duty bids us to set aside mourning. Wilt thou be strong, my son? Wilt thou help me for Gondor?"

Boromir's tears fell. Struggling, he said, "Ada. I want to be strong." Sobs racked his little body. "I wilt be strong. I promise, but not now, Ada, please not now." He wrapped his arms around his father's throat and clung to him.

Denethor sat on the cold marble floor, holding tight to the lad. "All right, Boromir. We wilt wait a bit before we are strong."

NOTES: *My apologies for the language used... see Tolkien's notes below... regarding the familiar form I use for Denethor, Finduilas and their children.... Forgive me if I am wrong, but it brings warmth to my heart to hear them speak thus. Also, I have researched the terms, leavest, thinkest, lovest, wilt, etc. These are all used as I have used them by Shakespeare in his works. I figured they might have spoken as those in Shakespeare's time.

So that at the time of the War of the Ring, the Elven-tongue was known to only a small part of the peoples of Gondor, and spoken daily by fewer. These dwelt mostly in Minas Tirith and the townlands adjacent, and in the land of the tributary princes of Dol Amroth.

(The Rohirrim) They still spoke their ancestral tongue .... But the lords of that people used the Common Speech freely, and spoke it nobly after the manner of their allies in Gondor; for in Gondor whence it came the Westron kept still a more gracious and antique style

The Westron tongue made in the pronouns of the second person (and often also in those of the third) a distinction, independent of number, between 'familiar' and 'deferential' forms.... This was one of the things referred to when people of Gondor spoke of the strangeness of Hobbit-speech. Peregrin Took, for instance in his first few days in Minas Tirith used the familiar forms to people of all ranks, including the Lord Denethor himself. This may have amused the aged Steward, but it must have astonished his servants. No doubt this free use of the familiar forms helped to spread the popular rumor that Peregrin was a person of very high rank in his own country

A/N: This chapter was written from a deep-seated belief that I am unable to change or help a person who has chosen to die. I can do everything in my power to try to help them, from prayer to forcing them to seek counsel, to personally attacking them, to whining, to tears, to separation, to loving them. I can do everything - but they must chose to live. Someone near and dear to me chose not to live. I have lived through the description of the tears and the odd questions that surface in the midst of despair and heartache and death.

I ran from writing this part of 2988 because of this. But standing upon the rocks of New Zealand, with my dear friends Indis and Elentari above a seashore that could have been Dol Amroth, Denethor cried out to me - write of her death, tell of my sorrow, speak my pain. And so, after three days of tears in the midst of the beauty of that island, I wrote of Finduilas' death. May Eru be praised that I was able to write it. Amdir's death just happened. One morning, I woke up and knew he had to die. Sometimes, I hate my muse.

Morgul-knife is what Tolkien calls the weapon, not Morgul-blade as PJ uses in the movie.

'Who betrayed whom?' he thought. His heart ached more fiercely now than it had done then, though the sharp pain, the pain as of a dagger in his heart, had left him. Now, it was an ever-shuddering, constant flailing in his body. 'Did I betray her? Was I not the man she needed?' Tears fell again. As always. When away from prying eyes, when a moment came when he should have peace, he had pain and tears. 'So I am the cause of everything? He shook his head. He would not indulge in self-recriminations. These were the times when Amdir would come and make him smile. Another pain. Another loss.

'Did she betray me? She came into my heart, forced her way in even when a child, and then she left it.' He ran his hand over the oaken desk, the cool feel of the wood assuaging some of the pain. Too many times, of late, he would find himself looking at nothing, his mind a blank. And he would have to force himself to think again. To look to Gondor's defenses... His heart recoiled at the thought. 'Gondor's defenses,' he wanted to scream. 'What about my defenses? How am I to guard myself from these thoughts, these feelings? How am I to go on?'

They had failed each other. In some way, unknown to him, they had failed. His father had been right. Yet it was Gondor that Ecthelion had feared for, not his own son. The pain would not go away.

Berelach knocked twice, entering when he had no reply. "The Council stands ready for you, my Lord." He bowed and left.

He found the lad on the steps by Finduilas' garden looking out into the sunshine. "Faramir," he called softly. The boy turned. No expression crossed his face and Denethor sobbed inside. He sat down next to him. "What art thou doing?"

He sat with his huge hands folded on his lap. Looking down at them, he wondered if they would ever again hold anything as precious as Finduilas? This son was precious to her. Precious to him. He had tried, this whole last year, to decide what he would do with the lad. Boromir would be in training soon, but Faramir? What was he to do with Faramir? He could no longer tolerate the blank, pinched face that looked out upon the garden. The child seemed to have withered and died inside. Firieth would have known how to help him. He could not treat him as his own father had done. He could not force him to grow up. He was only six. Bending forward, he took the boy in his arms and placed him on his lap. "Shall I wait with thee, ion nîn?"

Faramir looked up in surprise. His chin quivered. Huge tears filled his eyes. "Ada," the boy wailed and flung his arms about his neck.

Denethor's sobs shook his own body. Great gulping sobs held back for so long. 'Oh by the Valar, I cannot do this alone,' he thought. "Ion nîn, ion nîn," he whispered.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Boromir stood behind him. He made room on his lap and Boromir sat. He did not cry. Stroking his brother's cheek, he leaned heavily against Denethor.

They sat there until the sun set, and warmth left them. Someone had come into her chambers and lit the sconces on the walls. A fire had been started and the crackle of the kindling sounded. He stood Boromir up and then stood himself, still holding Faramir in his arms. He led Boromir to the fireplace and sat on the settle in front of it. Faramir fell asleep.

"We wilt not lose him as we did Nana?"

"Nay, Boromir. Do not dwell there. Nana was sick. Faramir is not. He wilt heal from this heart wound. Someday." He looked long at his eldest. "As wilt thee and me."

"My Lord," Indis said, "I dismissed the Council, though they were not pleased. Are you well?"

"Yes. But Faramir is not, Indis. Is it right that a boy should grieve so for his mother?" His brow furrowed as he questioned her.

"And he sat with her. And when she became too ill and tired to read to him, he read to her, and sang her songs, and nuzzled next to her, giving her comfort."

"Are you saying I did none of these things?" he asked, his cheeks hot with shame.

"Nay. I am saying he spent long hours with Finduilas. He did not need childish games, nor constant prattling, nor trips to the market to love his mother. He needed her presence and she gave it to him fully. He spent too much time with her, for his sake, but for her sake it was a blessing."

"I see what you mean." He groaned, "I cannot give him that time. I could not give it to her, else I relinquish my title and give it to someone else; let them govern Gondor while I care for my son. Is that what I am to do?"

He sat for another moment, the fire fading quickly. "He is so thin. He still does not talk. Rarely. I remember being concerned and Finduilas laughing at my concern." He saw them sitting on this very settle, speaking of their youngest.

Boromir sat on the floor in front of the fireplace. The boy had a great book laid out upon his knees. Faramir sat close beside him, peering at the illustrations as Boromir pointed to and named each of the Stewards, sometimes turning the pages too quickly for Faramir. Now and again, Faramir would make a sound that only he and Boromir could understand; then Boromir would slow the turning of the pages.

"Methinks it is because Boromir speaks too much. There is not time for him to find an opening," Finduilas laughed.

She looked at him in horror. "I canst not separate them. They are as twins, joined at the hip."

"Mayhap my father had been right in strengthening me as a child, separating me from my sisters so that I might rely upon myself. And what will happen when Boromir must leave to defend Gondor? Who will speak for Faramir then?"

"They are but children, Denethor. The foundation of their love and respect must be laid now."

Indis' hand on his arm brought him back to the present. "She had great wisdom, Indis. I have none."

"Do not say that, Denethor. The City, your people, consider you wise. With your sons, you will have to learn wisdom the way you learned wisdom for your people. You will not fail your sons, my dearest brother. They know you love them, and that is more important than anything. Do not forget that."

He held her close. "Without you, gentle sister, I would be dead now. I would have walked into the Anduin and never come out of it." He shrugged. "You will not leave me, will you?"

How could she answer such a question? Her heart spoke for her. "If it be within my power, Denethor, I wilt not leave thee."

He pulled away from her. "Please." He stammered. "I... I would ask you not to speak that tongue again."

"Very well, Denethor. But will you deprive your sons of their heritage? Of the comfort of Sindarin and what it means to them? I think you would be foolhardy. They speak it fluently."

"For a little while, I will allow it. But I will ease them out of its use, if I am able. It speaks only pain to me. I will hold another Council tomorrow," he said, changing the subject. "Please send announcements to the members. Now, if you will excuse me. I am tired and would to bed." He kissed her lightly on the cheek and went to Ecthelion's chamber. He had moved in shortly after she had died. Too many memories in their own chambers.

"How strange that I should end up here, like my father before me, in a widower's chamber, bereft of all I hold dear." He drew in a ragged breath and fell onto the bed, not even removing his boots.

An hour later, his manservant came in, removed his boots and covered him with a duck down blanket.

He heard the cries in the night and ran to his brother's room. Faramir was sitting up in bed; his nanny was nowhere to be seen.

Boromir held him close. "So do I, little brother, so do I. But I am here for thee. Dost that not comfort thee?"

Faramir tried to stop crying, but Boromir was not enough. "I want Nana," he sobbed again.

Boromir stroked his hair, tangling his fingers in the tear-soaked strands. He did not know what to say. "Shalt I bring Ada here?"

"Ada, Faramir, it is Ada. Thou canst not be affrighted of him! He loves thee very much."

"He looks at me strangely, sometimes."

"Thou hast the look of Nana, Faramir. It must hurt him sometimes."

"I do not want to hurt him, Boromir." The boy's eyes widened. "Dost I hurt thee?"

"Nay, nay! Ada knows that, too. Thou art being silly, for there is naught thou canst do." He took his little brother's face in his hands. "Thou must not be affrighted by Ada. Thou must not think Ada dost not love thee. Do not take Ada's sadness upon thee. It is not thy fault. Dost thou understand this?"

"Very well. Remember, if thou wouldst call, I wouldst answer thee," Boromir whispered as he put Faramir to bed. "I am near; I stand betwixt thee and thy fears. Losto vae. Oltho vae." He kissed him warmly, walked to their mother's chair by the fire, and sat. In a very short time, his own little head fell in sleep.

The horn sounded and Denethor looked up in surprise. The call told of a delegation from Dol Amroth. He hurried to the window and looked out. Far below, he could see the banners unfurling in the wind. It looked to be a Swan. There had been no missive received. He had not summoned anyone. He walked to the Great Hall. Whoever it was would be shown to him.

Tears were in his sister's eyes, but Denethor's heart quailed at the thought of meeting her once again. He had failed Amdir, failed to protect him, and now Amdir was dead. She would not forgive him for this. He bowed his head in consternation.

Indis would not let him suffer. She knew what his thoughts were and spoke. "Your friend's wife is here to visit her husband's tomb, Denethor. We must welcome her. Do you not remember, brother, her tender care of Finduilas? Would you let her enter, unwelcome?"

"Nay! Of course not. She will always be welcome. Berelach," his aide stood behind him, as always. "Send to the cook and have him prepare a feast for this evening. And find the chambermaid and tell her to prepare a room, near to Indis' own. I think she would prefer that and not her old chambers." Berelach turned to leave. Denethor stopped him. "Nay. Amdir was your friend too. Give the orders to another and return here immediately." Berelach smiled and left.

Horns sounded in the Courtyard of the White Tree. Denethor drew a breath, prepared to wait, but the thought of his old friend burned his heart, so he stood up and strode quickly to the door. Indis followed in joy. He ran out the door and down the steps just as she was coming up them. "Listöwel," he cried and hugged her tightly. "Listöwel, forgive me. I should have come to you. I should have sent for you..." He could not speak.

"Nay, my Lord and friend. I could not come myself. I know your grief as you know mine." Her throat constricted as she felt the warmth of his arms around her. Too long had it been since she had felt such warmth, such a loving, tender embrace. Her tears fell as she hid her face in his inviting, black robe. "Forgive these tears, my Lord."

"I will not forgive them; I will add mine to them. You were sorely missed, Listöwel. The whole of Gondor rejoices in your return. Are you...?" He did not know how to ask. He let his arms drop.

"I have returned for good, my Lord. I could not stay away. Though Dol Amroth was my home from childhood, it long ago ceased to be such. My heart is here, by my husband's tomb. With my friends," she smiled at Indis, "and with your sons. I should have returned earlier." She turned towards Indis. "My dearest sister-friend," she cried, "too long has it been. I have so missed you. How are you? And Firieth? Where is Firieth, with Boromir and Faramir?"

Indis started. Pulling back from her friend's embrace, she replied, "Listöwel, Firieth passed before Finduilas. Do you not remember?"

Listöwel sighed in confusion. "I... I have forgotten many things this past year. My mind seemed to lay in a fog for sometime."

"Oh, Listöwel. I understand. You will grow strong again. You will come with me to our practice room and we will swing our swords again. I have missed my battle companion." She smiled. "It is most good to have you home again."

Listöwel turned towards Denethor. "My Lord. Who watches the children? Who cares for your sons? Did Firieth's daughter, Ioreth, take her position?"

"You do not know the woman who now is their nanny. She has been a trial and a nuisance. She does not love my sons. I have been at my wit's end as to what to do."

"Then put thy mind to rest," Listöwel slipped into Sindarin. "I wilt be thy sons nanny. I love them as if they wert my own."

Denethor's face crumbled at the sound. Speaking in Westron he accepted her offer. "My heart will be at rest with you as Faramir's nanny, Listöwel. Boromir begins his training next year. He does not need a nanny, but he will need a friend. I thank you for your kind offer and I find I am obliged to accept it. You have been a faithful friend to Finduilas; now, even in her death, you serve her."

It was opportune that Listöwel had returned when she did for Elleth was near to death. The two friends spent many hours together sitting at Elleth's bedside. The Houses of Healing felt cold to Indis. They had stopped coming, to her own shame, after Finduilas passed. The soldiers forgotten. How could she have done this? They too needed surcease from pain and thoughts of battle. She would return to her duties here once Elleth... 'Oh!' The thought took her breath away. 'Twould be so hateful to lose this friend, her comrade-in-arms, her sister. Tears fell. Elleth smiled weakly.

"There is naught to cry for, my sister," she whispered. "My life has been good and has had purpose to it. I lacked for naught; neither love, nor friendship, nor son..." At this, her voice broke.

Listöwel's sobs grew louder. "Yes, you could have had a grandchild. I have failed my duty as wife and as daughter to you."

Indis held her friend close. Elleth whispered, "Nay, my dearest daughter and sister-friend, 'twas not your fault that the Valar kept you from bearing a child. I cannot blame you for anything. You are dear to me." She looked away for a moment. "Dearest Amdir. I have missed him so. I cannot go to his tomb. It brings anger to my heart knowing he was lost so needlessly."

"Needless were not his actions, Elleth, nor his death." Indis admonished her gently. "Amdir gave his life for good cause. His name will be sung in the Great Hall for ages to come. A brave and valiant warrior of Gondor. A beloved friend." Her own tears fell.

"Would that I could have held him one more time," Elleth sobbed. "To hear his voice, to run my finger down his cheek, wipe away his tears, know his laughter. My heart cannot bear this separation."

"You are still needed here," Indis cried. "Please, dearest sister-friend, do not leave us. Your sword is needed. Your sewing skills. Your tea parties."

Ingold entered the room and they parted for him. He nodded his head towards them and walked to her side. The women quickly moved forward, hugged Elleth and left them alone.

He sat and gently pulled her to him. "My love, will you not avail yourself of the healing offered in this place? And then come home with me?" He wiped the tears from her eyes. "I too miss Amdir, but he died a soldier's death. One that any would wish for. Saving his Lord and Steward. Saving his friend. Could you not let him make this sacrifice without giving your own?" His jaw tightened. "Come home with me, my own."

He walked out of the Council chambers shaking his head. They had broken for nuncheon. He would not call the Council back after the meal. They would never learn. He had proposed; they had declined. He felt the burden that Ecthelion must have felt. He would not let this happen. His Stewardship would not fail. His heart started pulsing as he walked up the stairs. The White Wizard had come to help bury Ecthelion. But Ecthelion's own preferred wizard did not come. The smile on Denethor's face was grim. Much as he hated Curunír, he hated Mithrandir more. So it was with some pleasure that he noted that wizard's absence. He had found it strange that the locking spell on the lower level of the Great Library had been lifted after Mithrandir had visited the Library. After the Grey Wizard left, Denethor had availed himself of the books from that level. Some in Quenya he had given to his translators. During this past year, they had barely touched a small portion of the tomes in that part of the edifice. He exhorted them to hurry their work. Upon his father's death, he had gone to every room, tower, and cellar that had a key on the Warden's chain. He knew about it from legends he had read as a child, but thought it was only that, a legend. He was a fool. He had to open his eyes to all things. Nothing deemed just a legend would be considered as such. It would be given careful thought and research. But then, Curunír had showed him the globe. Or a vision of the globe. He was never entirely sure.

Unlocking the door, he stepped into the high chamber. He had used it once before, immediately after Ecthelion had passed, but the fear he had felt had been too strong. It fed on his grief. Now, he was stronger. He would use it, for was he not of the line of Anárion? And was not this the Stone of Minas Tirith, the Palantír of Anárion?

Listöwel had come to Minas Tirith as Morwen's handmaiden. Remembering how she had admired, even envied, the friendship of the women about her, she had soon found that she was part of that friendship. Now, there was only Indis and herself left. Finduilas, Elleth and 'Wen were gone. Morwen, along with their mentor, Eledhwen, was in Edoras. She recalled with a smile how flustered Morwen had been when the call had come for Thengel to return to the Mark and be crowned king. Unlike Finduilas, she had loved the White City, her husband had been content, and their children had thrived.

Listöwel sat and listened as Indis read the letter from their beloved sister-friend. Edoras had been in an uproar of late, Morwen wrote. It seemed love was in the air; many of her friends were beginning the troth pledge. Théoden was officiating at ceremony after ceremony and joy filled Rohan. She told of the abundance of foals that came in the spring and rejoiced at the news that Théoden planned on giving one of the best of the lot to Boromir for his twelfth birth day. For herself, she often rode out with Eledhwen, who had become her handmaiden. Loath had been Listöwel to leave Gondor, though Morwen had never even thought to ask her; Amdir would not even consider it. However, Eledhwen was more than happy to take on the added duties. They were still practicing their sword fighting, Morwen wrote, though Théoden had forbidden his mother to join any more patrols. Indis and Listöwel howled with laughter as Morwen wrote of the failed attempt to circumvent his orders and the disastrous tongue-lashing she had received from her king-son.

Sitting back with a sigh, Listöwel said, "'Tis good to hear from her again and look to fond memories."

"Yes, she sounds well. How she must chafe against her orders - for 'The Steelsheen' not to partake in any sorties! I would not want to be Théoden. He must have an earful from her everyday!" Indis laughed. "We well could have used her sword in Emyn Arnen. She wielded it as well as, or better, than many a man in the Company"

Listöwel blanched at the name. Indis' eyes widened. "Oh my dearest sister. I am so sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. I... the battle was hard. When I saw you fall, I thought I would die myself. I remember at the time how I had wished she were with us. Please, oh please, dearest friend, forgive me! I am a fool."

Through tears, Listöwel said, "I love her letters," effectively stopping Indis' words. "It is almost as if we were together again."

Indis turned from her friend and sobbed. Emyn Arnen, such a beautiful place; she remembered it well. Heavily wooded, peaceful, herb-scented - yet full of hideous memories. It was Emyn Arnen where they had been attacked by Orcs before they found the mutilated body of 'Wen. It was Emyn Arnen where they had almost lost Denethor and Amdir in the fiery remains of the Rangers' home. It was Emyn Arnen that Amdir was returning from when he was killed by Orcs.

Listöwel sat still for a moment. Then she turned towards Indis and caught her in a fierce hug. "I love you, dearest sister. Naught you could ever say would tear us apart. Forgive my weakness."

"Nay," Indis cried. "You were not here. You were denied the right to grieve at your husband's deathbed. Have you been to his tomb yet?"

"Well, of course you could not. What sensible person would want to go alone to Rath Dínen? Come, my friend, I will go with you now."

"Yes. Right now." She put the unfinished letter aside and led her friend out the door.

He flew down the stairs as if all the minions of Morgoth were behind him. "Berelach!" he bellowed as he entered the Courtyard of the White Tree, "Berelach!" and all looked upon him in amaze.

"Send a missive to Captain Amlach in Osgiliath. Tell him a sortie of Orcs is approaching the Crossroads." He lowered his voice. "Tell him Captain Ingold has forded the Anduin north of the city. He must stop him. He must. I believe he is going to certain death, and is claiming it for himself. He has a fey look in his eye. He must be mad with Elleth's death. Grief has finally o'ercome him. Tell Amlach to take a battalion. The number of the enemy is large."

"My Lord, did an errand-rider come from Henneth Annûn or Osgiliath? How do you know this?"

"Never mind!" Denethor snapped. "Just do it. And tell the messenger to ride like the wind. Delay will be fatal."

Denethor took a deep, shuddering breath and walked the escarpment. He stood looking out towards Osgiliath, heart wrenching in pain and sorrow for his friend's father. The sun had begun its descent into the west and he found it difficult to see.

It had not been easy, looking into the stone. Black and empty it had seemed for nigh unto a half an hour. He had been ready to give up the attempt when a slight fogging roiled from its innermost depths. Throwing his shoulders back, he concentrated more fully. Slowly, lines and colors turned into blurred impressions, and then blurred impressions turned into images. Land lay before him, hilly and green. He could not discern where it was. Forcing himself to concentrate, he moved his eyes and the landscape moved with them. "Ah," a soft sigh escaped his lips. The river moved into sight. It was the Anduin. He cried aloud in recognition. But the cry tore his mind from the task and he lost sight of it. Furrowing his brow, he continued. There it lay before him again, swift flowing and clear. He could not look further. It was as if the stone had frozen in one place. 'Never the mind,' he thought, 'I will spend time looking at this sight; see if I may, perchance, see clearer, with more detail.' As he looked, the Dome of Stars appeared before him, broken and crumbled into dusty ruins. His mouth lifted in a small smile. He could see the steps rising to it. Then, he saw the Tower of Stone of Osgiliath. Excitement filled him as he drew closer and closer to the scene before him.

Suddenly, movement on the Pelennor caught his eye, for it was indeed the Pelennor that now commanded his attention. He spied a small blur rushing towards Osgiliath. Putting all his might into forcing the stone to show him what he wanted to see, he focused on the spot. It was a rider dressed in the livery of Gondor. 'I must see who it is, who rushes so swiftly towards Osgiliath.' By now, his head hurt and his eyes burnt, but he could not stop, not without knowing what was happening. As the stone bore down upon the figure, he drew in his breath. It was Ingold. He pushed further and caught sight of the captain's face. Fell and harsh was it. He shivered. The man veered to the north after passing the gate. He was not going to Osgiliath. Denethor watched in horror as the man drew close to the western shore of the river, then began to cross it. The current was strong there; Denethor knew it well. The man would never be able to traverse it. Yet, Ingold turned his horse into the running water. The horse struggled, then started to swim. After what seemed hours, his mount reached the other side. Denethor wanted to pull away, send for help, but the stone called him deeper. As he watched, the scene changed to Ithilien. It was easy enough to determine it was Ithilien for he noted the Crossroads lying before him. As he watched, a large band of Orcs came into sight. They walked as if they owned the road. His anger flared. He tried to count them, but there were too many. They swaggered down the road, if swagger one could call their hideous walk. Swords and terrible weapons were clutched tight. Armor covered them. As the stone drew closer to the band, Denethor noted that some of the foul creatures had the White Tree emblazoned upon their chests. He choked as he realized they wore garments of his own men, Knights of Gondor. They had stripped their victims of their livery and wore it in mockery. Denethor's anger flamed so that the stone began to turn red. His breathing came in hitched gasps. He dropped the stone onto its resting place and reeled backwards, catching himself upon the wall. Sliding down, he lost all thought. When he came to, the startled remembrance forced him to his feet. He had to save his friend's father!

"Your presence was sorely missed," Indis said, once they returned from the grave.

"Boromir and Faramir thrive under your care. Faramir even speaks more often, much to Denethor's delight."

Listöwel blushed at the compliment. "Finduilas laid a strong foundation. Never have I seen brothers so dedicated to each other." Her heavy sigh stopped Indis' reply.

She waited, but Listöwel did not speak further. Finally she leaned forward, putting her hand on her friend's knee. When Listöwel looked up, she asked, "What concerns you so deeply?"

"Boromir will be made esquire in just three months. He will move to the barracks to live with his Company." She stood and walked to the fireplace. "I do not know how Faramir will fare with this separation. I wish Denethor would wait a year or two."

Indis stood and walked to her side. "I understand your concerns. They are not unfounded. Denethor was made esquire when he was but seven years old. I am grateful he has not continued that tradition."

Listöwel smiled. "He has not continued many traditions. None of the coming of age ceremonies has been performed for Boromir."

"Well I know it and I have wondered. But, as punishment, Ecthelion withheld many of Denethor's ceremonies. I think he has not continued them because of that. They hold a sour taste in his mouth. There will, however, be a grand ceremony when Boromir comes of age and is made an Esquire of Gondor. I have even begun some of the planning."

Indis laughed. "Of course. But now, I must return to the Houses. Please stop by this evening for supper. I miss you and so does Arciryas."

Listöwel herself laughed. "Once the boys are bedded, I will come. I will only stay for a short while though; Faramir still suffers from nightmares. Too often I find Boromir asleep on the chair by his bed. It breaks my heart."

Indis hugged her tightly. "Soon, with your love and care, Faramir will be healed of these." She took the letter with her as she left the nursery. "We will finish this when you come for supper," she laughed as she waved it over her head.

Those who had witnessed the incident wondered. Rumor spread quickly throughout the City that Denethor had indeed been endowed with the Númenórean gift of foresight. He gave scarce attention to it. He walked into the White Tower and sat heavily in the Steward's Chair. There was naught further he could do. Closing his eyes to the brightness of the torches, he waited.

His mind returned to Osgiliath. After his father had passed, he had striven to prepare Gondor for the fell time that he saw lying ahead. He had called upon his old friends, Dúinhir of Blackroot Vale, Angbor of Lamedon, Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, Baranor of Lossarnach, Hirluin of the Green Hills, and Éomund of Rohan. Denethor had used his time wisely, whilst they remained in the City in the days following the funeral rites, and had taken each aside. He knew their weaknesses and strengths and played upon them, as his father had taught him. He grimaced at the thought, but necessity ruled. They had answered his call and come, with men, to support Denethor's attempt to reclaim Osgiliath. They had been successful, though many brave men had died. The garrison of East Osgiliath was now firmly in Gondor's hands under the captaincy of Húrin, while Amlach captained West Osgiliath. Denethor had vowed he would not lose it again. The bridge had been rebuilt, though not nearly as well as the bridge of his ancestors, but it served its purpose - to keep both sides of the city connected, and to aid with troop movement and supplies. Denethor had placed blinds along the road, with seasoned troops hidden within. Blinds had also been placed in the trees of Emyn Arnen. Nowhere could one wander in that part of Ithilien without being seen. Orcs had not dared to attack, once a few bands of them had been surprised and riddled by his archers' arrows and his knights' swords.

Though he knew his men would be able to destroy the Orc band that was trying to slither through Ithilien, his concern was more for his friend's father. What fey mood had taken Ingold? What had possessed him to enter Ithilien alone? He had known grief himself, yet he could not understand this. He stood and strode up and down the hall. Should he look into the stone again? Nay, the warning had been given; his men were doing what they could. He walked to the door and opened it. Night had fallen; the Orcs would be emboldened.

He remembered Amdir at his side, standing upon the bridge, smiling. 'We shall look for that field of irises one day,' his friend had said. Though now they never would. He must save Ingold - if for naught more than for the memory of his friend. But Ingold had been more than friend's father; he had been his captain long ago, and also his friend. He remembered the night he had encountered the wizard. How his heart and flesh had turned to water. In the midst of it, Ingold had hugged him with fierce friendship, chiding Denethor for his reserve. The closeness of the man in that moment eased the fear that had all but taken Denethor. And now that man was riding to his death. He raced up the stairs, unlocked the door and strode into the room.

"When? When?" Listöwel peppered her with questions. "Are we invited? Is there time to find a proper present? Who? Who?"

Indis hugged her friend. "Stop it now, Listöwel, you are making me laugh! She is marrying Eo... Oh, what is his name? Those Rohirrim; they insist on putting Eo on the beginning of all their names, even the women! Éomund!"

"Are not all the Rohirrim tall, handsome men? I love their hair." Listöwel blushed.

"You may go on preferring them; I will look to the west." Listöwel smiled broadly. "And you will look to the east - to a certain healer, no doubt?" She hugged her friend. It was good to laugh again, to think of men with joy and not sorrow.

But sorrow ever dwelt in Gondor. Listöwel dressed in black now, for Ingold, her husband's father, had died. The men of Osgiliath had arrived too late; the man had ridden hard and encountered the Orcs alone. His sword had been found at his side, broken in two. The Orcs, of course, were hunted down and destroyed. But little comfort did Gondor take from that.

As Captain of the Armies, Ingold would be laid in one of the great houses in Rath Dínen. Denethor stood by his side, in the Great Hall, and wept. The Hall was dark, lit only by a few braziers. He mourned alone. None were allowed into the Hall as of yet. Dimly, he remembered something from his past. As he stood, hand upon the shoulder of his dead captain and friend, the memory returned. His father had stood just so, with his hand upon the shoulder of Cranthir, his mother's brother, as he lay broken and dead. Denethor had come into the Hall that dark night, led there by Indis, and his father and he were reconciled. Death could serve a purpose, but this night he found no such purpose. Black were his thoughts. 'What good is the stone if too late comes its warning!' He vowed, upon Ingold's dead body, that he would learn to more effectively wield the stone. He would spend time studying it, holding it, delving into it until he learnt all its secrets. Then he could protect Gondor and his people.

They found Edoras crowded, cold and dusty. The winter rain and snow had yet to arrive, hence the dirt flew in the heady north winds, blinding and gagging them. The only respite came when they were inside, but the smoke from the fires, stoked high to relieve the chill, was almost as choking as the dust outside. Couple that with the number of people overstuffed into Meduseld itself for the actual ceremony, and Indis was not surprised at the feeling of ill health that assailed her.

The boys, however, were in their glory. The past two month's holiday in the Mark had rejuvenated them. Faramir was eating well and, at times, it was nigh unto impossible to keep him quiet. Denethor had stared, wide-eyed, when, innocently enough asking Faramir what his horse's name was, the boy had launched into a blow-by-blow description of the horse, its coloring, temperament, favorite foods, and anything else that the lad could think of. Denethor had been standing when he asked the question; by the time Faramir had stopped for a breath, he had been seated near half an hour. The smile on his face cracked wide in surprise and joy. For the rest of that day, the smile never left Denethor's face.

The ceremony, what Indis could see of it, was beautiful. Théoden's favorite sister was bedecked in the most colorful of gowns. A silver and gold circlet lay upon her long, golden hair; her cheeks were flushed with happiness; she stood silently beside Éomund. Indis remembered the friendship betwixt the House of Húrin and Eorl and rejoiced. Théoden King passed the wedding cup to them; they drank, and then the hall erupted into a cacophony of noise; horns were blown, glasses were raised, great cries rose to the ceiling as the revelers pushed and shoved each other aside to hug and kiss the fair bride, and cuff and jostle the groom.

The light-heartedness of the assemblage flowed over Denethor in welcome waves, wafting fear and sorrow from him. 'No wonder Faramir is healing,' he thought. 'How could one not with such camaraderie?' He took his cup and clinked it against Théoden's. "'Tis a good day for Rohan," he smiled.

Théoden blinked tears too near for comfort. "They act as if they thought this would never happen. Is not this the way of life; that one marries?"

"In Gondor, men usually marry much later. Though I am finding it is a good thing to marry young." A small pain touched his mind, but he pushed it aside.

Théoden grasped his shoulder, squeezing it tightly. Both men knew the loss that shadowed their hearts.

"Indeed. My sister has already outfitted their home, much to Éomund's chagrin. He has been accustomed to living in stark, soldier's quarters. There are drapes on the windows. Drapes!" Théoden chuckled and nudged Denethor. "If you want to see the man sputter, mention the drapes." He broke into laughter.

Denethor howled along with him. "I will be certain to ask." He grew serious for a moment. "How long have you known of their love?"

"I knew the first time I met him." He paused remembering the campfire, the songs, and the innocent young soldier inquiring about a certain Rohirric woman. "It was the year we first renewed our trade agreement. You were on your way to Minas Tirith for my own wedding. I was in his camp. He wondered aloud if Théodwyn was with your company. The look on his face told all."

Théoden smiled. "The next time you discern something of such import to your friends in the Mark, I hope you impart that knowledge in a more timely manner," he said gently.

Denethor accepted the rebuke with crimson face. "My friend, I stand chastised. You are correct. I will remember this in the future."

Théoden put his hand on his friend's shoulder again. "Come! Let naught stand betwixt us. A long time ago I gave you my pledge. I still hold to it. It is time now for friend's to celebrate!"

The morning dawned clear with the never-ending cold chilling him through the coverlets. As sleep left him, he realized two small bodies warmed his sides. He looked askance. He had not remembered them entering his chambers. Faramir's feet were freezing, but Boromir's breath blew warm on his face. His smile returned, though his head ached. Halfway through the night, the revelers had turned from drinking mead to something stronger. What concoction it was, Denethor had no thought, but it was potent, nonetheless. He vaguely remembered singing; thankfully, it had been in a group. If Amdir was there, he would have laughed. 'Shades of sorrow,' he thought. 'These thoughts come unbidden.' At that moment, Boromir stirred. Denethor smiled as the beloved gray eyes stared back at him.

"Thou didst not," he said as he kissed the lad on the forehead. "Too busy hast thou been to think of thy father." Denethor, still sleep lulled, slipped into Sindarin and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through his heart.

Faramir stirred, smiled at Denethor and hugged him tightly. "I am sorry, Ada."

"Ion nîn, Ada," Faramir gently reprimanded him. His eyes filled with tears. "Am I not thine ion nîn, Ada?"

Closing his eyes, Denethor took a deep breath. Mayhap, as Indis had said, it would be too hard on his sons to change their family's speech. "Thou art and always wilt be my ion nîn, Faramir. Thou art right to remind me."

"'Tis not a horse," Faramir almost burst with laughter. "'Tis a pony, Ada, and her name is Snowflake and I may ride her anytime I want. Wilt thou take us out today, Ada? Thou promised such last night."

"Ada," Faramir said patiently, "when we came into thy chambers last night, cold and affrighted and thou invited us to thy bed, thou promised us."

Denethor groaned quietly. 'I seem to remember vowing to Amdir that I would be careful in the amount of drink I took. Seems I have not learnt my lesson.' He turned to Faramir, took the little chin in his hand and kissed him gently. "Yes, Faramir. We wilt ride today, but thou must speak in the Common Tongue here. Théoden's people do not know our tongue and it would be impolite on our part. Get thee back to thy room and dress. We wilt meet in Théoden's hall, break our fast, and then ride out. Now, shoo!" and he pushed them lightly from the bed. The boys ran with speed, almost falling over themselves in their excitement, and Denethor had to stop himself from laughing aloud. His heart was peaceful here. Always, when he had dealings with the Rohirrim, some sense of peace and light-heartedness overcame him. He shook the feeling of laziness that would keep him to his bed, rose and quickly washed and dressed. No matter the speed with which he had prepared himself, his sons' speed was greater; they waited in the hall.

The Golden Hall shone this day with a light from the happy pair. They had spent many days secluded, and now had come forth for their first breaking of the fast as a couple. Théodwyn looked shy, her face brilliantly shining, but shy nonetheless. Éomund's face was nigh unto scarlet, but a smile was fixed upon that face and all laughed in joy that saw him.

Denethor frowned as he entered the hall; he had forgotten the day's festivities. Faramir would be disappointed. 'Nay, mayhap we may slip away ere the day is too far gone.' He walked to the king's table, gave a gracious bow to Théoden, then turned and kissed Théodwyn gently, lovingly. She accepted his token of friendship and then, bursting into tears, flung her arms about his shoulders. "Thou gavest good care to my Éomund whilst he was in Gondor. I thank thee from the bottom of my heart."

Her halting Sindarin touched his heart, and he smiled, gently extricating himself from her embrace. "Thy husband wast a great help to Gondor. I thank thee for allowing him to aid us against the Enemy." He quickly moved to Éomund's side and crushed him with a hug. "Your wife is beautiful and kind. It is I who am in your debt for your part in reclaiming Osgiliath. That is a gift beyond measure. I had not the time nor the wit to thank you then. I do so now and renew my pledge of Gondor's continued support in the Eastemnet. Mayhap we might spend some time, ere I leave, to discuss your plans for that part of the Mark?"

"I will try to make time, but," and here his face turned a deeper shade of red, "she is most demanding."

Denethor burst into laughter. "And well she should be. Forgive me for even requesting such a thing at this special time!" He again hugged his friend and walked to the banquet-laden tables. Just as he sat, a rush of wind blew past him and behold! Boromir and Faramir stood at his side.

"May we go now, Ada? I am not the least bit hungry!" Faramir entreated, tugging at Denethor's sleeve.

"What say you to that, Boromir? Will you miss your meal to accommodate your brother?"

Boromir's eyes looked longingly at the table. Denethor could almost see the saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth.

Denethor sat in stunned silence. Boromir's devotion knew no bounds. Having pity on him, Denethor said, "Faramir. I would take you out immediately, but my stomach grumbles. Would you wait a moment more, while I eat a little?"

Faramir's mouth opened into an 'o' and then closed. "Forgive me, Ada. Nanny said I was much too selfish." He sat quietly and pulled Boromir down next to him. Boromir immediately grabbed a plate, eating as he filled it.

When the meal was finished, Denethor looked about him. The guests were still in the midst of their festivities; he deemed they would be little missed if they left now. Motioning to the boys, he walked out of the hall into the bright sunlight. Stopping to blink, he almost fell as two little ones ran into his back. "If you knock me down, I will not be able to ride with you,' he laughed loudly. Some soldiers nearby looked towards him and smiled. The boys, having been in Edoras for the last two months, had won the heart of many a Rohir.

They walked to the stables, Faramir chattering all the time about Snowflake and what a wonderful pony she was. Denethor could not understand the radical change that had come over his son. Only last year, still hardly speaking unless spoken to; now, it was difficult not to tell him to stop!

'It has been too long,' Listöwel moaned to herself. Her sword arm was not near as strong as it had once been. How had she let herself become so weak?

Eledhwen laughed. "I am glad to see that you feel your lack. It shows wisdom. But not much. For it would seem it would have been wiser to have continued your practice after I left Minas Tirith. You did not need me as swordmaster. Denethor has many who would have sufficed. Your arm is as weak as a child's!"

"Do not chide her o'ermuch, Eledhwen. She only returned to the City this year; we only began practicing again a few months ago. Give us time. We will return to the warrior women you remember."

This time it was Eledhwen's turn to laugh. "Warrior women! I remember no such women. Even at your best, neither one of you hardly held the sword high enough, nor took cuts strong enough. Only my Morwen shone brightly."

"You are narrow-minded, sweet Swordmaster. Your allegiance is to the Lady of the Mark. We will forgive you," laughed Indis. "Now, stop your chiding and teach us. We would once again win your favor."

They practiced the entire morning and well into the afternoon. At last, Eledhwen stopped. "You are too tired to even lift your swords. I suppose you crave sustenance?" Her eyebrow arched in mock annoyance.

"Sustenance or no," Indis cried, "we have not the strength to hold our swords any longer, never the mind even trying to make a parry or a thrust. You are a hard taskmaster; I had forgotten."

"You have forgotten many things, but I will remind you." She smiled suddenly and the warmth of Rohan filled the chamber. "It is good to be amongst you again."

Morwen lowered her sword. Of the three, she was the least taxed by their practice. "Come. We will to the dining hall. I am sure there are wine, ale and mead to sate our thirsts. Also, a lamb was slaughtered this morning, and awaits our pleasure. Come, beloved sister-friends. I have waited for this moment since you arrived."

They returned their swords to their places, laved their faces in the bowl by the door, and walked together, arms wrapped around each other's waists, into the Golden Hall.

"With all the preparations for the troth-pledge, we have barely had a moment to speak," Morwen began. "Now that the guests are leaving, I would spend time with you. Mayhap we can embroider tonight. I have a garment I am making for Théodwyn and have reached an impasse. I know not what else to do. Listöwel, you learned much at Elleth's side, mayhap you will help me?"

"Faramir," he said as he threw the stone into the stream, "what didst thou mean when thou said thou wert selfish? Wast it Listöwel who told thee such?"

Faramir's eyes widened. "Nay, 'twas the angry one, the one who put her hands always on her hips and tapped her foot." Faramir threw his own stone into the stream. It skipped twice, but he hardly noticed. He had turned to Denethor, put his hands on his own hips, tapped his toe, and scowled, "You are always thinking of yourself, Faramir. You never think of how tired I might be."

Too shocked by the words to smile at the excellent impersonation, Denethor froze. Faramir, seeing his father's look, thought he had done something wrong. He started to stutter an apology when Denethor fell to his knees in front of him. "Ion nîn," he pulled the boy to his chest, hugging him fiercely. Then he turned towards Boromir, "Why didst thou not tell me?" he asked, trying to keep his anger and shame in check.

Tears sprang to Denethor's eyes. The utter trust he saw in his eldest moved him beyond words. He swallowed hard. "I do not, Boromir. None ever know everything." He paused for a moment, thinking hard. "Thou mayest help me, Boromir."

"Yes, thou must tell me how hard one must throw thy stone to make it skip across the water three times. And," he held Faramir at arm's length, "thou must forget this foolishness. Thy nanny wast mistaken. Thou art most giving. Listen to thy father, Faramir. It was thy loving thy Nana that made her smile in the morning, and the giving of thy time to read to her in the afternoons that caused her to sleep so peacefully at night, and the giving of thy love to me that gives me courage to face the day and all the Orcs of the Enemy. Dost thou understand this?"

Faramir's eyes had widened as Denethor spoke. "Yes, Ada," he whispered. Then his little face took on a look of consternation. "I give thee courage, Ada?"

"Yes. Thou givest me courage and thou makest my heart light. Thou art precious to me, ion nîn."

After he extricated himself from Faramir's arms, he led them to the raised lip of the dell they had walked down earlier. Under the shadow of a thicket of trees, he stopped. Faramir lay down next to him. Boromir sat on his other side.

"I have one question of you, Boromir," he said as he lay on the cool grass. He picked one of the Elven Crown blooms from the ground and put the end in his mouth, twirling the long-stem with his teeth as he lay back upon the ground. "Thou hast been most quiet these past months. I wouldst know why the change."

The gentle slap of the stream, hurrying over its rocky bed, was the only sound that disturbed the air. Denethor waited.

Silence still. Denethor picked up another flower and twirled it in his hand. The little crown that surrounded the seed pocket bobbed with the movement. He wondered indeed if it resembled an Elven crown.

"Ada, are there really Elves?" Faramir watched his father intently, seeming to read his mind. It startled Denethor.

'Sometimes it seems silly to train,' Indis thought. Morwen was strictly forbidden to go out on sorties, let alone go to battle, Listöwel definitely did not have the old fire that had once caused her to hatch the plot that had first started them on the path of warrior women, and she herself was care-worn and tired. Though their time here in Edoras was lovely, it was but a pause. Denethor now had full rein of Gondor and needed her more than ever. She had learned so much as she helped Ecthelion. Their father had woefully lacked in the training of Denethor. And poor Denethor was well aware of it. This time away would have to be brief and yet, she had already been here two months!

"Ever did your thoughts stray in Minas Tirith, Indis," Morwen laughed. "Still, they stray here. Will you not answer your sister-friend? Is this too plain?"

Indis laughed as Morwen held out an exquisite case for a pillow. "Too fancy for the plains of the Mark. Mayhap 'twould be better for her to keep it in her rooms here at Edoras."

Morwen blushed at the compliment. "Thank you. Now, I entreat you. What were you thinking of just now. Your forehead was furrowed."

Indis looked up and full into her friend's face. "I was thinking of how poorly Denethor was raised. Of the uphill battle he now has to govern Gondor. He is ill equipped for much more than waging war. At that, he is very good."

"Gondor needs a battle-hardened leader, Indis. Even here in the Mark, the forces of evil sally forth, attacking at will. We are hard-pressed to guard our own borders, let alone Gondor's."

"Well I know it. As does Denethor. He is most grateful for Théoden's allegiance."

Morwen sat back. "I did not mean to say aught against Gondor, Indis. I only consider the burdens that lie upon my son's back."

Indis had to laugh. "The same burdens that lie upon Denethor's. See, we are sisters in need also!"

"When I was younger, Faramir, my father took me to Dol Amroth and I met your adadhron. I was sleeping in my own room when I heard a sound; some small sound woke me. I still do not know what it was."

"Yes, I believe 'twas an Elf, but Faramir, Elves do not make noise. I do not know why I heard him, unless 'twas his will that I did. I looked towards the window and he stood on the sill, looking at me quietly. Then he smiled and slipped onto the balcony. I ran to try to speak with him, but he was gone. I do not know how he left the balcony. It was high up and the cliffs of the Bay dropped straight down. There was no balcony nor door to right nor left of my own. I still do not know where he went that night."

Boromir hid his mouth with his hand, trying to stave the laughter that tried to escape his lips.

Denethor smiled at the lad's discomfiture and thought how kind of him not to gloat nor tease his brother. "I do not think Elves fly, Faramir. I have never heard tell of one with wings."

Faramir liked the idea. "A fire-breathing dragon, Ada, with great black wings and a tiny head, and a saddle for the Elf. I can hear the wings now. Boromir, cannot you hear them beating?"

At that moment, a wind blew up and both boys looked in astonishment, not a little fear flickering across their faces.

Denethor shook his head. This was not where he wanted his tale to take them - to fear. "Nay, Faramir. Elves ride on eagles. I am sure of it. Great, swift eagles with a wingspan as wide as the tunnel is long at the Sixth Gate: fair and strong are they. I believe the eagles speak to the Elves. At least, that is what I was told as a child by your mother's mother. The Elves ride at the eagles' pleasure. Eagles are not beasts of burden, like the oxen of the Pelennor, but free." He smiled as their shoulders relaxed again. "Then, when I was older and had fallen in love with thy mother, I slept the night in her garden. She did not know it. I was afraid - "

"Boromir," Denethor laughed, "where didst thee get these ideas? I am a man. I have fears and..." He stopped. If the boy needed him to be fearless, then he would be fearless, at least for a time. "I didst not know if thy mother loved me, so I waited outside her window and hoped that she would look out. An Elf appeared from nowhere. He walked to my side, motioned for me to sit on one of the marble seats, and stood before me. I was a little afraid, Boromir, just a little. He was much taller than I and his hair was golden, but not the yellow of Théoden or Théodred; it shone brightly in the moonlight. His face was thin, but fair. I started to speak, but he put his finger over his mouth. I waited. He looked at me for a long time. I felt he delved into my very being, but said naught. Then, he turned and disappeared."

"Nay, he walked off into the night. But so quickly, I scarce saw where he went. So, Faramir, there are Elves. I have never seen one again."

The boy did not answer. Denethor remembered his original question. He pulled another Elven Crown from the ground and lay still. Though Denethor had kept the pace slow and gentle as they rode to the river, it was more than Faramir was accustomed to. Soon he was asleep.

The lad lay down beside his Adar. "I do not wish to answer it," he said shyly.

Denethor could not think of what to say. He was dumbfounded by Boromir's reticence. Something was clearly not right here. Yet what it was, he could not discover. He closed his eyes, hoping the child would relax and respond.

"Why dost thou ask?" Denethor asked, trying to imagine what prompted such a question.

"Thou said she made a mistake with Faramir. Mightn't she have made other mistakes?"

Denethor had never heard Boromir speak so quietly, nor so haltingly. "She didst not do what I wanted her to do. She made many mistakes. I was very happy when Listöwel returned, for I knew Listöwel wouldst care well for thee and Faramir." He looked towards Boromir and his heart constricted. Tears were streaming down his eldest's face. "Boromir, what ails thee?"

Boromir flung himself across Denethor's body. "She said Nana said I talk too much. That I was the cause of Faramir's lack of speech. I would do naught to hurt him, Ada." The sobbing shook the little one's shoulders. "I," a hiccup interrupted him, and Denethor remembered how tears always ended with hiccups with the lad. "I stopped talking because I wanted Faramir to talk. I remember thou said thou wouldst separate us if he did not talk. I wouldst die without Faramir, Ada, truly I wouldst."

"I wast not supposed to be listening, but I had a dream, and I came to your room. Thou and Nana wert talking about Faramir."

"Ah," he moaned, "I remember." Tears welled in his eyes. "I was so wrong, Boromir. I canst not promise that thou wilt never be separated. Thou wilt both be warriors someday. Thou wilst go to wherever thou art stationed. Thou knowest this. But thou wilt always return to Minas Tirith. There wilt be many reunions between us. But that time is long from now. Do not let it concern thee. I, as well as your nanny, wast wrong."

Boromir snuggled closer. "Faramir told me thou wast teasing. I am glad he was right," the lad said just before sleep took him.

Denethor sat there for a long time, pondering his mistakes - with his sons and his wife. Amdir's face came into his mind. 'Do not carry the weight of mistakes on you, Denethor, my friend,' he seemed to say. 'You learn from your mistakes as others do not. Rest now.'

Denethor awoke with a start. Was it one of his dreams or had Amdir actually come to him? 'Nay,' he thought. 'I am tired and disconsolate. 'Twas my imagination.' The sun was slipping towards the horizon. He motioned and his men, hidden in the background until now, prepared the horses and ponies, whilst he woke the boys. Faramir ran to the river to throw 'just one more stone' and Denethor laughed. Boromir held his hand tightly. As he looked down, he saw such love shining in the lad's eyes that his own welled with tears. Picking him up, he hugged him tightly. "I wilt not be able to do this much longer with thee, ion nîn. Thou wilt begin thy training in a few short months. I wilt miss these times with thee. Do not become too busy to visit your old Ada?"

Boromir sobbed and hugged Denethor back. "I wilt always visit thee, Ada, and someday, I will let thee rest and become Steward for thee. Then thou might laugh all thou wants and fish with Faramir. And I wilt watch over Gondor and care for her," he said solemnly. Denethor could only hug him; there were no words sufficient to express his love for the lad. They mounted and rode towards the West.

"You do not know of what you speak," he heard his adar's angry voice coming from the study. "I have seen things that I hope you never will. Your trust in Adrahil is misplaced. He gathers an army to him, leaving Gondor's defenses to us. He had promised, Indis, promised that he would replace the men he called back two years ago. No matter my urgent pleas for replacements, he refuses. Not directly. Oh no, direct would be too easy. He uses subterfuge, rumors of impending attacks as excuse; he sends Dol Amroth's regrets, but I do not believe him. I have seen no threat of attack; have heard no reports of enemy movements. I have my ways, Indis. Spies and other such tools. Gondor's weal does not concern him."

"He is not a fool, Denethor. He knows if Minas Tirith falls that Belfalas will be next."

"I am not saying he is a fool. I am saying he expects Minas Tirith to fall and is preparing to protect his own lands. The other southern fief lords watch him and use him as an example. None of them want to send their sons to serve Gondor."

"She married me against his will, in the end. Though he made as if to give it, begrudgingly. For her to die under my care..." He could not continue.

Boromir quietly knocked on the door; ashamed he had listened so long. His adar admitted him with a word.

Denethor's face lit with joy when he heard Boromir's voice. His enthusiastic response was met with a smile from Indis. He turned to her. "Stop your laughing at me, dearest sister." His mood had changed from anger to delight in a moment. "Leave us now, if you would not mind. I would speak to Boromir of his appointment."

She smiled at Denethor, turned and hugged Boromir as he stepped into the study, and left.

"Sit down, here beside me. Yes, I did ask you to come and am grateful for your promptness," and Denethor sat on the settle across from his desk, motioning to the lad to sit. "How are you, my boy? Are you prepared?" His excitement mirrored Boromir's.

"I will never be as ready as I wish, Adar, but I am striving to learn all you have asked of me. And more." He smiled in the delight of his own initiative. "I have spent the last few months, whenever I have had a moment from studying the ceremony and the duties that will be mine upon commissioning, visiting the Great Library. Adar, I have found some wonderful books on the battles of our land. Did you know there is one whole room devoted to the Battle of Dagorlad?"

"Stories of Elves are for children, Adar, along with other myths. I want to study battles. I want to discover why we won many and lost others. I want to be prepared for when I go into battle."

Boromir's fervor heartened Denethor, but his mind flew back to the time of Amdir's most desperate shame. He willed his son would be spared such a thing - to have left a battle in fear and cowardice. Yet, Amdir had recovered and had become a warrior of renown in all of Gondor. Would that Boromir would become such a warrior. One was desperately needed. He knew he was not the warrior that Amdir and Thengel had been. He felt his own lack most acutely.

"I have read of the battle. How could it last so many years, Adar? How could the men of Gondor not have given up and been defeated?"

"Do you think Gondor battled alone, my son? 'Twas those very Elves that you decry that brought King Isildur victory. The hearts of men are courageous, Boromir, but none are as resilient as the Elves that fought at our side an age past. Do not forget that, nor that Elves were once our allies. Mayhap, the time will come when Gondor will look again for aid from the Elves."

"Not as much as Faramir. I find the books I need and leave it immediately. I take them to the parapet and study there, with the wind in my face, and the sounds of Minas Tirith in my ears. He sits for long hours in the dust and the dark. I do not know how he stands it!"

Denethor laughed. "How I used to love the Great Library, never leaving it." He shivered. 'Until Curunír,' he thought as a sudden chill filled him. 'Is the wizard still about?' Would he assail his own son, as Denethor had been? He turned to Boromir. Speaking as casually as he could, he asked him about Faramir and the library.

"Naught keeps him from there. Indis has fits, at times. And Listöwel is so funny; she knows where he is. Whenever he seems lost, she sends me to the library and he is there, nose pressed to a scroll. Then I have to drag him back to the nursery."

"It is his Naneth's fault," Denethor said quietly. "She instilled such a love in him."

Boromir placed his hand on Denethor's leg. "I know, Adar. They would sit for hours and read. I could not do that. I could not sit still so long. My body needs to be moving about."

Denethor hugged him. "'Tis true, Boromir. That is why the Valar gave me two such sons: one to be my warrior and one to be my counselor."

"Yes, Boromir. That you will be, for your eye is quick and your body is broad and strong, even now."

Denethor smiled. "He is second son, Boromir. He will be trained in Gondor's ways, but you are Heir. On your birth anniversary, you will be appointed Esquire of Gondor. Then, on your twenty-first, I will take you to a certain place, and you will pledge your loyalty to Gondor. There, I will name you Heir to the Steward. Faramir will receive no such title."

Boromir looked at him with tears in his eyes. "Faramir is my equal, Adar. He has the same heart as I do. Would you leave him out like this?"

"I am not 'leaving him out,' Boromir. He will be trained. He will become an esquire, as are all sons of the lords of Gondor, but he will never be Heir. Only you will. It is as you were fated to be. By your birth. Do you understand? No matter the love we have for Faramir, he will always be the younger. We must help him accept that."

Denethor sat back, smiling. "It is good that he does, Boromir. He will keep you alert. Now, enough talk of Faramir; we must look to the ceremony itself. Have you memorized the oath?"

Listöwel sat with Faramir, holding his carven'd horse in her hands. The head had definitely been separated from the body and she was hard-pressed to consider how to fix it.

She heard the exasperation in his tone and smiled. "'Tis not that you are not old enough, Faramir, but that it is not yet your time. Boromir is learning of his duties as esquire. It will be many years, garn nîn, before you will become an esquire. Do not concern yourself about that yet. Let us try to fix your horse."

"A fastening of some kind, perhaps a nail, would hold it together. Or some pitch?"

"To the smithy!" Faramir suddenly yelled. "To the smithy!" And slapped his hand on his thigh as he galloped around the nursery.

She laughed and agreed while holding her hand out for him to take it. He 'rode' past her, all the while urging his 'horse' onward. Yelling back over his shoulder, he pressed her to walk faster. They entered the Courtyard and Faramir still 'rode' his horse.

He slowed down as they entered the tunnel. "I miss Snowflake. A wooden horse is acceptable for children, but I am now six. I think I should have a horse. What do you think, Listöwel?"

"We could write a letter to Théoden King asking him. Though that would be impolite - to ask for a gift."

"But I am so much taller now and stronger, too." He lifted his arm to show her his muscle. "I could hold on better and ride faster; I know I could."

"I am sure you could. The winter winds and snow are falling on Rohan. It would be a very difficult trip to take." She was trying desperately to think of excuses. Denethor would never allow such a journey at this time of year. She wanted to spare Faramir the disappointment.

"Of course you do. So do I. Yet, it is very cold and very difficult for horses to travel in. Would you want to put your pony through such a trip?"

"No," he said hesitantly. "Snowflake is extremely brave though. And very strong. I have a difficult time holding his reins sometimes. He can pull very hard."

"You have always ridden him well, Faramir. Your adar is quite proud of your skill."

"Someday, I am going to learn to shoot an arrow from a horse, just like Éomund. We must go back," he looked up at her, seriously, "There is no one in Gondor to teach me such things!"

"Traditional ways of fighting in Gondor do not include shooting arrows from horses, Faramir. Do you know why?"

"That is correct, Faramir. We do not have the landscape for such fighting." It seemed bizarre to be speaking of battles with a six year old. If Finduilas were alive, she would be sickened. She tried to turn the conversation. "Would not a carpenter be a better choice for our horse, not a smithy?"

"Horses are always tended by smithies, Listöwel." He smiled gently at her lack of such knowledge.

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Boromir, son of Denethor of the House of Húrin."

"And this do I hear, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance."

Then Boromir received back his sword and put it in its sheath. The hall erupted with great shouts of joy and approval. The bells that hung in the tall towers rang, while trumpets blared their agreement. Hundreds of birds were released from dozens of cages, and the uproar caused the peregrine that nested in the high towers and the very peaks of Mindolluin to flit about above the Courtyard, calling their sanction of the vow. The White Banners of the House of Húrin flew from every parapet, every window, and hung on every door. The City was bathed in jubilation and joy.

Indis beamed, tears flowing down her cheeks and wetting her bodice. She took no notice. Listöwel clapped her hands, dancing a little in pure joy. "Ah, to have such a day. So long o'erdue; so long needed," Indis cried and Listöwel turned and hugged her.

Denethor beamed. Boromir had not forgotten one word, one bow, one clasp of his hands, nor failed to acknowledge one of the Lords of the Council. Everything had gone as planned. None could say his son did not appoint himself well. He choked a few times during the ceremony, stifling the tears that would fall. None could see how overcome he had been by the words his own son, his very own son had said to him. His heart burnt from the joy of it. 'To speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go...' The words echoed through his mind. His son, his Boromir, headstrong and willful had pledged to die to himself to serve his adar. Denethor shook at the depths of the vow. Did Boromir realize what he had promised? 'Yes,' Denethor thought. They had gone over the vow and the meaning of each and every word until Boromir could say it as a catechism in his sleep.

His eldest stood next to the Chair as one after another of the Lords of Gondor, then the guests, then the people, came forward to applaud him. Adrahil and Imrahil were first in line though, their status as Princes of Dol Amroth earning them this rightful place. Denethor had been stunned when Adrahil had ridden up to the Citadel. Not many were allowed to ride their horses onto the very Courtyard of the White Tree, but Adrahil would not be put off. An affront to the customs of Minas Tirith, but Denethor, even knowing that Adrahil did it on purpose, would not let it tarnish this day for his son. He would not chastise Finduilas' father. Boromir bowed low to his adadhron and to his uncle. Both smiled. Adrahil handed the lad a sword; Denethor scowled. He had already given the lad a fine sword, but Adrahil again seemed bound and determined to denigrate anything Denethor did. The sword was of Elven make, Denethor noted, and beautiful. Clean lines, but too large for the lad. 'Ah,' he thought, 'this is a sword for when Boromir goes into battle.' Denethor stood and bowed to the old prince. Adrahil acknowledged his thanks and moved on. Imrahil gave Boromir a fine mithril baldric of Elven make to hold a water flask. "When you receive the Horn of Gondor, you can use this," the prince whispered. Denethor almost stumbled. The gift was beyond priceless. The smile that the young prince gave Boromir was as brilliant as the belt.

Théoden and Théodred both greeted him with hugs, as did Éomund and Erkenbrand. Their gifts were throws made from the hides of bears from the White Mountains. Denethor nodded his thanks as Boromir embraced each in turn.

Gondor's newest esquire stood for hours, straight and tall, accepting the plaudits and praises, never faltering once. Finally, the last person in line came forward. 'Indis,' his heart cried out. She bowed low to him and then handed him a rose, yellow as the sun. It was from his Naneth's garden. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his composure. Bowing to her, he took the flower, hung it on a tie on his tunic, and stepped forward. He slung his personal horn over his back, moved his sword to the side, and hugged her fiercely. Tears fell. He could not help himself. He buried his head in her shoulder so that none would see, but he knew she felt the sobs that shook his body.

Boromir laughed and swiped the tears away. "Yes. Let us go before our guests eat everything in Merethrond."

He took Faramir's hand, and both boys bowed to their father. Boromir moved the horn so that it swayed and bumped him as he walked. It was an incredible feeling to have a horn on his body at last. He had thought his adar would not give it to him until he was older. But Denethor had smiled this morning as he helped Boromir dress, and handed him a kine's horn. It was not the great Horn of Gondor, but his very own, nonetheless. "I would that you would have this now. Each warrior of Gondor carries their own horn, one that is attuned to that particular warrior. It is used to signal your coming and going from Gondor, to raise the hearts of our people as they hear you wind it, and to make your enemies quail before you." Denethor hugged him firmly and with passion. "I am most proud of thee, my son. Thou hast done well, thou hast prepared well, and thou art ready. Do not question thyself in this. Do not question thyself in thy service to Gondor. Thy heart is good and full. By the Valar, I pray that when thou goest, thy steps shall not be straitened; and when thou runnest, thou shalt not stumble. Thou art strong and pure. Lay hold on instruction, do not desist; keep her, for she 'is' thy life. Listen to those above thee, obey always, and know that thou wilt never disappoint me. I find no want in thee, ion nîn." A lump came to the lad's throat as he felt the lingering hug. 'It is good to be alive, he thought. And Faramir tugged and pulled and exhorted him to walk faster.

He was so tired that his head hung heavy. 'Will this practice never end?' he thought. His arms ached and his legs cramped. Denethor watched, a frown upon his face. Drawing a deep breath, Boromir bowed to the Swordmaster and lunged forward. His sword went flying. Cursing, he bowed again, retrieved the sword, and stepped into the training once more. Denethor called out. "You are not holding..." he fumed in silence. "Here!" He stepped forward and the Swordmaster handed the Steward his own sword. "Boromir. This is how you hold your hand if you are going to parry. You are holding it wrongly. See?" and he thrust at the lad whose eyes opened wide.

"Yes, Adar. I see. Like this?" and he stepped into a parry with his sword held just right. He smiled as his adar's face broke into a grin.

"That is how it is done in Gondor, my son." And he laughed and hugged the lad. "Come now. It is time for nuncheon and Faramir awaits." He bowed to the Swordmaster and gave the sword back. "Thank you," he smiled at the man.

"To do and to let be..." the man reiterated his own vow and bowed to his Steward.

Boromir shivered. His adar was the greatest man in the whole of Gondor. In the whole of the world.

Just then, Théodred slipped onto the practice ring, keeping well away, and hiding in the shadows.

Boromir grinned. "I thought you would sleep the day away," he called to him. "There is armor and a sword in the corner. Suit up and join me." For all his bravado, he hoped Théodred would turn him down. The sun was hot and his own armor grew heavier by the moment, but his friend walked resolutely over and donned a breastplate and helmet. He unsheathed his sword and smiled. Boromir knew that smile well. Self-assured, his friend probably thought a winded Boromir would be easy to best. Boromir ran to the well, drew a bucket of water, and poured it over his head. He had worn only a light shirt under the armor and he would not be weighted down. He walked to the center of the circle, feigning fatigue.

Boromir, out of the corner of his eye, saw the Swordmaster smile. The knight was accustomed to Boromir's ruses. Boromir had been winded, but he had reserves that he had yet to tap. He stood before his friend, saluted, and then moved back.

Théodred moved in immediately. Boromir stepped back, the swing wild. He tried not to smile. Théodred, again thinking he had the advantage, swung again, and missed again. After a quarter hour had passed, Boromir noted the catch in his opponent's breath, the slight lag between thrusts and recovery, and the sweat pouring down Théodred's face.

He moved in for the attack; he stepped forward and thrust. The blades connected as Théodred was able to react quickly. Théodred swung again, flailing with his own sword, and missing terribly. Boromir stepped in and again his sword connected, this time pushing Théodred's away easily.

Théodred stumbled, caught himself and smiled. "I seem to have underestimated you."

"Nay!" Boromir laughed as he clasped his friend to him. "I had motive. I am starving and need sustenance. I wanted to end this quickly and partake of nuncheon."

"I did not," Boromir became serious. "I took advantage of you. If you had been mounted, I would have been cut down in the first few moments of battle. You are not accustomed to the armor of Gondor, nor the sun and heat. I had only to wait until they took their toll."

Denethor called to them. They cleaned their armor and their swords, dunked their heads in the trough and commenced to wet each other down, hair flung wildly about. Denethor stayed five paces from them. Then, they joined the Steward, arms slung across each other's shoulders.

"How many times did you best Boromir during our last visit to Edoras?" Denethor asked the prince as they walked through the tunnel.

Boromir picked him up, though his arms ached. "Yes, we did. And when will you join us?"

"Tomorrow," the boy said seriously. "I will be old enough tomorrow. I have a birth day coming."

Denethor took him from Boromir and placed him on his shoulder. "Duck!" he said as they passed through the dining hall door.

Faramir laughed. "I do not ever want to grow older," he suddenly said, "I want to sit on your shoulders, Ada, forever."

When the meal was complete, the four sat in front of the window; cool air blowing through it, refreshing their minds as well as their bodies. A knock on the door startled them all. Peace and quiet had softened them.

"Enter." Denethor called and quickly stood as Théoden King entered the room. "Have you eaten?" Denethor asked; then indicated a chair as Théoden nodded.

Denethor felt the strain in the man's voice. "My lads, 'tis time you went to the library for some study. Your lessons have been neglected since our friends from Rohan arrived. And you, young man," he hugged Faramir, "away with you to the nursery. Listöwel awaits."

Heavy sighs followed his pronouncements, but they knew arguing was useless. They each in turn hugged both men and left the room, their noisy exit filling the room and the corridors beyond.

"I have some wine I think you would enjoy." Denethor walked to the cupboards. His skin prickled his neck as he poured the libation. Sitting, he held the glass and stared deeply into it. When Théoden did not speak, he leaned forward. "What troubles you, Théoden King?"

Théoden laughed. "Do you know how oft I have been told of your insufferable pride? Yet, now, you act as one ready to hide."

"I have pride in Gondor, my sons, my knights and my people. Foresight is a gift that I do not take lightly. I have done naught to earn it. So how am I to be proud of it? You have stalled long enough, my friend. Your heart is not here. Are you ready to leave Minas Tirith so soon?" Denethor stood up and walked to the window, wishing he would not hear the answer.

Théoden joined him. "I am heartsick. A foolish old man, you would say, but I left a sister who is with child and I would be by her side."

"Théodwyn!" Denethor turned and hugged his friend. "She is with child!" He sat on the sill, wonderment written on his features. He had forgotten how easily the Rohirrim bred. "I am glad." A great smile covered his face, Théoden's beloved sister with child. "You must be away, though I am sore-pressed to lose your company so soon." He paused. "Boromir will be unhappy. I am most surprised at the ease with which he and Théodred renew their friendship each time they meet."

"It is as if they are destined to mirror each other. Théodred too will be forlorn. I do not look forward to the ride home." He laughed.

"Éomund must be chaffing, too. I cannot believe he has not ridden out of here himself. It was kind of him to come."

"He is patient," Théoden said and then laughed mightily. "What am I saying! The man has not one scrap of patience in his body. But he knows his duty. He will stay until I say it is time to leave. And I am saying now, it is time to leave."

"I would have been delighted. Mayhap, we would have thrown in a line once we reached the river?" He laughed loudly.

Denethor smiled. "You heard about today's contest and that my Boromir bested your son. So, now you want to best me at the river!"

"All know of your lack of skill, Denethor, when it comes to fishing. It gives me joy to fill my creel while yours remains empty."

Indis, Listöwel and Morwen had spent the last few hours packing the gifts they had made for Théodwyn. Morwen laughed. "I wonder when Théoden will finally tell your brother," she said to Indis. "I have never understood men. The important things they leave to the last, whilst the trivial things they speak of first. They have discussed fishing at least ten times since we arrived."

"Nay. 'Twould seem so, dear friend, but their minds and their speech have been on hard things. Life is not so simple, as you well know. I heard Théoden speaking of heightened Orc attacks from the north. How often do they strike?"

Morwen laid down the embroidered tunic. "More than twice a fortnight. And in larger bands than ever before." A shiver passed through her and Indis gave her a quick hug. "I fear for Rohan. I fear for my daughter and the life she holds. Will we never have peace?" she cried.

"Denethor speaks often of the peace he finds in Rohan. It comforts him to think on it. Mayhap the attacks have increased because it is soon to be winter. Orcs, I think, hate the cold and the snows of the plains of Rohan. They wish to do what damage they can now, before hiding again in the Misty Mountains."

"They hate naught but men!" Morwen spat. "We are too spread out. What with guarding the borders on the east and the west, and watching the north, we have spread ourselves too thin. We cannot lose more of our men."

"I know," the Steelsheen said, "but it does not ease my heart. What of the other fief lords - do they send men?"

"Not enough. Never enough. Denethor constantly battles their stubbornness. They fear for their own lands. I understand them; however, it ill behooves them to let Gondor fall. They will quickly fall themselves, once Minas Tirith is undone. But come now, we have so little time together. Tell me of Edoras."

"I will tell you of the Simbelmynë that grows on the graves of our dead." She bowed her head. "Forgive me," she whispered, "I fear for Théodwyn. If only she would come and stay with us, at least until the babe arrives."

"She refuses. Her place is beside Éomund, she says. I agree. But not now. Now she should be in Edoras where the leeches can watch over her."

"Is there naught we can do," Listöwel asked, "but let those we love go to battle after battle? Is this how life is destined to be for the sons of Rohan and Gondor?"

Indis looked at Listöwel, sadness filling her eyes. "Unless some device can be found, some tool to fight the One we do not name, we must proceed as we always have done."

"With weeping and wailing women!" Morwen's tone was so harsh that Indis went to her side and held her. "Do not fear for Théodwyn. Éomund will care for her. He will let naught happen to her nor to the babe. If danger comes too near, he will send her to Edoras. You know that."

Morwen lowered her head. "More and more do I wish I were a man, to go with the Riders and fight for those I love."

"You have done that and more, Morwen. Your name, dearest sister-friend, brings comfort and joy to your land's heart. Your people call you Steelsheen. Do you not know they give you that title because you fill them with hope! Do not let despair o'ercome you."

"There is none who can help us?" Listöwel asked. "There are two wizards that we know who dwell in Middle-earth; there are the immortal Elves. Cannot they help?"

"Curunír has stayed away for a very long time. When he was here, he dwelt only in the Great Library. Mithrandir is no friend to Denethor. There is a wall of distrust built up between them these past years that will not easily be torn down. As for the Elves - have any even seen an Elf since the Battle of Dagorlad? I have not. I do not think they care for the world of men, if ever they did."

They sat in silence. Finally Morwen spoke. "We best finish our packing. Théoden has made up his mind to depart. I will miss you both very much!"

"I will say my farewells to you this evening," Indis said as she hugged Morwen. "Tomorrow, Denethor and I ride to Osgiliath. He hopes to rebuild the city. Now that the bridge has been repaired and both eastern and western Osgiliath are garrisoned, it is safer there. We meet with his captains."

Théoden King was gone and a gloom settled upon Denethor's heart. He had meant to go to Osgiliath at first light, but Théoden, Éomund and he had tarried at the breaking of the fast. He sent a message to Indis that they would leave after nuncheon.

He missed Rohan, the quiet of the great plains, where one could ride for days and see no one, no sign even of a hut to blemish the landscape. Where the sky was always blue and the ground never shook. He had not long for contemplation this day, nor for melancholy. Errand-riders brought news that Easterlings had struck and killed an entire patrol out of Cair Andros; Orcs had attacked another patrol out of Amon Dîn. They would not travel to Osgiliath! He spent the next day and night in closed meetings with his captains and the Council.

By morning, he had made up his mind. Climbing the stairs two at a time, he rued the fact that he had neglected this tool. Mayhap his men would still be alive had he spent time in the Tower room. He unlocked the door. It sat there, looking at him with disdain. He shook his head. This was not a being; it was just a tool. Mayhap he should wait until he was in a better mood before using it. 'Nay,' he thought, 'how many more warriors will die before my mood improves? Now is the time.'

He stepped in front of it, his back to the window. A cold shiver ran down his spine. 'Just a breeze from the window,' he thought, ruefully. 'Naught to do with this stone.' He had used it only twice this past year. Once, only a fortnight ago to ascertain where the Rohirrim were as they traveled to Gondor for Boromir's ceremony. A smile lit his face as he thought of his firstborn. Pulling his thoughts away from pleasantries, he touched the globe. It was cold, as usual. Taking in several deep breaths, he steadied his mind and focused on his City. The stone grew warmer and Minas Tirith lay before him. He paused for a moment, drinking in the beauty of his City. Mindolluin marble gleamed, the banners still hung from the celebration, and the people smiled. It warmed his heart.

He turned his mind to Cair Andros. The island fortress lay quiet. Moving further north and east, he espied a dust trail. Pushing his mind further, he saw them, a large troop of Easterlings with many wains following, headed east. He breathed a sigh of relief. They were probably headed home to replenish their supplies. But, he noted the path they took. 'Knights of Gondor will meet them when next they dare to enter our land,' he thought grimly. 'I must come here more often; we must be ready when they return.'

He stepped back for a moment, feeling utterly drained, and let his hands slide from the globe. 'Have I not eaten?' He wondered at the fatigue that filled him. 'Never the mind, I will when I finish here.' Another shiver ran down his spine and he considered stopping. 'Nay, the day is new; there is time before we depart for Osgiliath.'

Moving forward again, he willed his mind calm and placed his palms on the stone. It was easier to control this time. He saw his City as soon as he touched it. Willing to see the beacon-hill and the fortress beyond, he moved northward. The outpost seemed quiet, though he noted the weekly supply train headed towards it. He looked further north, towards the Entwash. No sign of Orcs. Finding that he held his breath, he let it out slowly. 'Théoden,' he thought suddenly. He would be able to see his old friend one more time. He turned his eyes westward and the Rohirric caravan came into view. They were already past Nardol. They were not yet traveling this day. Another smile creased his face. Suddenly, he wished with all his might that he were there with his friend. His mind's eye saw Thengel and Walda before him, sitting by a fire. Denethor had been exiled from Gondor, a punishment from Ecthelion, but the time spent on the borders of Rohan had been one of the happiest of his life. They were near the Mering; Thengel was cooking their gullfisc, rather cooking Thengel and Walda's gullfisc. Try as he might, Denethor had never been good at fishing. He saw Walda leaning back on his saddle, feet stretched before him, sword twirling in his hand. And Thengel - he had burnt his fingers tasting the tender fish, and was sucking on them, easing the pain. Both men were dead now. A wave of grief overcame him.

The Rohirric column moved and Denethor was pulled back to the present. He sighed and let his eyes swing eastward, back towards Gondor. A quick look at the Entwash and then, further east. His brow furrowed. There had been no attacks from the mountains of the Ephel Dúath. 'Why?' he wondered. Quickly skipping past Osgiliath, he viewed the mountain range and the Harad Road. Naught moved. He had never looked past them before, but now he felt an urge to further his gaze. Another chill ran through him, but he dismissed it.

Boromir grabbed Faramir's shoulder and pulled him tight to his body. Protection bristled from him as quills from the porcupine. "Adar says to keep a distance from wizards, Faramir."

"But I like his hat," Faramir exclaimed excitedly. "How does it not blow away in the wind?"

Faramir's eyes widened, but he said naught, mesmerized by the kind eyes that stared down at him. He had to bend his head far back to look up into those eyes. 'This must be the tallest man I have ever seen.'

Boromir tried to hold him back, but Faramir dug in his feet. "May I touch it?" he asked, pointing to the hat sitting high atop the wizard's head.

The man sat down on a bench near the very point of the parapet. Faramir shyly climbed upon his lap as he was handed the great hat. He squealed in delight as he put it on his head. It fell down over his face and ended up around his neck. Boromir tried to stifle a laugh. "It smells," Faramir said, "but I like it, like grass and cinnamon and smoke - not smoke from the fireplace, but smoke, like when the fields, after harvest, are lit."

"We must leave here," Boromir tried to pull Faramir away, but the lad would not leave. Boromir stalked away, hoping Faramir would follow. He was angry; they had such little time together and Boromir had saved this afternoon to play with his brother. He walked to the Fountain and sat, watching warily.

"I am obedient. I will not go with you, but I like your smell. May I keep your hat?"

Mithrandir chuckled. "No one would recognize me without my hat," he said, "therefore, I cannot give it to you, but you may wear it for a little while longer."

Faramir pushed the rim up and the hat rested on his forehead, but every time he moved, the hat fell forward again, covering his face. Every time it did, he squealed in laughter, as if he were playing hide 'a seek. The wizard's laugh echoed over the Courtyard.

Boromir found it hard to keep a straight face. He wanted to join them, the wizard and his brother. He wanted to laugh, too. His days were spent in training, schooling and such. There was not much amusement as each esquire competed, drilled, fought and sweat to earn the satisfaction of their teachers. Boromir's brow furrowed. Why had Adar asked them to stay away from the wizard? There was no sign of treachery or danger, as far as Boromir could tell. Mayhap the wizard was hiding something. His adar was the smartest man in the whole of Middle-earth. 'I will ask him why we cannot visit with the wizard. It would be best if I knew the reason. Then, I could protect Faramir even better.' He watched and waited, hoping Faramir would grow tired of Mithrandir and come away with him. He had hoped they might look for treasures in the shops on the First Level. The day was growing old; he would have to return to his barracks soon. His heart grew heavier as the sun moved lower in the sky. Faramir played on.

The Ephel Dúath lay still and black in the distance. They called to him, these mountains, and some part of him wished to look over the last peak, to peer into the vale of Gorgoroth. The stone grew warmer still. Númenóreans had built the Towers of Teeth as they had the fortresses of Minas Anor and Minas Ithil. So much had been lost to the enemy, by Gondor's own neglect. 'Nay,' Denethor thought, 'not neglect, but lack of warriors to hold it. Always it comes back to that. Not enough men.' His anger stirred again as he thought of the fat lords of Lamedon, Lossarnach, Anfalas, and Belfalas. He chided himself. He understood their motives; he could not agree with them. The globe grew warmer yet. A part of him was surprised at the anger he felt. A part of him wanted to withdraw from the Palantír. He could not. He must see.

Once past the mountains, the valley of Udûn stretched before him, desolate ruins and rivers ran through it. Some of the rivers ran black as night, no movement stirred them; some ran red as fire. He realized he was looking at molten fire pouring from Amon Amarth itself, creating rivulets running from its peak and broken sides, down to the valley below. To his right, he saw the towers of Minas Morgul. He remembered the painting that hung in Merethrond, of the once proud and noble stronghold, Minas Ithil. What he viewed now was black and hideous. He wished he had not seen it. He turned towards his left. The great tower of Barad-dûr rose high. He stayed his eye, for a moment. A part of him did not want to draw any nearer. His mouth felt dry and his eyes burned. 'I should stop,' the distant thought said. 'Night must be nigh. The children await me.' But he could not leave without one closer look. He blinked rapidly, hoping the action would ease the pain in his eyes; it did not. He drew closer. The tower reached to the sky, black walls stretching in a grotesque shape. His skin began to prickle again. 'Something moves? Nay. Something is inside?'

Slowly, he moved towards the blackness before him. Now and again, he would breath; most of the time, he did not. The tower rose and came closer; his mind cried out, 'Run,' but he could not. He held on tightly to the globe, as if holding it tighter would protect him, from what, he did not know, but he would not let go. The walls were before him; he could reach his hand out and touch them. Black and beautifully polished, they shimmered in the moonlight. He shuddered, tried to pull back, and found he could not. He breathed deeply, forced his eyes closed, and pulled with all his might; his hands came free. He staggered towards the window. It was day still. Where had the moonlight come from? What had he seen? He gulped fear down. Sliding slowly to the floor, he sobbed. What caused the pain in his heart, he did not know, but he was filled with a deep melancholy, the likes of which he had never felt before. He pulled his cloak about him and huddled there; dark engulfed him in the Citadel's Tower room, and he shivered. After a time, he forced himself to stand upright. Staggering down the stairs, he tripped as he rounded the corner to his quarters. His aide, Berelach, caught him.

The look in the man's eyes nonplussed Denethor. How must he look if the man thought he needed a healer? "I have only tripped, naught more," he said brusquely, pushing the man out of the way and then almost falling into the door. Berelach stiffly opened it and moved back. Denethor's heart ached. Why had he done that? Why had he been so cold? This man had served him for the last seven years. Faithfully. He tried to stand up straight. "Thank you."

He walked a little steadier into the room and went to the sink stand. After laving his face and his hands, he stood still, leaning against the table. His mind felt thick and his head heavy. Bowing his head, he cried again. Great tears ran down his cheeks and into the basin. He lurched back. The tears were black! He cried aloud and ran towards his bed. Berelach flung the door open and ran in.

Denethor shuddered. Using every ounce of his strength, he brought his mind under control, banished the fear from it, and sat quietly upon the bed. "I..." He could think of no excuse for the scream. "I would like to have some wine," he said lamely. Berelach stared at him. The look in the man's eyes hurt. "Leave me. I am well. And send for some wine and food." His aide nodded and left. Denethor shook his head. He could have pulled the rope and his servant would have gladly ordered food. Berelach must think him mad. His chin started to quiver again and a sob escaped his lips. He stood and walked towards the basin. 'I cannot have seen what I thought.' The basin was empty; no sign of tears at all, black or clear. He sighed in relief. He walked to the window and sat on the large sill. It overlooked the parapet. At the end of it, at the very point of the great stone walkway, sat Faramir. Someone was with him. Denethor strained his eyes. It was the wizard! Mithrandir!

Indis hurried from Listöwel's room. Denethor's aide had sent a messenger to her, asking her to see him at her earliest convenience. She slowed as she came to the stairwell. Smoothing her dress, she walked up the three levels to Denethor's suite. Berelach's face lit up when he saw her. He stepped away from the door, courteously took her arm, and walked towards the back of the hall. She swallowed, wondering why the secrecy, but waited for him to speak.

"My Lady. Forgive me for calling you away from your duties. You know I understand duty and would not send for you for a triviality."

"The Steward came to his quarters staggering. It was not drink that caused his impaired gait, my Lady, but I know not what. He does not seem injured, yet, he walked as one with a head wound. I did not understand it, but tried to help him to his room. He..." shame covered his face. "He pushed me aside and reprimanded me. I let him into the room and stepped out again. Only a moment or two passed and I heard him scream. I ran in and his face was wild. He moved about the room as one under attack. There was no one in the room with him. Then he ordered me to serve him food!" The man stepped back, breathing hard.

"Ah." She took another breath and let it out slowly. "Thank you. Return to your post. I will meet with the Steward."

They walked back to the door and Indis knocked, quietly. No answer came. She knocked again. She nodded to Berelach who opened the door. She stepped in and he closed it behind her. Blinking her eyes against the light that shone through the wall of windows, she searched for him. He sat on a windowsill, head bent. She walked slowly towards him, cold shivers running down her arms. 'He sits so still,' she thought. Gently, she called his name. He did not reply, did not look up, did not acknowledge her. She called again. No response. Quickening her steps, she reached him and sat at his feet. She placed her hand on his knee. Looking up into his eyes, she cried aloud, "Denethor!" He said naught. The eyes that stared back at her were black as coal, distant and filled with pain. "Denethor!" she cried again. He blinked his eyes.

"Ah, Indis. How good of thee to visit me," he said in a hushed voice. "I have missed thee." He raised his eyebrow and looked closely at her. "What ails thee, dearest sister?"

"Thou hast missed thy supper, my Lord. I came to bring thee food. Art thou hungry?" She was alarmed that he spoke in Sindarin, but kept her voice soft and light.

"Missed my meal?" He looked at her quizzically. "Have I missed Boromir and Faramir, too?"

"Nay. I am most weary. I wouldst rest for a time." He leaned his head back against the window ledge.

He smiled up at her. "Please. I seem to have lost my strength this day." His voice grew quieter.

She helped him up, led him to his bed, and laid him on it. She pulled a duckdown from the nearby closet and laid it over him. He closed his eyes. 'Oh! By the all the Valar, what could be wrong with him?' she thought. She pulled the rope by the bed; Berelach entered. "Send for the healer," she said quietly. Denethor did not stir. "And send for Listöwel."

"He is in his study. We are not to disturb him. I must leave you now. I must return to my quarters." Boromir tried to keep disappointment from his voice.

"But I do not want you to go. We were going to go to the First Level. You promised."

"You spent too much time with the wizard. It is late now. I have my duty to perform, Faramir. You knew that when first we met this afternoon."

"Yes. You disobeyed Adar, you wasted our time together, and now I have to return to my barracks. I wanted to spend time with you, Faramir." He meant to look as stern as possible, but the look on his brother's face melted his heart. "Walk with me to the Sixth Level. At least we can spend that time together."

Faramir's face lit up. "Did you ride your new horse, yet?" Faramir asked in excitement. "I have never seen such a beautiful horse. Why did Théoden King give you such a horse? I wanted my pony, Boromir. Do you think he will send me Snowflake? Do you?"

Boromir laughed. "You are trying to get all the words you would have said this afternoon into one sentence?" The shy smile on Faramir's face undid Boromir. "My dearest brother. Théoden King gave me the horse as a gift. You know that. For becoming an esquire. When you become an esquire, I imagine he will give you a horse too."

"We might send him a letter, Faramir, and ask him how much the pony is. Then, we can save up and buy him. Then, you will have your pony."

"The very next time we meet, Faramir. I promise. We are here now; I must go in." He hugged his brother tightly. "I will see you in seven days. You will count them?"

"Listöwel made me a counting table. I mark it every day. It takes a long time for a day to go by, does it not, Boromir?"

"Yes. A very long time indeed, little brother. Now, go home before they send the guard out to look for you!" He hugged Faramir one last time and went through the Third Company's doors.

Faramir stood there for a moment. He still had the wizard's smell about him, but he wished now that he had left the wizard when Boromir had asked him to. A tear ran down his face and suddenly he was swept up into strong arms. Mithrandir smiled down at him.

"Choices are hard to make sometimes. And we cannot always see what the choices we make will do to us. Come, I am going to the buttery. I am famished. Are you?"

He remembered staggering, falling forward, his hand slipping from the stone. What had assailed him? One moment he had been looking towards the Plains of Gorgoroth, the next his mind had burst into a thousand different colors. Nay! He had pulled himself away from the globe. It did not control him. It did not. It did not! He trembled. A cool hand touched his forehead. He opened his eyes and Indis stared down at him. He smiled. "I am sorry. I took ill. Perhaps something I ate," he hedged.

"Never the mind. The healer left some tea for you to drink. It should help." She refused to tell him of her all-night vigil, watching him toss and turn, screaming in his sleep. She forced a shudder away. This was no food illness. She had seen terror and despair. "The sun is shining. Would you command Faramir and I to ride with you today? Mayhap the warmth will rid your body of this ailment?"

A long shuddering sound passed his lips. He found himself shaking violently. "I do not think I could sit a horse this day. Mayhap tomorrow?"

"Yes," she smiled. "Tomorrow you will have recovered. Faramir waits outside for your morning tea. May I allow him entrance?"

"It is morning?" When she nodded he continued, "Nay. I do not feel quite well enough. You break the fast with him; I will try to sleep a little longer."

She knew the lad had seen the healer leave as the boy had entered the antechamber. "Yes. But not well enough for you to join him this morning. Come," she kissed his forehead to comfort him, "we will eat and then we will go to the training circle. Boromir is to practice his bow today. Would that not be pleasant? To see him, even if we cannot speak to him?"

They walked to the dining hall and met Listöwel. "I saved you a seat," she smiled. "The entire guard seems to have taken over the hall. The cooks are furiously baking. 'Twill be a little time before the griddle cakes are ready." She laughed at Faramir's look of long-suffering. "Do not be concerned, Faramir. The cooks know you are famished. You will not have to suffer o'erlong. Besides, you have some studying to do."

Faramir looked up in surprise. "Indis said I might go to watch Boromir shoot his bow."

"Oh. May I join you? We may discuss the part archery played in the history of Gondor while we watch."

Faramir moaned. "Always history. I am tired of history. I want to read of Vëantur."

Listöwel sighed. "We have read Vëantur so many times I have lost track! You need to read of the line of your adadhron. We have hardly touched the history of the Swan Prince. Your mother is descended directly from the line of the Kings of Númenor. Have you not wondered why your adadhron is called 'Prince' Adrahil? We shall read about that this morning. But not too early," she saw the look of chagrin on the lad's face and laughed. "I promise. We will watch Boromir, but then we will read of the Princes of Númenor."

The three met again at the third bell at the entrance to the training grounds. Indis obtained permission for them to enter. Faramir started to run, but Indis caught him by the arm and held him back. Whispering, she said, "Thou art the Steward's son, Faramir. Remember that."

They walked in quietly. Indis was shown to the Steward's box; Listöwel and Faramir followed. There were scarce fourteen people in attendance; most were of the same ilk as Indis - relatives come to watch their own.

The floor of the courtyard was immaculately kept, the sand sculpted in the traditional spiral shape of Minas Tirith and at the center, as always, the White Tree. Other parts of Minas Tirith might be in a state of disrepair, but the Sixth and Seventh Levels showed no sign of age nor neglect. Tradition was kept.

They sat in the cushioned seats and waited. The first part of the practice consisted of pairings of esquires. As he waited for Boromir, Faramir kept his hands folded. Indis laughed quietly at his composure. The lad's legs were too short and thus stuck out straight before him. His expression screamed of boredom. She leaned over, "Boromir will be up shortly. He is third on the list." Faramir nodded. Soon, Indis noted him twiddling his thumbs. She put her hand over them, not speaking. Faramir shrank a little into the chair and stopped the movement.

Indis rolled her eyes. As far as Faramir was concerned, the only reason to be here was to watch his brother. She had hoped the lad would pay attention to the techniques of the esquires as they brought their swords together. Denethor would expect such a report from his son. She saw Faramir's wide-eyed adoration; his little mouth was opened in joy at the sight of Boromir. She smiled and sat back. There was no use trying to shift Faramir's attention. Watching closely, she noted that Boromir appointed himself well. He handled the training blade with ease. Denethor had been correct; the boy was a natural swordsman. She smiled again. He would soon pass her in skill. Then, too soon for Faramir's liking as noted by his heavy sigh and the sudden thrusting of his body back fully into the seat, Boromir's turn was over. Another three pairings and the first part of the training session was complete for the day. As the esquires left, eight men strode forward carrying four great round targets; they set two at one end of the courtyard and two at the other end. Two groundskeepers ran forward with rakes to smooth the sand. At last, all preparations were complete.

Faramir straightened in his seat. Indis noted the keen look in his eyes. Two lads stepped forward, bows in their hands, full quivers strapped to their backs. They stood side by side waiting for the signal. At last, it was given. Quickly they strung their bows and shot. Eight times the signal was given and eight times their arrows were loosed. Another signal and they bowed and left the grounds. Two more took their places on the other end of the yard. The sun had reached its zenith before Boromir stepped out. Indis quickly put her hand over Faramir's to stop the lad from clapping. Four times Boromir missed the center, but, with each turn, the arrow came closer. Indis sighed. The boy's stance was wrong. She would have to speak with his trainer. Then she noticed he did not stand at ease. His whole body was stiff. He would not be a natural archer; he would have to practice long to master the bow.

She looked at Faramir. The boy was enraptured. After Boromir loosed his last four arrows, she made as if to leave, but the child sat. "It is time to leave, Faramir. We have been here longer than I expected. You are late for your lessons."

She was surprised at the force of his entreaty. She smiled at Listöwel who nodded her approval, then sat back and watched Faramir watch the esquires. He sat on the edge of his seat, never moving. At last, the final pair concluded their practice and left. The spectators started leaving; the targets were removed, and the groundskeepers returned to begin their cleaning.

Indis touched Faramir on the arm. Startled, he jumped. "'Tis time to leave, Faramir."

"Tomorrow we will ride with your adar onto the Pelennor. He is most anxious to be with you."

Tears were in the boy's eyes and she hugged him tightly. "He loves thee very much, Faramir, but affairs of state press down upon him. Thou must remember that and help him."

His memory was returning. He had been in the Tower room. He had held the Palantír in his hands. He... He had seen something. Shuddering, the memory, accompanied by a painful bright white light, filled his mind. Ecthelion! He had seen his father, stern and cold, looking down at him. He had seen the Pelennor on fire and his father berating him for letting Gondor fall. He moaned and thrust his head into the pillows, but he could not hide from the eyes, staring at him in fury, the lips stretched taut in a deep scowl, the brow furrowed. He threw the bedcovers off and stood up, but found he was still weak. The stone had not affected him like this the first time he had used it. What foul magic was this? He walked slowly to the window and sat upon the sill. The sun was at its apex; he had slept long. If he closed his eyes, he still saw the scene played before him. Yet, the sun hurt his eyes. He held his hand over them; then looked down at the Courtyard of the Fountain. None were about except the four Guards of the Citadel, standing their watch upon the White Tree. He breathed a sigh of relief. Then, wondered what he had expected to see.

The memory flooded back. He had seen his sons. Faramir stood in front of Boromir; Boromir was holding him around the chest; Faramir's head came well below Boromir's chin. He saw them standing thus and he ached to hold them both. But then he recollected Mithrandir. Faramir had run to greet the wizard and then sat on his lap! Why? Faramir had disobeyed. He wondered why Boromir had allowed this and then remembered seeing the lad sitting on the lip of the Fountain, hands crossed over his chest, obviously angry. Denethor chuckled. He knew Boromir's stance when angry; always the arms were about his chest and his eyebrow cocked to one side. But Faramir! Faramir had disobeyed him. Anger overwhelmed him for a moment. He shook his head. 'Twas not the lad's fault. Nor Boromir's fault. Drawing in a deep breath, he stood. He must speak with Faramir. He had not voiced his opinion of the wizard fully. The child did not understand. He would be more forceful. Forbid him to see Mithrandir again.

Indis entered the room. "I had hoped to share your noon meal?" He stared at her for a few moments and she felt uncomfortable. "Have you already eaten?"

"He grows up, my brother. Come and eat with me." She pulled the rope and, almost instantly a servant brought a tray in. "I took the liberty of ordering our food."

She did not like this stillness of his. What had caused it? Where was his joy? "I love you, Denethor. It is as simple as that."

Indis grew angry. "Who stood beside you when Ecthelion would have made Thorongil Captain-General?"

He blinked, drew in a breath, and shook his head. "My mind is not my own today. Forgive me, Indis."

She sat at the table and he sat with her. After a few moments of silence, he spoke. "I seem to remember Faramir wanting to break fast with me this morning?"

"I did not know he was here. I saw him with the wizard, the one named Mithrandir. Did you see him?"

Indis knew of Denethor's meetings with Curunír. How he had grown up fearing wizards. She also knew of Mithrandir's support of Thorongil. Mayhap the wizard's visit is what caused his change. She had thought he had grown out of his fright.

"I have asked the boys not to associate with any wizard, yet I saw Faramir in the Courtyard on his lap." The tone was quiet, but Indis heard the anger scarcely contained.

"Mithrandir is pleasant. Faramir is kind. If the wizard had approached him, he would be hard-pressed to be discourteous."

Denethor's mind was made up. He must meet with his captains. Their meeting in Osgiliath had been canceled twice now. Never the mind that Adrahil, he grimaced at the thought of that man, had invited them to the birth ceremony for his newest grandchild. Gondor's weal was of more import. He would not go. But when he had discussed the invitation with Indis, she had suggested sending Boromir as Gondor's representative.

"The lad has just begun his training. He is only six months into it. I do not want him interrupting it for such a little thing."

"Adrahil is his adadhron. But more than that, he is Prince of Belfalas and a Lord of Gondor. We must send someone."

Indis smiled. "Denethor! You are the most stubborn man I have ever known. We cannot send Listöwel as Gondor's representative. She holds no title. Better to send Boromir. Listöwel can accompany him."

He paced up and down in his study. "It is not good for the lad to interrupt his training. I am being honest. I do not like Adrahil. For Prince Imrahil's sake, I will send Boromir. His training must continue while he is in Dol Amroth, otherwise I will not send him."

"I agree. Listöwel will be given a missive for Prince Imrahil. He will make sure Boromir has time and opportunity for training." She smiled again. "He will be most pleased at Boromir's progress. I was at practice yesterday and he did well. In fact, he did better than well. He wields the sword as if born to it. You would have been proud."

She took a deep breath. "I did not say that, nor did I think it. What has come over you these last days? You are gruff and not yourself." He stopped his pacing. Pain filled his eyes and she gasped. "You still suffer from your illness?"

"Of course. I have the papers together. The mapmaker has created a whole new set of maps of Ithilien, based upon your journal entries. We will be ready. When do we leave?"

"And he should not be alone that long. You speak of sending Boromir off and Listöwel with him. Whom do you see attending Faramir? What with the both of us gone too."

"He is..." He paused, shook his head and sat on the settle. "I cannot seem to think straight, Indis." He hated showing her his weakness. He did not understand it, nor where it came from. Nor the anger that smoldered in his mind. But she had always been his counselor.

"What have you been about, Denethor?" He looked down at his hands and she continued. "Do you not trust me?"

"I have found a tool, brought by our ancestors from Númenor. It is powerful. I used it the day I took ill. Ever since, I have needed to return to it. It is powerful," he reiterated. "Yet, it drains me. I am not as strong, I suppose, as those men of Númenor who brought it across the sea, but Gondor needs to use every tool available to fight this evil that assails us."

"I was counselor to our father. Do you not remember? I was afforded access to all areas of Gondor. I saw the Palantír, though our father never used it."

"I know that. Yet, Gondor's plight is worse than before. I deem it necessary to use it. And every other tool at my hand." He did not tell her that Curunír has suggested its use, many years ago.

"Do you think I picked it up one day and just opened my mind to it?" His tone was churlish. "Of course I read of its uses."

"If it presents your mind and body with aftereffects, might it be better to use it infrequently?"

"I could have prevented the attacks upon our patrols if I had only looked before."

"With the Palantír, I can. And I will continue to use it." He paused, walked to his chair and sat. "I must endeavor to strengthen myself so it does not affect me so profoundly." He did not tell her of his vision, nor that he looked into Mordor's valley. "We will send Faramir with Listöwel and Boromir. The time in Dol Amroth will do him well. Send a rider immediately. Then, have two companies go with them. I would have them well-protected." He looked at her. "I know you are concerned. The Palantír did not harm me the first times I used it. I will be more careful, use it more wisely, I promise."

"He promised to take us riding today, Indis." The child's chin quivered. "I went to the stables already and brushed my horse. They are saddling him now."

"I am sorry, Faramir. He prepares for a meeting and you must pack for your visit with your adadhron."

"I do not want to go to Dol Amroth. I want to stay here with Ada." He sat, stubbornly in the middle of the nursery floor. "I will not go."

It did only take a moment and before she could move, the boy was out the door and running down the stairs. 'Oh,' she thought hurriedly, 'I hope Denethor has a moment for him.' By the time she reached the Steward's level, she ran into Faramir. The lad was crying.

'He is still so wounded,' she thought. 'He misses Finduilas so.' She held him close. "We must wipe your face again, Faramir. You do not want your ada to see tears." He succumbed to her ministrations.

She knocked, loudly, on the door and called, "Denethor. It is I, Indis. And I bring your son, Faramir, with me. Would you allow us to enter?"

A heartbeat's time and she heard wood scraping against wood. She turned to Faramir and smiled. "He probably did not hear you, my sweet. The doors are heavy."

Denethor opened the door, a frown upon his face. When he noted the pleading in Indis' eyes, he relented. "Faramir. It is good to see you, my son. Why are you here?"

'Oh!' she wanted to slap him. "We have come to say our farewells. Faramir will leave on the morrow," she said as pleasantly as she could. "He desires a hug."

He put his fingers to his forehead. "Of course." Turning to Faramir, he took his hand and walked him to the settle. 'I do not have time for this,' he thought, chafing at the knowledge of what had to be done for tomorrow's meetings.

Denethor swallowed. "I cannot. When you return, we will go. I promise." The boy looked at him, tears welling in his eyes. Something in his memory awoke. "Come with me, Faramir. Let us to the garden." Taking the lad's hand, he smiled at Indis and walked past her, through the doors and into Finduilas' apartments. He opened the garden doors and walked through. Sitting on the stoop, he pulled Faramir into his lap. "I have not been feeling well these past days, Faramir. My duty calls me to Osgiliath. You understand duty, my son..."

"Ion nîn," Denethor said and smiled. "I have not been keeping my promises, have I?" The lad looked down at his fingers and twiddled them. "I know. I am sorry, Faramir. When you return from your adadhron's, we will go riding. And I will keep this promise."

"I will be gone, too, Faramir. You would be lonely here, all alone in the Citadel, waiting for me." His son turned and buried his face in Denethor's tunic, crying unabashedly. "I will miss you, Faramir." He put his hand on the lad's hair, bent and kissed his head. "I will miss you terribly. Remember that."

The sun caught and held him as they passed the Causeway Forts. It had remained hidden behind the Ephel Dúath since before they began their journey. Now, Denethor was heartened to see it. He looked towards Indis. Her smile told him its affect upon her was the same. Much as he loved Minas Tirith, he knew he belonged in Ithilien. His heart always lifted when he crossed the Anduin. This day, he would stay on the west side of the river.

His captains, those from East and West Osgiliath, from Cair Andros, the northern fortress of Henneth Annûn, and the southern fortress of Henneth Amrûn, all gathered. His heart lifted. Brave and stalwart men were these, the best of Númenor. Indis sat near his right. When the dining hall quieted, he stood.

"There have been numerous attacks, as of late, upon the lands of Gondor and of Rohan. Théoden King says they are sore-pressed. They will not be able to protect our western border as we would like. That is all well and good... and I suppose to be expected. Ever it seems our allies are sore-pressed." Quiet laughter greeted this subtle jest. "Prince Adrahil," he used the title though it stuck in his craw to give the man any measure of respect, "reports the same problems in Belfalas. Thankfully," he smiled, "we have our own men at Pelargir. I deemed it wise to keep Captain Gwinhir there, instead of ordering him here. The Haradrim devils have been too quiet of late. I do not trust them." Murmuring assent greeted this statement. "I want the garrisons here in Osgiliath reinforced. The Rammas Echor at the Causeway has been rebuilt this past summer and raised by ten handbreadths. It will protect Minas Tirith, to a degree." Mutters greeted this pronouncement; most agreed. Denethor raised his hand for silence.

Captain Durahil stood. Denethor nodded to the warrior from Cair Andros and sat down. 'Twas better to let them speak, think they had some say in what was to happen to them. He would suffer the captain this small amount of time and then do what needed to be done.

"My Lord Steward, I deem it wise to withdraw our people from the farmlands north and east of Amon Dîn. We cannot protect them."

Denethor, not expecting such a statement, began to rise, thinking furiously of the implications of the man's suggestion. However, Indis stood first and spoke.

"The men of Cair Andros are known for their courage and sensibility. Food, however, is desperately needed for that garrison and the garrison at Henneth Annûn. If the lands you speak of are abandoned, from where will you receive food?"

"More supply wains can be sent from Minas Tirith. The farmlands of Lebennin and Lossarnach will furnish all our needs."

"Lebennin and Lossarnach supply the entire southern part of Gondor, along with Minas Tirith and Osgiliath. The supply wains are already spread too thin. They also take supplies from the southern fiefdoms to the garrisons near the southern beacon-hills. They cannot possibly add your garrisons to their routes."

"What of Rohan? Cannot they supply the garrisons east of Edoras?" Captain Amlach of West Osgiliath asked. "Mayhap they cannot supply men, but food?"

"Rohan is recovering from a drought. Their fields have not produced their normal yield. They will not be able to help us," Denethor said quietly. "We will not abandon these farmlands. Not yet. But we will draft as many men as possible. I want the conscript age lowered to sixteen. Do not, however, leave the farmers with too few men to work the fields." He turned towards Durahil. "I will expect weekly reports from your garrison, Captain Durahil."

The captain knew he had best sit. The look on Denethor's face brooked no further arguments.

"Weapons are another difficulty. The forges of Minas Tirith are being run day and night as it is, and still we need more. It is time to build a forge here in Osgiliath. I have already commissioned one for Pelargir. Our workmen cannot keep up with the demand. A call must be sent out to find smithies to man these new works."

Captain Gelmir of Henneth Amrûn stood. "There are many young men in southern Ithilien whose mothers refuse to allow them to join Gondor's armies. Let me speak in the villages, my lord, and recruit these men for this duty. It is not dangerous and their milk-mothers can rest at ease, thinking their sons are protected." He spat as he spoke of the cowardly women of the southern fiefdoms. Shouts of approval rang out. "I will conscript as many as possible and send them to the smithies of Minas Tirith. They should be trained and ready for the new steel works in three month's time. Granted, they will not have the skill that those who forge swords for the garrisons of Minas Tirith have, but almost any sword can kill an Orc, if it be wielded by a stout and courageous warrior of Gondor." A roar of approval greeted this pronouncement.

Denethor smiled himself. "When you return to your garrison, send out two of your aides. I cannot have you hopping about from village to village. You have a little more worth to me than that."

"We are in agreement then? The draft age will be lowered; the farmlands will be scoured to bolster our garrisons, and two forges will be built and manned," he smiled warmly at Captain Gelmir, "by the sons of the mothers of Southern Ithilien."

Laughter greeted the decree. Denethor rued the fact that he had waited so long for this meeting. 'Well,' he thought, 'it could not be helped what with Boromir's ceremony.' The cooks opened the shutters for the serving area and the men pounced on the food set before them. Denethor smiled at Indis. "Thank you. That was quick thinking." She smiled back and offered him her hand. He took it and led her to their table.

The sea stretched out before them - calm, dark with the sky graying itself and touching the sea, making the line between sky and water indistinguishable except for a few touches of pink interspersed throughout. One large patch of washed out color showed where the sun would touch the sea and disappear. Boromir stood on his Naneth's balcony, his eyes straining, dry and burning, looking for the ship. It was past due and worry prodded at the corners of his mind. Faramir sat next to him, fast asleep, his head leaning against Boromir's leg. Adar had promised, in his last letter, that he would come to Dol Amroth and bring Boromir and Faramir back to Minas Tirith with him. Denethor had told his son to watch the waters; he would come from Pelargir. Two months had passed since his Uncle Imrahil had given him the letter. He breathed a sigh of relief; he was most grateful that he had said no word of Denethor's promise to Faramir. A tear rolled down his cheek. His uncle had told him how his Naneth would stand on this very balcony, watching the sun set. He missed her terribly. The flowers in the garden that spread below him filled the air with the same fragrance that encompassed her. The sun inched closer to the sea; he wanted to turn and go to his adadhron's hall. There was another celebration there tonight. He knew Faramir and he were expected, but he could not pull himself away. He rubbed his hands over the teak balcony, knowing his Naneth's own hand had touched this very wood, that she had rubbed her hands along it, just as he was doing, as she watched the sun set. His heart broke. Where was Adar? Why did he not come?

His adadhron, Prince Adrahil, had been more than kind as were all his relatives, but the family was busy with the ceremonies associated with the new prince's birth and to the care of Prince Imrahil's firstborn, Elphir, who was a handful by himself. Boromir felt lost, at times, in the whirlwind of activities that abounded in the royal family's home. He needed Denethor. A fortnight ago, they had been taken to Finduilas' crypt, buried deep in the bowels of the palace. Someone thought it would be good for the boys to visit it. But Faramir had cried for hours afterwards, and Boromir found the child in his bed every night since. Listöwel, had she been about, would have been furious, but she had gone to visit her own family in one of the little towns that flanked Dol Amroth.

"Boromir," the whispered voice caught him by surprise, making him turn quickly. Faramir's head slid down and bumped the floor. The boy's eyes opened in shock; he began to cry, very quietly. "Faramir!" Boromir knelt next to his little brother and took him in his arms. "I am sorry!" He stroked his brother's hair and kissed him gently on his forehead. "Please forgive me?" Faramir looked up and tried to smile, but the tears made the smile look ludicrous. "I am sorry, Faramir," Boromir repeated.

Prince Imrahil moved from the doorway and sat next to them. "Nay, Faramir. 'Twas my fault. I startled your brother. I am the one to ask for forgiveness. I was concerned. The banquet is ready and neither of you were in your appointed seats. So I came to find you."

"Then 'tis truly my fault, Uncle, for I wanted to see the sun set from Naneth's balcony and lost track of time."

"Then come with me now. Your adadhron has refused to begin until you are both seated." He picked Faramir up. Looking down at Boromir, he saw pain etched into the lad's face. Grief lay as a burden on the lad's body. He took Boromir's hand and walked out of the chambers. Boromir heaved a sigh and left the beloved room.

"We should never have gone to Cair Andros," Denethor stated bitterly. "I promised Boromir I would be in Dol Amroth over two months ago." He hissed. "I seem to be spending my time breaking promises to those boys."

"I too am anxious to see them again; however, the boat will go no faster than the winds that fill the sails." Indis had to bite her tongue to keep from lecturing Denethor. Three months it had been since last he had touched the Stone. He had become himself again, and for that she was grateful. His return to his old impatience wore her thin, though.

He stood on the deck and watched the land go by as the boat swept out into the Bay of Belfalas. They had embarked on the schooner at Harlond. Denethor had made his wishes about speed known to the captain, but there was naught the man could do. There was no wind. They had been on the river too long; the winds had failed them and the captain had been forced to use oars. The trip south had been tedious and boring. Indis and Denethor had spent most nights perusing their handiwork on the newest maps. The roads between Osgiliath, Henneth Annûn, and Cair Andros were perfect. Every river, every hillock, every ruin had been painstakingly added to the existing maps. A copy had been made and sent to the cartographers. Whatever happened after this, at least the Captains of Gondor would know where they were at any given moment. The winds had finally picked up, coming from the north at about twenty knots, according to the captain, as they entered the Ethir Anduin. It had taken them only a half-day to reach the bay. He could see Tolfalas before them. 'At last,' he thought, 'we are truly on our way.'

He smiled ruefully. He should be enjoying this trip. How often had he wished to make the same, but as captain of his own vessel! Never had the dream been fulfilled. It never would be. Mayhap someday Boromir.... Nay, his son would be too great a captain to confine to one ship. Faramir? Denethor had to laugh. 'I cannot even imagine that,' he smiled. 'Though the boy tries to be courageous, I think the first great wave to hit his ship would cause him to run in terror.' Suddenly, his brow furrowed. He knew that Faramir oft ran to his brother's room after a nightmare or during one of the monstrous storms that assailed the mountain city on occasion. How to break him of this habit? He could not, in good conscience, do what his own father had done. He could not. A slight shudder swept over him. 'The wind,' he thought, but his heart cried, 'Thy father.' He turned away and went below deck.

Prince Adrahil watched as the children of Denethor entered the dining hall. He rose and greeted them personally. "We have been waiting," he chastised Boromir gently. "Would you sit now?"

Boromir's face burnt with embarrassment. "I am sorry, Adadhron," but Faramir interrupted him.

"We were watching the sun set from Naneth's window. I fell asleep," the boy lowered his head and Adrahil had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

"I can understand that, my lad, the sea breeze weaves magic upon those who watch from that window."

Faramir's eyes opened wide. "Ada said the same thing a long time ago," he breathed quietly. "He saw an Elf from that very window." The boy's voice had raised almost an octave as he said the word 'elf.'

Adrahil stepped backwards. Quickly regaining his composure, he indicated where the boys were to sit. Then, he cast a sharp look at his son. Prince Imrahil only shrugged. He had heard no story of such an event himself, he quietly told his father. 'But,' he thought to himself, 'I will learn more from Faramir before the night is o'er.'

When the Steward reached the quay, Prince Adrahil himself was there to greet him. A Swan Knight offered his hand to help Denethor out of the skiff. The Steward forced the laugh back that threatened to engulf him. He knew his way about boats and how to disembark from one. Had not Adrahil himself taught him many long years ago! He motioned for the man to help Indis. Of course, she needed no help herself, but Denethor knew she would be gracious and accept the offer. The lines had already been tied off to the pilings; the boat stood still, and he stepped up onto the dock.

Denethor offered the Gondorian salute and Adrahil accepted it. He motioned for Denethor to walk ahead of him on the slim dock. When Denethor reached the end of the pier, he stopped and waited for Finduilas' father.

Indis joined them. The prince smiled and took her in his arms, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "My daughter spoke often of your friendship and what it meant to her; your kindness to her from her first moment in Minas Tirith. I thank you."

She returned the hug, tears spilling from her own eyes. "I loved your daughter from the very beginning because of my brother's love for her," she felt the prince tense and continued, "but I soon grew to love her for who she was. We became the best of friends. Nay, more than that even, for we called each other sister-friend."

"I know." He let his grip loosen and stepped back "Oft she wrote of your adventures together. Though you never did convince her to lift a sword."

Indis laughed. "She would rather we buried them in the ground than wield them, but she never spoke a word against our practice."

Denethor stood looking at the sea in front of him, the white and gray clouds scudding across the sky. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from sobbing. He had not spoken nor heard her name spoken by another in many years. The pain cut through him like a knife. Would this wound never be healed?

Indis turned towards him, ever aware of her brother's moods. "Will we go directly to the palace, my Lord?" she asked Prince Adrahil.

"I have a carriage waiting." He started forward, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

Adrahil started. "They are not, my Lord Steward. Nor are they at the castle of Dol Amroth. They are," he paused for a moment, "they are on an adventure with their Uncle Imrahil."

Denethor's eyes stormed, but he kept his voice low. "Why did you allow this when you knew I would be arriving today?"

"I knew no such thing, Denethor." Adrahil forced himself to speak calmly, but abandoned the Steward's title. "We have had no missive from you for two months. I know how your duty to Gondor has delayed you in the past." The hint of anger rang in his voice. "I supposed your neglect of your wife had spilled over to neglect for your sons."

Denethor's hand flew to his sword, his face grew livid red and his breath came in short gasps.

Indis held his arm tighter and pulled him, as well as she was able, away from Adrahil. She turned a withering glance upon the prince. "That was totally uncalled for, my Lord Prince," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. "If you will excuse us, I believe the Lord Steward and I will stay here in town this night. Mayhap your manners will have returned on the morrow."

Adrahil turned on his heel and strode towards the carriage. Entering it, he shouted to the driver to move on.

Denethor bent over, his hands on his knees, trying to calm himself. He felt run through by a sword. Tears ran down his face. Indis rubbed his back and waited.

At last, Denethor straightened. "If it had been my daughter, I would feel the same." He put his arm around Indis' shoulders and steered her towards the quay. As they walked, he felt his heart slow and a greater, deeper grief reach into him. He gulped back the sobs that threatened him. When they were near the dock, he stepped down onto a walkway and helped Indis down. They walked along the beach; he held her tightly to him.

"Nay. My pain must be like unto his. His daughter was given to my care and now she is dead. What have tongues been saying to him? What rumors of her treatment at my hands has he heard? Did I even come to bury her? To offer my sympathy? Did he ever hear from my lips the circumstances that led to her death?" He choked back another sob. "Nay! I was remiss. I should have come." He looked deep into Indis' eyes. "I have never been to her tomb," he whispered. "I still do not think I can go there."

She held him for a moment. "Listöwel was with her body when Finduilas was brought to Dol Amroth. She told Adrahil of Finduilas' last days. She would have said naught to him that was untrue. Where he gets this notion that you neglected his daughter, I cannot say. But he is wrong, Denethor. You know it in your heart. Let not grief and false guilt assail you."

"Rare were her visits to his home. How was he to know how she fared? I did naught to assuage his fears for her. I was too proud. He was too angry at my father's disdain for the house of the Swan. As much as I have endeavored to create a bond between Gondor and Rohan, I should have done the same for Belfalas." He sat heavily on a piling sticking out of the sand. "My grief kept me from her people. Now I pay for it."

One of Prince Adrahil's knights came into view. Denethor turned his back. The man stepped up to Indis and handed a note, affixed with the seal of the Swan, to her and stepped back a few paces, waiting, she noted, for a reply. She opened the missive and read it. She turned to Denethor. "Prince Adrahil sends his regrets at his behavior. He has sent another carriage for us and begs us to stay with him at the palace." Denethor turned towards her. "That is what it says, Denethor. 'I beg you to accept my hospitality.' What do you think of that?" she said, her voice mirroring the amazement in her eyes.

The road to Edhellond was not well tended; therefore, the party had to ride slowly, which was better for Faramir anyhow. He was not used to bumpy horses, he had told his uncle, and giggled as Imrahil laughed. "Bumpy horses, you say. I am sure you are used to the horses of the Rohirrim. Ours are not as good, I must admit, but they do love the sea smell and that is important for a Swan."

"I do not really know. Except that swans have always lived in Belfalas, great fleets and herds of them. Shall I call you Cygnet, Faramir?"

"Thank you," Imrahil said with a slight bow of his head. "I would most appreciate that. And I was impolite to liken you to a baby swan. You are almost grown."

Giggling louder, Faramir bent down and kissed his uncle's hand. Then he sat up again and patted those rough hands that held the reins. "You can call me a baby if you want to, Uncle Imrahil," he said quietly. "I love you."

A lump caught in Imrahil's throat: he had to swallow to stifle the sob, and blink to stop the tears that threatened to fall. He had missed these boys so much. Their family had been ripped asunder after his sister's death. He knew not whom to blame: his father or Denethor. His heart ached to offset the damage done to these little ones. 'Swans mate for life,' he thought. 'Yet, once the sweet Swan of Dol Amroth perished, we left these little ones at the mercy of...' He stopped himself. He listened too often, of late, to his father's harangues about the Steward of Gondor. He knew Denethor, had served with him, and found him honorable. And the love Denethor had for his children surpassed most that Imrahil had seen. Looking down at the ebony head that leaned against his chest, Imrahil vowed he would watch over these two, that he would do all in his power to reestablish the bonds of family broken by death, grief and pride.

Eärendil shone brightly the further from land they traveled. Denethor had not been able to sleep; thoughts of Boromir and Faramir haunted him. Their last parting had not gone well. Though Faramir seemed to understand why they were to be separated, Denethor knew the lad had not understood a thing. He had been more than brusque with his youngest. The memory of it drove him to the deck. Adrahil had been most kind to lend him this barc to take him to his sons. He had not known what had surmounted the prince's obvious anger at Denethor. Perhaps Indis had spoken with him. He only knew that, the morning after he arrived in Dol Amroth, the prince whisked him onto a boat to rendezvous with Prince Imrahil at Edhellond.

The captain had assured him they would be at the mouth of the Ringló shortly. After that, a short horseback's ride to Edhellond and then he would see his sons.

"You should arrive at the Elf Haven by nuncheon, though why anyone would want to go to a ruined Elven city, I know not."

Denethor kept his tongue. He had neither the time nor the energy to spend teaching a fool about the ancestry of the captain's forbearers. He had been surprised by the lack of knowledge of this son of Mithrellas. In fact, he had always been surprised at the utter ignorance of the people of Belfalas. Only the prince's family itself seemed the least bit interested in their ancestry. A cry pulled his attention away from these thoughts.

Boromir ran into the ruined building with Faramir right at his heels. Imrahil was hard-pressed to keep up with the boys.

But Boromir had seen something in the distance and was determined to get a closer look. Faramir would not be left behind. As they came closer, Boromir dug his heels in the ground, stopping so suddenly that Faramir ran into the back of him.

Faramir strained as hard as he could to see what Boromir saw, but all that lay before him was a statue. "Where?" he whispered back.

"There! Right in front of you," Boromir's voice rang with disappointment. It was only a statue. He was so hoping to see an Elf that his imagination had run away with him.

"Yes." Boromir would not let Faramir see that he had been fooled. "Of course it is a statue. Did you think there were real Elves left in Middle-earth?" He snorted to accentuate his derision.

"Oh!" Boromir turned to his little brother. "I thought it was an Elf too, Faramir. I am sorry." He took Faramir's hand and they walked through the building and back out into the sunlight. By this time, Imrahil had reached them.

"I would prefer, my gallant warriors, that you let your captain lead you on this expedition."

Faramir giggled and Boromir bowed. "Forgive us, my Captain," Boromir stated. "We will follow you wherever you lead us."

They landed on the western side of the Ringló and found a small garrison of Anfalas. The Swan banner that the captain's mate held convinced the fort's officer that they were in the employ of the Swan Prince and therefore, respectable. However, he looked sideways at Denethor. "You are no man from Belfalas by your tongue."

"I am not. I am a servant, however, of Prince Adrahil who has commanded me to lead this sortie up the river. May we pass?"

The man allowed it and gave them six horses for their journey after Denethor promised he would return them the next day. He said farewell to the ship's captain and set out with the five knights that Prince Adrahil had sent with him.

After a long climb up the steeps slopes of the river, the land flattened out and the ride was less strenuous on the men and the horses. Denethor's heart lightened. Though the land was quite different from that of Rohan, it reminded him of it - the wildness, the lack of habitation, the openness of it. He drew in a deep breath and realized the sea smell was definitely different from the plains of Rohan. Smiling, he urged his horse into a faster gait.

As the sun reached its zenith, he could discern ruins before him. Another hour's ride and they arrived at Edhellond. Denethor could hardly believe his eyes. Truly, these were the ruins of an Elven kingdom, like nothing he had ever seen before. He pulled his horse up and listened. Faintly, he heard noises in the distance. Children's laughter! He pushed his horse faster and rounded a building to be met with the sight of Faramir rolling on the ground, laughing hysterically, while a soiled Imrahil rolled with him. Boromir stood a little to the side; his stance looking as if he was not sure whether to laugh or scold.

Some sense made Boromir look up; he saw his father and came running forward with a cry on his lips. Denethor jumped from his horse and ran to meet Boromir. Both stopped within a hair's breadth of the other and saluted. Then, Denethor fell on his knees, grabbed his son and hugged him tightly. "I have missed you, boy!" he said gruffly, rumpling the lad's hair. "I thought you were going to watch for me... from your Naneth's balcony?"

"Oh! Adar. I so wanted to, but when Faramir told Adadhron that you had seen an Elf at Dol Amroth, he insisted upon hearing the whole story. And then they decided, Uncle Imrahil and Adadhron, that we must find the Elves." He stopped to catch his breath. "They said you were not coming yet." A look of pain filled the boy's eyes. "I waited, honestly I did, Adar. Until they said you were not coming." He repeated the phrase that had made him leave his watch.

Denethor hugged him fiercely. "I promised, did I not?" But then, at the look in Boromir's eyes, Denethor knew the lad understood that sometimes promises were broken. "I am sorry. I meant to come so much sooner, but the winds were not with us." He stood up and bowed. "May I have your forgiveness, my son?"

"Oh, Adar!" Boromir sighed. "Of course. If I break a promise, will you forgive me?"

"As long as you do not break your vows to Gondor nor to me, nor lose your honor, I will forgive you." He smiled and took Boromir's hand. Together they walked towards Faramir.

"Ada!" the boy screamed when he caught sight of Denethor and Imrahil held his ears again. "Ada! You came. You came." He ran to his father and grabbed him around the waist, hugging with all his might.

Denethor almost fell from the ferocity of the grip. "Hold, my son, you will knock me over. You are becoming quite strong."

With that, Faramir lifted his right arm, crooked it, and held it for Denethor's inspection.

Denethor put his hand around the little arm and gave it a small squeeze. "Yes, you are becoming quite strong."

Faramir's chest puffed out and he turned and looked at Imrahil. "You see, Uncle, that is why you could not best me just now. I am quite strong."

"Come, Lord Denethor, we have just finished nuncheon. I am sure you and your men are hungry?"

After nuncheon, they explored the old ruins further. Faramir did not let Denethor's hand leave his. For hours they walked the halls and buildings, marveling at the workmanship.

"It is sad to know they are all gone," Imrahil said quietly as they walked back to the clearing where they had eaten their repast.

"Are they really all gone?" Denethor asked. "I know, twice, that I saw an Elf at Dol Amroth."

They sat on carved rocks and let the last of the sun warm their faces. After a time, most of the company fell asleep, lulled by the sound of the wind in the trees and the sense of peace and contentment that filled the land.

"Where have you been?" Denethor held back the scream. "We searched everywhere? Where have you been?" He held Faramir out in front of him, his eyes burning with fear and rage and despair.

"But you should not have gone alone, Faramir," Imrahil chided. "You could have fallen amongst the ruins and we would not have been able to find you."

The hairs on Denethor's neck stood straight. Imrahil glanced over at him, mouth opened wide.

"I did, Ada. A very tall Elf with hair the color of... well, it was shinier than Théodred's, but it was still golden."

"Where?" Boromir broke in, ready to go find the Elf for himself. He could not believe his brother had seen one and he had not!

Imrahil drew in his breath and Denethor hugged the boy to him. "Why because of Naneth?"

"Because the Elves always watch over the children of Mithrellas. Who was Mithrellas, Ada?"

Denethor sat on the ground, hard, and pulled Faramir to him. "Mithrellas was one of your ancestors, ion nîn," he said softly. "She came from the far north with her friend. Somehow, they were separated. She decided to stay here and live in these woods. She is your... Oh dear, I have no idea how many names she might have," Denethor smiled. "But she is i naneth en naneth tîn. Your mother's mother's mother. And farther back than that even. You could call her Nanadhril, if you wish."

"Then that is why the Elf watches over Boromir and me. Because of Nanadhril." Faramir began to yawn and leaned his head on Denethor's shoulder. "I walked too far today, Ada." He petted Denethor's cheek, as he always did his Naneth's.

Denethor's mouth grew dry. Never had the lad touched him in that caring way. It touched his heart near to breaking. Denethor saw Finduilas before him, on the settle in the nursery, holding Faramir as Denethor sat by them, holding Boromir. The child would stroke his mother's cheek till he fell asleep. Denethor looked down. Faramir slept. And Denethor silently wept.

"Not surprised," Faramir answered him, a grin on his face. "When do they not device hideous machines to worry Gondor!" He reached up further and grunted as he tried to reach the next handhold. He found he could not use the same ones Boromir had used. His brother had indeed grown in the two years he had been away with his regiment. Now that he was back for an extended stay, Faramir just wanted to be around him and not speak of fighting, weapons, or Haradrim.

"This is different," Boromir countered, a little angry at his brother's flippancy.

Faramir stopped climbing, strengthened his grip on the rock he was holding, and turned full face to Boromir. "I did not mean disrespect." His cheeks flamed red.

"I know," Boromir whispered. He paused in his upward climb. "I sometimes grow weary of their plots. I... I do not know how father endures. He grows more sour every day. I was surprised at the look of him, when first I saw him last night."

"He has changed. Though not sour," Faramir stated, "but tired. Almost... weakened."

"Yes. That is a better description. Would that he shared with me the thoughts that disturb him enough to cause lack of sleep. His eyes are restless."

Boromir pulled himself over the last boulder that stood in his way, lent a hand to Faramir, and helped him climb over and onto the gentle sward high above the City. They both lay on the grass, catching their breath.

"He dotes on you, brother. And rightly so. You are fast becoming the talk of the Citadel. All speak of your deeds on the..." There they were again, speaking of war.

"You spend too much time with the wizard," Boromir said irritably. "Do you need to be hit over the head! How many times has he asked you not to converse with him?"

"I frequent the library. Mithrandir frequents the library. We sometimes discuss things, but I am there to read; he is there to do research. We do not spend that much time together."

"Mayhap if you told father that, it would ease his mind." Boromir rolled over onto his stomach. "He loves you, Faramir."

"I know it, Boromir, and I would do naught to hurt him. Would you have me run from the library every time the wizard entered it?"

"I am sorry. My tongue seems to be wayward today." Faramir stared at the clouds scudding across the sky, wishing there was some way to repair the rift that seemed to be growing between his father and himself. If he were not careful, he was even more afraid, it would cause a rift between his brother and himself. "Might you have a suggestion?"

"Go to him now. Tell him you are sorry. Tell him you do not meet with the wizard intentionally. Tell him you honor his council, father's council."

Faramir sighed. If Boromir went with him, there was no doubt that his father would see them. If he went alone, he was sure he would be told Denethor was too busy - come back later. Or at suppertime. And then suppertime would come and Faramir would be ignored as Boromir and their father discussed the weal of Gondor.

Boromir turned to him, a smile upon his face. "Little brother, I can almost hear thy thoughts whirling, thy sigh is so heavy. Never have I thought father didst not have time for thee and me. Do thou not, for thy own sake, Faramir. I believe he would sunder Mt. Orodruin itself, if it stood between thee and he."

Faramir looked up in surprise. "Boromir. I will listen to thee. I know what thou sayest is true. I wouldst not have him go anywhere near that accursed mountain." He shivered.

"If you are busy shivering," Boromir returned to the Common Tongue, "you might shiver over this... The Haradrim have bred some new kind of beast. They call them mûmakil. They are the size of a house with long tusks and they are bred vicious."

"I have not heard. Only one has been sighted so far. By the Rangers in Southern Ithilien."

"He does not know that you were much missed, brother," Boromir countered, smiling broadly. "But we will tell him!" And his laughter rang genuine. He grabbed Faramir's neck and they tumbled around, wrestling against each other till they both had to stop for breath.

The sun was setting behind them as the two brothers started their climb back down the mountain. "Careful, little brother," Boromir called up to him, "dusk is making it difficult to see the handholds." A gasp above caused him to stop and look up. Faramir dangled by three fingers.

"Hold on," he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady, "I will be there in a moment." He scrambled up as fast as he could, but he was not fast enough. Faramir cried out as his fingers finally slipped. He went crashing past Boromir, too fast and too far away for Boromir to even attempt to catch him. Boromir scrambled to follow, trying not to watch as Faramir hit rock outcroppings and continued his headlong plunge towards the City. Boromir climbed down trying to keep speed but with caution, so he did not join Faramir's deadly plunge. He knew Faramir would be upon the steel spikes that guarded the western wall of Minas Tirith too soon. He must stop his brother's fall now, but as fast as he scrambled down the cliff, the faster Faramir seemed to tumble away from him.

Faramir's hands kept reaching out, trying to grab onto anything that would stop his fall or slow him down. Handfuls of scrub and small bushes did naught to help. At last, as panic began to overtake him, he felt a sturdy branch hit his arm and he quickly grasped it and held tight. The speed of his fall almost tore the branch from his hand, but he held on, terror lending him strength, a grunt forced from his lips.

"I am here. Slow down yourself else you lose your own balance. Father would never forgive us if we both ended up dead." He tried to laugh to ease Boromir's fears, but a sob escaped him instead.

"Are you hurt?" Boromir asked as, at last, he reached his brother. Not waiting for an answer, he pulled him to his body and held him tightly. "You scared the stuffing out of me," he whispered words he had heard his mother say a thousand times. "Do not do that again."

Boromir sat back against the rocks and stared at him. "I should kill you for that," he muttered darkly.

Faramir started. "I am sorry." He looked hard at his brother. "You are shaking!"

"What did you think? Of course I am shaking. We are almost at the bottom. You would have been impaled on the spikes. I cannot believe you can sit here and laugh!" Boromir turned away, not wanting Faramir to see the tears that sprang into his eyes at the thought.

Faramir leaned close and kissed his brother's cheek as he did when they were children. "I am truly sorry, Boromir. It was fright that made me laugh. I know what almost occurred. I... I am ready to go home."

Denethor stared but said not a word; Faramir was limping as he came into the dining hall. 'What has he been up to now?' he thought ruefully. 'What mischief has he been into? He is fifteen, an esquire, and still he acts as a child. This cannot go on.'

Both his sons bowed and sat. The servants brought food and wine and left as quickly as they could; the scowl on Denethor's face warned of a bleak meal and they wanted none of it.

Silently, the family ate. At last, Boromir could stand it no longer. "Father. Have you heard of the beasts of the Haradrim?"

Denethor looked at Faramir. "I have heard. What I have not heard of is what mishap has occurred to cause your brother to limp."

"We climbed the foot of Mindolluin. A slip sometimes happens with the marble veins running through it." Boromir quickly stated.

"I slipped, Father. Boromir could not stop me from falling. It is just a twist of the ankle. I will be able to continue my duties."

"Father!" Boromir stood tall. "It was an accident. We almost lost him." Boromir began to shake again as the image of the spikes at the bottom of the mountain flashed before him. "We almost lost him," he whispered and sat down.

Denethor's face bled white. "You..." He took a deep breath as the implication of Boromir's distress registered. "It is dangerous on the heights. I have slipped there myself, once or twice."

"That is all I can ask." He breathed a sigh. "Though I ask you other things and you do not obey."

Faramir's face went red. He waited a moment. "I have never disobeyed you, Father. Not willfully."

"You deem your own council better than mine, my son. I sit and watch you. I see you listen to my words and then go off and do what you will, not what I will."

Swallowing, Faramir stood and walked to Denethor's side. "You have taught me to think for myself, Father. It is your hand that you see, not mine."

Denethor sat for a moment; then turned to Faramir, drawing the lad down, forcing him to kneel at the side of his chair. "When you think for yourself, my son," he whispered, "you should first consider what I would do, what my wishes are. Am I not thy father? Am I not thy Steward?"

The hairs on the back of Faramir's neck stood up. "Thou art my dearest father, the wisest man I know, and I wouldst obey thee. But I would not be your son if I listened and did not then do what I consider right."

Boromir laughed loudly. "He speaks the truth, Father. You have taught us both well. We have watched you in the Council meetings. You listen, then you do as you deem best."

Denethor smiled, helped Faramir to his feet, and turned to his food. "My father called me disobedient, but I never was." His smile faded at the thought of Ecthelion. "Never."

"Father. If you tell me not to do something, I do not do it. I have not deliberately met with the wizard. When we do encounter each other, usually in the Great Library, we speak only pleasantries. Then, I go about my business and he goes about his."

"Then keep it thus, my son. I only tell you this to protect you. Wizards are cunning. They have their own thoughts and ideas as to how men should behave. They would put their schemes against Gondor, against me, into your thoughts." He shuddered at the memory of Curunír. "I only wish to protect you."

Both boys had gone back to their barracks and Denethor was left alone in the fragrant garden of Finduilas. His breath caught; he always found it hard to breathe here as he looked upon the beauty that she had created and that Indis had kept in her memory. He bent down to smell one of the irises and smiled. These were the children of the irises that Amdir and he had sought and found in Ithilien, and brought back when they were children. Fragrant they were, more so than any other variety that he had ever seen. He was having more difficulty breathing and wondered why. 'Faramir!' he thought. 'Today, unbeknownst to me, I almost lost him. And what memories would I have of him? My own stupidity! I have been unkind to the lad these last years. I have missed Boromir so very much, his laughter, his quick wit, and his lightning sword stroke. I have not been able to best him in three years. And affairs of state weigh heavily upon me.' He paused. 'Whilst Faramir sits and watches my bitterness at his brother's absence grow.'

He bent his head in shame. 'I must attend his training matches more often. I must watch him and help him grow, as I did Boromir.' He finally drew in a long deep breath, sat on a stoop near the railing that overlooked the White Tree, and cleared his mind. The boys were right. He did not usually take the council given him. Long had he been under the tutelage of Ecthelion - the harsh tutelage of his father. He had learned so much in that time. He had at last discovered and accepted his own worth, bereft of Ecthelion's respect.

Boromir always obeyed him. When he spoke to Boromir, he had the lad's entire mind. Then, Boromir would agree with him and set off, immediately, to do his father's will. Faramir, on the other hand, would question him. He found it irritating. It was as if the boy, though only fifteen, did not trust his own father. Or that he thought he knew better, more. Denethor did not remember questioning his own father. Denethor did not dare question his own father. Why could not Faramir be more like him?

His chin quivered. It was better that Faramir was not. A tear slid down his face. Faramir was everything that he had been. A doting son, ever watchful, ever striving to please his father. Learning all he could to anticipate Ecthelion's... He shivered. Was it Faramir he was thinking of, or himself? 'Father,' his heart cried out in anguish, 'why did you not love me?'

Faramir looked down upon the garden from Boromir's window. He had gone back to fetch a knife Boromir had needed and saw his father in Finduilas' garden. Denethor was hunched over and Faramir could see his shoulders shaking. He bit his lip. Should he go down? Nay, his presence might be more disturbing than comforting. 'He loves you, Faramir,' he remembered Boromir telling him. It was a hard truth to accept, what with how Denethor had treated him recently. He had been glad to move into the barracks when he became an esquire, away from the sullen looks at the dining table, the sideways glances as they sat before the fire in Denethor's study. It seemed all life had left his father when Boromir had been stationed away from Minas Tirith. Faramir turned and left the room and walked down to the garden.

"Nay, Father. Boromir was telling the men a tale and wanted to show them something. I received permission to go to his rooms to retrieve it. I saw you here. Am I intruding?"

Denethor rubbed his eyes. "I would have you sit with me for a little while, but you must ask your captain's permission. Faramir," he shook his head in disappointment, "you must learn to be obedient and to place your duty before your needs, or mine. Go and ask your captain if you might take another hour before you have to return to your barracks, but do not tell him I am asking for you. I would like to see you arrange leave by your own wit."

'I wonder.' Denethor smiled. Captain Húrin, recently returned from the garrison of East Osgiliath and newly promoted Captain of the Third Company of the Citadel, bristled with derision for all young esquires. He would not let Faramir wheedle his way around the curfew laws. The boy would not return.

He shook in fury. The lad had disobeyed, had snuck away from his own company. He stood and strode forward, hand raised, ready to slap Faramir as hard as he could across his face. "How dare you mock me? How dare you..."

"Father, I do not mock you." The lad never flinched. "I received permission to come here."

Denethor lowered his hand. He had never struck either boy; gratitude filled him that he was able to stay his hand. "You tell me Captain Húrin allowed you to come here?"

"I told him it was mother's birth date and that I wanted time with her. He let me."

Denethor shuddered, moaned and hid his face with his hands. "It cannot be. I have forgotten her birth date?"

"I wept for you." He lowered his hands and looked hard at Faramir. "I wept for what you are becoming."

Denethor bit his lip, clenched his hands upon the pommel of his sword, and strode back and forth in the moonlight. "You are becoming a soldier of Gondor. And it would have broken your mother's heart!"

The room was dark; the curtains closed for the night; all he heard was the sound of the nightjar. He lay quietly, barely breathing as his thoughts rushed through his mind, keeping sleep from him. The years had flown and Boromir had grown in stature, strength and wit. Denethor could not be prouder. After the first two years in the Citadel's garrison, the lad had been sent on sorties to neighboring fiefdoms. Captain Amlach had been badly injured during one of the many battles that the battalion from Osgiliath was confronted with and had been forced to retire from active duty. Denethor had commissioned him as tutor for Boromir. The man had shown himself a worthy captain, keeping West Osgiliath strong. He was also headstrong and would know how to control, yet not crush Boromir's own willfulness. Amlach, just two years past, had suggested that Boromir was ready for active patrol. Much as it grieved him, Denethor stationed Boromir at Amon Dîn. Though the garrison was only a two-day ride from the City, still he would miss their nightly meals, the weekly meetings. Boromir was never dull. Denethor's sleep-needy mind twinged with pain, but he still had to laugh. Nay, Boromir was not dull. In fact, the boy kept up such a lively conversation, Faramir still had trouble getting a word in edgewise. Most of it was talk of battles and such; Denethor could see his youngest flinch sometimes at the graphic nature of Boromir's discourse. Boromir was sorely missed.

Faramir suffered the most. Though the lad had been made an esquire the year before Boromir left, he was still too closely attached to Boromir. Denethor knew separation was needed. To wait further was to court danger. Faramir must learn to be his own man. The reports Denethor received from the lad's captain only confirmed this - that Faramir leaned heavily upon his brother for companionship and counsel.

But now, Boromir had returned. He had come of age on his last birth day. Denethor smiled. Within a fortnight, he would take the boy to the sward of Mindolluin and perform the ceremony. Boromir would be named Heir and receive the Keys of the Realm. Denethor's heart pounded in his chest. He remembered when Ecthelion had taken him to the secret place. The ceremony itself was short, but the feeling of oneness with all of Gondor, from that great vantage point on the mountain, had continued to sustain him to this very day.

Faramir and Boromir. Two good, strong sons. His heart near burst with pride. He had made the arrangements, the same his own father had done for him so long ago. He had procured three horses for the ride around the base of Mount Mindolluin, then sent a rider with the necessary supplies to be deposited at the appointed place. It would feel strange to not have his horn at his side. Strange indeed. But it was time to pass the gauntlet. Time to make Boromir Captain-General. He would not wait until the lad was older as his father had done. He wanted Boromir to feel secure in his station, secure in his knowledge that he was, indeed, Heir of the Steward of the Line of Húrin.

A shiver ran through him. 'What caused that?' he wondered. Mayhap 'twas thoughts of his own struggle with his father, with Thorongil, with the wizard. Had he been made Captain-General at his own ceremony, mayhap his path would have been different. He closed his eyes. So much pain from that time. Would the estrangement have occurred? Would not Thorongil still be with Gondor, serving her as Denethor felt he was meant to? For Thorongil had been a mighty warrior and wise, and, for a time, a good friend. All that had changed with the struggle for power. But who's struggle was it? Was it between Thorongil and himself? Or was it, in truth, between his father and himself? Was it leverage that his father tried to use to command obedience?

Obedience, that was the only thing ever on his father's mind. How often he had used it as an excuse to punish him. How often Denethor had been banished for not obeying. Yet, never once had he disobeyed. Many times he had stood forward and taken a stand when his father and the Council dawdled. Bitterness filled his heart. 'I cannot continue this. I must pull myself away from these thoughts.' He remembered Faramir's words from the night before. 'So my son does as I did? But I did not question my father, only those who counseled him. Faramir questions me! Is it now my lot to have my own son question me?' He turned over in his bed, pulled the covers over his head, and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep before anger and frustration made it impossible.

Other thoughts quickly supplanted thoughts of his sons as his mind continued its fretful pace. 'Today is the remembrance day of Finduilas' birth.' Tears quickly filled his eyes as the great bed he lay in screamed of its emptiness. He ran his hand over her side. As always, it was cold.

He saw her face before him, unbidden. Her bittersweet smile looked down upon him as he sat at her feet. She was wrapped in the cloak he had specially commissioned for her last birth date. Her eyes were filled with tears as the cloak's hem and throat were filled with stars. She had loved it. As he had loved her. He tossed and turned until the wee hours of the morning, assailed by minute remembrances; sleep finally came.

They rode out at first light. This would be an extended trip for them. He wanted to feel Boromir at his side. The lad - he laughed - the man had a quiet confidence about him, like unto Amdir. Denethor had always been the weaker of the two, he now acknowledged, mostly due to his father's scorn. Amdir, however, had held Denethor in the highest esteem, gleaning greatness from him. His brow furrowed as he thought of his friend.

Faramir moved his horse closer to his father's. "It is a beautiful day for a ride, Father." He had ceased calling Denethor 'Ada' the day he became an esquire. "Is there purpose to this outing?"

Denethor scowled. How like Faramir to question him! Boromir accepted his father's command to ride with him, not asking where to, nor for how long. Boromir was comfortable in his trust of Denethor. Was that Faramir's problem? Did he not trust his own father? Again, he remembered Ecthelion. The Steward had never trusted his son. Denethor felt anger course through him. Was it now his lot to have to earn his own son's trust? His right hand clasped and unclasped his sword's pommel. He would not! Facing Faramir with anger, he stopped the words that were ready to spill from his mouth. The look of hurt in Faramir's eyes cut him to the quick.

Boromir, sensing the tension in his father, rode forward. "I am hungry," he said pleasantly. "May we stop?"

Denethor pulled up and stared at his eldest as if he was some dragon come out of the sky.

"Father," Boromir, trying another ruse, rode close enough to touch his father's arm. "I think it is time we rested the horses."

Denethor leaned back in his saddle, took a deep breath and agreed. "We will not light a fire; Cook has prepared a cold repast. We will sit for half an hour and then proceed." He dismounted and handed his reins to Faramir. "Make yourself useful. Lead the horses to water." He bit his tongue after saying it, realizing his tone still carried anger mixed with scorn. Looking up, he put his hand on Faramir's thigh as the boy turned his horse towards the nearby stream. "Do not be o'erlong. I would have you sit with me." He had gentled his voice. The smile that filled Faramir's face almost crushed his heart. Turning quickly to hide his weakness, he walked towards Boromir. "Give Faramir your horse too and sit with me."

Dismounting and giving his own reins to Faramir, Boromir patted his brother's leg. "Hurry!" he mouthed, smiled, and walked back to Denethor.

Denethor smiled. Boromir had said, 'When we camp.' Faramir would have asked, 'Will we camp?' Denethor loved the easy obedience of his eldest. Boromir's captain reported the same to Denethor. He was an easy soldier, took everything given to him in stride, every command, and obeyed without question. Denethor stared at his son. Today, he would make Boromir Captain-General of all Gondor's armies. Though for the moment it was a titular step, Boromir would someday actually captain the whole of Gondor. Was this easy-going, no questions asked kind of obedience suitable for the future Captain-General of Gondor? He wondered if he and Boromir's tutors had been too focused on obedience.

Faramir walked towards them and sat next to Boromir. "The horses graze, Father."

"Another moment, then we will be off." Denethor stood. Too long in the saddle had made him stiff. He walked further away, contemplating his sons.

"He is not in the best of moods," Boromir smiled. "I will keep my mouth closed and I think it would be wise if you did the same."

Punching Boromir lightly on the arm, Faramir laughed quietly. "I have never been known to be quiet, but I will try to keep my tongue in check and my questions few."

"Do you not remember, as a child, rarely speaking? So few were your words that our father questioned if you would ever speak!"

"I do not remember," chuckled Faramir. "It seems questions flow through my mind as the Anduin through Gondor."

Denethor turned, signaled and Faramir ran for the horses, much to Boromir's dismay. How could his father say Faramir was not obedient when all it took was a gesture from Denethor to send Faramir scurrying away for the horses.

Faramir espied the hut before Denethor did. "Is that what you were looking for, Father?"

Denethor nodded tiredly. Long in the saddle after years of only short trips was causing stiffness in his knees. He smiled. 'I am getting old.'

The three men pulled their horses up to the hut. Denethor dismounted and handed his reins to Faramir, then went into the hut. Faramir smiled at Boromir. "Do you think we should make a fire?"

"Good plan," Boromir chuckled. "I am starving. There is probably feed for the horses in the shed. Would you remove their tack while I unload the hay?"

Faramir took Boromir's reins, dismounting himself, and led the horses towards the shed behind the hut. There, he unsaddled them, pumped fresh water into the trough, then pulled his tunic off and ducked his head under the spigot, soaking his head thoroughly. Just as he made to stand up, a hand held him down. He heard the pump being furiously moved and water gushed all over him. Boromir's laughter peeled through the shed.

Faramir wiped his tunic over his wet hair and blushed. "I... let my guard down. Will I never learn, Boromir?"

"You trust too much, little brother. Because father and I are here, you assume all is well. It makes me proud that you think so well of me, but you cannot trust anyone fully, Faramir. As much as we have to rely upon each other, you must still always be alert. Not only for your sake, but for mine, and the men you will eventually command."

Boromir shook his head, walked over to Faramir and hugged him. "Little brother, whether you want it or no, you will someday command even a garrison. You are the son of the Steward. You have duties. One of which is to become such a great soldier, not good, but great, that your men will trust you with their very lives."

"It is not that I do not want to command, Boromir," Faramir said quietly. "I do not think father will let me command."

Boromir leaned against a stall. "He will." He stopped and looked at Faramir. "You have grown while I have been away, little brother. But you are still an esquire. You have much to learn." Boromir chuckled, "As do I. When your time comes, you will command. Do not hurry it, little brother. I would you would stay out of battle for as long as is possible. It is not enjoyable."

Faramir attempted to pull Boromir down onto the floor to sit next to him. "We have hardly had a moment to talk since you returned. Would you tell me what you have seen, what you have learned?"

"I have learned that father will be most displeased if we do not join him in the hut. He is probably waiting for us as we speak. And I, for one, do not like to keep the Steward of Gondor waiting!" He offered a hand to Faramir.

"When?" Faramir asked as he clasped his brother's hand and stood. "Can we not speak tonight, mayhap? After father is abed?"

"We have no idea what the morrow brings, Faramir. We must sleep so that we are prepared for whatever it is that father is about. I wish he would tell us what the purpose of this journey is, but since we do not know, we must keep up our strength. There could be some test planned. We must be alert."

Faramir looked up as their father's voice called to them. "Then I will wait, but not patiently, Boromir. I have so much to learn. Most of it in my dealings with father. I cannot abide this separation that grows between us."

They walked together towards the hut, noting the smoke coming from the opening in its roof. Boromir smelled fresh rabbit and wondered what other goodies Cook had supplied.

He was not long in finding nor in finishing off the last of the meal. It was good and plentiful. He noted that there were supplies stacked against the wall of the hut. Cook had not sent the food they ate tonight of that he was now sure. He looked sideways at his father but said naught. 'So, this trip has been planned for some time,' he thought. 'To what purpose do we ride here?' he wondered. 'There has been no talk of attacks of any kind on Lebennin or its surrounding country. Yet, why would father bring us here?' He smiled. 'I am beginning to sound like Faramir.'

Faramir ate with his head bent. He had learnt, in these last three years, that his father did not like to speak during meals. Wiping his lips with his tongue, he wondered at the change. Always, before Boromir was sent off, they would sit and discuss troops and supplies, Orc activity and the Haradrim and Easterlings, stories of Númenor... this had all changed, once Boromir no longer shared their meals.

"I have not been here in a long while, Father. Did you come because this is the month of Naneth's birth? Are we to visit Belfalas?"

Denethor looked up in surprise. He had forgotten Boromir's penchant for chatting at the dining table. He smiled warmly. He had missed this. He missed so many things about his son. "We are not going to Belfalas, nor any further south, Boromir. We are going to climb Mindolluin and see what we can see."

Boromir looked at Faramir, his brow crinkling with questions. But he kept his tongue. His father would tell them what his purpose was, now that Boromir had opened the door. He tried to warn Faramir to keep still, but he failed to catch the boy's eye.

"Because I say so," Denethor spoke more harshly than he had wanted. He bent his head and rubbed his hand over his upper lip. He looked up at Faramir and smiled gently. "You were never so inquisitive when you were younger, when your mother was alive."

Faramir drew in his breath. "I do not remember that, Father. I meant no disrespect."

"Do you not trust me, Faramir?" Denethor asked quietly. "Do you believe that I know not what I do or why I do it?"

Faramir's cheeks blazed in shame. Before he could speak, Boromir stood. "I have had enough of this, the both of you. I am gone two short years and I come home to strangers. Father," he turned towards Denethor, "Faramir trusts you. Let that say it all."

This time, Denethor's cheeks blazed, but not in anger. "You speak well, my son." He turned and looked squarely at his youngest. "I do not question your obedience, Faramir. You have promised me that you will obey me. I wonder, have I lost your trust?"

It was Faramir's turn to stare at his father. "I cannot say I do not trust you, Father. My mind questions everything, everyone. I call it curiosity. My head sometimes hurts from the thoughts that swirl about it. Would you ask me to remain still?"

"I ask you to show me the respect I am due as your father and your Steward." He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. A pain shot through his own head, but he knew the source of it. "I will say no more."

Denethor turned away from both boys, took off his boots, and lay down, pulling a cover over him.

Boromir stared. He had asked his father to speak with him tonight. Alone. Yet, obviously that was not what his father planned. And, he was surprised at the suddenness of his father's dismissal. He turned towards Faramir. 'Wait,' he mouthed. Faramir nodded. Boromir lay down himself and Faramir followed his example.

Shortly after, Boromir stirred. His father's breathing was steady and quiet. He crawled to Faramir's side, woke his brother, and snaked across the floor, noting that Faramir followed. Once they were outside the hut, he stood, brushed off his tunic and walked to the horses' shed. Sitting on a bench in front of it, he started a small fire. Faramir joined him.

Faramir started. "There is naught to tell. He is the same as he has always been."

"If that is what you think, then you need more training in observation," Boromir said dryly. "Father has changed, and not for the good. I do not understand his barbs at you. I do not understand his closeness; he keeps things to himself. He used to share with me, with us. What has happened since I have been gone?"

Boromir now wished he had spent more time on the short furloughs that he had received to spend with his father and his brother. He only stayed a few nights in the City and would rush back to his company and his assignment. The exhilaration of being in the Steward's army was not as he had told Faramir. It was exciting. They had numerous skirmishes with Orcs and Easterlings. Boromir had found he was very good at battle, and the thrill of it, at times, betook him.

Yet, now he sat, convicted of dereliction to the duty he held to Denethor and Faramir. "I am sorry I have been gone so long; that my visits to Minas Tirith have been so short. I must rely upon you to speak to me; tell me all that has occurred since last I was home for a long visit."

"Father does what he must. Council meetings and such fill his days." Faramir twirled a stick in the small fire at his feet. "He spends much time in judgment. The people seem to grow wicked. Nay, that is not the word. Beggared? Uncertain? Spiteful?" He sighed heavily. "It is as if they have lost their way. They approach the Citadel with the most foolish complaints; neighbor against neighbor. I do not understand it."

Boromir shivered and Faramir asked, "You have seen the same behavior in the field?"

"I have. I have noted it among the men in my company, even. The landowners to the north of Amon Dîn squabble over naught. I have not seen the like before; else I never noted it before." Boromir's brow furrowed.

"The mountain rumbles more than it has in a long time, Boromir. Can you see it from Amon Dîn?"

"Yes, the whole range. Though we do not feel the trembles as much as we do at home. Do you think it is the One we do not name, Faramir, that causes this dissension?"

"So you lied!" Denethor's furious voice interrupted them. "You do speak with the wizard!"

Faramir scrambled to his feet as did Boromir. Cheeks on fire, Faramir opened his mouth to speak but Denethor would have none of it.

"I need not hear any more of your lies. Go!" He pointed to the hut. Boromir noted how Denethor's finger shook and nodded as Faramir looked towards him. "Go!" he mouthed. Faramir turned and walked stiffly towards the hut.

When Faramir was gone, Boromir turned towards their father. Denethor's breath was coming in short gasps. Boromir bit his tongue. Naught he could say, for the moment, would dispel the anger in his father's eyes. He sat quietly, took up a stick, and poked at the embers of the fire.

Denethor looked askance. He had expected Boromir to defend his brother, as he always did. Perhaps the lad was growing, learning to understand Denethor's anger and frustration. He sat next to his eldest, held out his hands for warmth and - sobbed.

Boromir stilled himself. He would not let his father know he had heard the stifled sob and wondered, pain filling his heart. Denethor, for all his anger, was still his father; the beloved man who taught him how to fish, how to wield a sword properly, how to hold his head up when he was being reprimanded by a superior. He had heard that his father did the same, when he was a child, with Ecthelion. Never had his father done the same to him. He wondered now why Denethor treated Faramir as he had just done. He kept still.

Denethor bent forward, placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. Finally he sighed, pulled his hands over his face, and leaned back against the shed. "You do not approve of my discipline of Faramir?" he asked quietly.

"He did not tell untruths, Father. Faramir has never lied in his entire life. You know that." Boromir hoped his father had calmed enough to listen to reason.

"Father." Boromir shrugged. "You are wiser than I. I know Faramir does not tell untruths; therefore, you must know it too. Is it the wizard? Would you tell me why you hate him so?"

Again Denethor rubbed his hands over his face. "I do not hate... I fear him." At Boromir's gasp, Denethor smiled. "When you were younger, you told me that I fear naught. You are older now, Boromir. Can you not see that even I, Steward of Gondor, can fear?"

"Of course, Father. I have been in battle now. I know what fear is. And it makes me no less a man to have it. I understand now. But I do not understand the fear you have for Mithrandir. He seems harmless enough. I have never once seen him cast a spell." He chuckled. "I sometimes wonder if he truly is a wizard."

"He is, Boromir, believe me." And the force with which Denethor said the simple statement caused Boromir to kneel at his father's feet.

"He was wont to spend time in the Great Library, when he visited. It was once my favorite place too." He shuddered visibly and Boromir took his father's hands in his own. "I do not know, I cannot tell you what he did to me, Boromir, but he frightened me. Not with words, or enchantments, but in my mind. I have long disciplined myself to never allow another into my mind. Yes," he said quietly at the pressure he felt from Boromir's hands. "He entered my mind, of that I am sure. What he did there," another shudder passed through Denethor's frame, "I cannot tell. I have no memory of it."

After many moments of silence, Denethor continued. "When Mithrandir first visited Minas Tirith, a sense of fear and disquiet filled me. Even though older, I still felt the familiar shudder of horror, yes, horror, fill my very being. Eventually, I was able to overcome those feelings. Your adadhron valued Mithrandir's counsel. He listened to him above me. I was not a child any longer, Boromir; I was a captain in my own right. Mithrandir valued a certain man who served under Ecthelion. Do you remember him, Boromir? Thorongil?"

"I do, Father," Boromir said unhesitatingly. "I remember him well. He visited our rooms at times, did he not? Ate with us?"

"He did. He was a good friend. For a time." Denethor bit his lip at the memory. "Father, listening to the wizard, was going to make him Captain-General."

"Yes. Thorongil was a great captain, Boromir. He had won an unexpected and decisive victory over the forces of Harad. When he came back from that campaign, Father was going to name him Captain-General."

Sitting back against the shed, Boromir drew in a great breath. "I can understand, to a point, Ecthelion's justification for such an action, but I think he was wrong. Are you sure Mithrandir suggested Thorongil be raised?"

"Nay," Denethor said quizzically. "I am not sure. I assumed. Mayhap it was the distant voice of Curunír. Ever I hear him rattling in my mind." Denethor laughed scornfully as Boromir stared at him. "Not actual words, but a sense that he still holds some sway over me. I oft wondered. There were times, Boromir, when I would not remember what we spoke of, when the wizard would hold me in his thrall. That frightens me to this day."

"Not frightened. Wary." His father's voice turned harsh again and Boromir turned the subject back to the one he was trying to save.

"So you were not strong enough, when you were Faramir's age, to battle the wizard?"

"I was not. And neither is your brother. He is soft," Denethor spat the word out as if it were some hated word. "I am afraid for him." His voice dropped. "I would not have him suffer the same degradation I felt, the same fear, the same..." Denethor drew in a long breath, "the same helplessness I felt." He smiled and helped Boromir to his feet. "You are turning into a diplomat, my son. So you are saying I must be patient with Faramir?"

Boromir smiled back, helped his father stand, and hugged him fiercely. "I love you both too much to see you battle each other. There are other foes for us to fight."

Denethor returned the hug, feeling the warmth of Finduilas through her son. "I love you, Boromir, never forget that."

"And I you, Father. I speak not on Faramir's behalf only for his sake. He is part of you, part of Naneth. You injure yourself when you disparage him."

Denethor looked long into his eldest eyes, sighed and changed the subject. "I had hoped to sleep some tonight. But I see I am thwarted in that hope. I have a few bundles that we must bring with us. Let us go back to the hut and get Faramir. It is time to leave."

Boromir stared, then moved forward. Entering the hut, he smiled at Faramir, who sat huddled by the stove. "Come, little brother. We are off on an adventure."

Denethor entered and began handing them carefully wrapped packages. Faramir's hand touched his and he looked long and hard at his youngest. "You are needed," he whispered. Then, he turned and left them. They scrambled to hitch on their swords, Faramir's heart had leapt at his father's whispered words; his eyes filled with questions. Boromir shoved pieces of bread and cheese into his pockets, shrugged and then followed Faramir out the door. They noted, as they left their little rest stop, Denethor was well on his way up the mountain and attempted to catch up with him.

Denethor bit his lip as he walked up Mindolluin. His sons followed him. Long hours passed; he knew it would take most of the night to reach their destination. He rued the fact that he had not had any sleep. Shaking his head, he smiled. 'I will sleep once this is over with.' Boromir and Faramir never said a word until he stopped four hours into their climb. The slope was steeper and they had all they could do to channel their energies towards the climb, not to speech. They rested but for a moment, then their father rose and climbed higher.

When at last Denethor sat on a slope above the City, both boys collapsed. He laughed out loud. "You are so out of training that you cannot walk up a little hill without breathing hard!"

"You," Boromir accused laughingly, "have known we were coming here and have trained for mountain climbing!"

"I did not," Denethor smiled. "But I am always in training. No time for frivolity for the Steward." He sighed to himself, 'Alas, there will be fewer opportunities for frivolity for the Steward's sons.'

He stood again and both boys groaned. Laughing, he turned from them and climbed upward.

Once they reached a small flat space high above the City, Denethor stopped. A lightening of the night could be seen on the horizon. Boromir collapsed, as did his brother. Denethor took the bundles from them and walked towards the middle of the spot. Boromir noted that there was almost no sign of human movement here, yet the area was free from brush and scrub. Denethor motioned them forward.

"It is time. Stand here, Boromir," he pulled Boromir to his right. "And thee Faramir, stand here." He placed Faramir on his left. Standing facing the east, he stilled himself and closed his eyes. His sons stood waiting and wondering. At last, their father opened his eyes. "Look at this scene before thee, my sons. As the sun rises over our land, so it rises over all of Middle-earth. We of Gondor are caretakers of this land, stewards, not only of Minas Tirith, but also of all Middle-earth, though some would begrudge us this, saying we think more of ourselves than is our due. But the men of Númenor fill this land. We do not know where all of them still reside, nor do we know how many of the Westernesse, the Faithful, live beyond our borders, yet, I am sure they do. And somewhere, my sons," he said wistfully, "the King of Gondor lives. We await his return."

Indis watched as the men rode off across the Pelennor. She smiled at the sight and prayed to the Valar that all would go well. Denethor was well away from the City for a time. He needed the rest; he used the Palantír too often, in her mind. She noted he had been having head aches of late. He would come from the Tower washed as white as snow. Never had he had the weakness that she had seen the one time, but still, using it drained him. She could not count the number of times she asked him to lessen his use of the weapon. He would hear naught of it. He deemed it too valuable. Many times had he seen the enemy coming towards Gondor and been able to send out patrols, in time, to thwart them.

She put the worry out of her mind, for the moment. She had many duties to perform while Denethor was out of the City. He had left her in charge of the tribunal - a duty that repulsed her. The greed, the envy, the sloth, the hatred that she saw too many times in the supplicants' faces frightened her. Slowly, she had noted her people's high character spiraling downwards. She had spoken of it with Denethor, but he had no reason for the change. She remembered watching her father's tribunal and not seeing such foul behavior.

As she sat on the Steward's Chair, waiting for the first petitioner, she read Morwen's letter. Théodwyn flourished with her husband. She now had two strapping children for Rohan. Théoden, whenever he visited Minas Tirith, never failed to regale Denethor with tales of the children and what fine warriors they were. Even the youngest, little Éowyn! Only two years old, and to hear the story they last heard, the child had already slain a warg. Indis laughed quietly to herself. She had chided Théoden for his tall tales, but he only smiled, kissed her, and continued with another fantastic story. She adored Théoden. He had grown to be such a strong and wise king. His father would be most proud of him.

The morning began as she thought. She put the letter down, sat up straighter in her brother's Chair, and listened as one after another came and accused a neighbor, a friend, even a brother of atrocities against themselves. Slowly, she realized that most of the petitioners were from the east, those who lived closest to the Ephel Dúath. Was there some reason for this? Had the One they do not name caused such rancor among her people? She would have to bring this to Denethor's attention, but first she would examine this, make a list of all the petitioners, where they came from, and the nature of their grievances. She was afraid of what she would find. Evil ever spilled from beyond the Mountains of Shadow. Did it now affect even her people's minds?

Berelach strode towards the Chair. Indis sighed with relief. She had sat for more than fours hours listening to her people's complaints. It was time for nuncheon. She smiled gratefully at Denethor's aide, then hitched her breath. The man's face was drawn. Something was amiss.

"My Lady," Berelach saluted her. "There is trouble in Osgiliath and Cair Andros," he said quietly.

She waved the last petitioner away and the Chamberlain cleared the Hall at her signal. "What sort of trouble, Captain?"

"Orcs spill from the Ephel Dúath and Easterlings from the Black Gate. A mighty army, my Lady. The garrisons will not hold at their present strength."

"Call the Steward's captains at once. I want them in Denethor's study within the hour. And have the alarm horns sounded every hour until I tell them to stop."

He saluted and left. The guard on her right moved towards her at a wave of her hand. "Ask Listöwel to join me in the study."

The guard saluted and turned to leave. She stopped him with a word. "Have food ordered and brought to us, once you have sent for her. I do not think another opportunity to eat will arise this day. And send for an errand-rider." She dismissed the man.

Staring unseeing before her, she wondered how the enemy had known Denethor was away from the City.

Standing quietly for nigh unto an hour, the three waited. Anor's first light broke over the mountains. Just the hint of light crept up behind the Ephel Dúath. As they watched, the sky lightened further. The black of the mountains heightened in color in contrast to the gray that slowly spread from the horizon. Orodruin itself blazed red now and again. Another hour and another passed by. The sun's true self rose over the mountains and they could barely see the molten fire in the blaze of Anor. At last, the sun rose fully, shining forth so brightly that they could no longer look at it.

Denethor took in a deep breath. "Didst thou see that?" he asked, his voice strong and firm.

Boromir creased his brow, trying to understand what his father wanted him to see. He kept still.

"Naught o'ershadows the sun?" Faramir whispered, not sure if he was bidden speak.

"I am proud of thee both. For years, I tried to hide thy mother from the mountains," Denethor's voice cracked. "I would show her the strength of Gondor, as I show thee now the strength of Anor. She could not see it. Or she would not. I know not." He swallowed hard. "Would that she could have seen Gondor from this vantage point. E'en at its height, the sun was o'ershadowed from her window."

He pulled his shoulders back. "We wilt speak of her no more. She is a sign of weakness. We wilt only speak of those things that give us strength - from this day forward."

"Ada!" Faramir whispered in horror and Boromir joined his voice with his brother's, "Adar!"

Faramir continued. "Art we not to speak Nana's name again?" Tears welled in his eyes and Boromir fought his own.

"That is my decision." Denethor clenched his teeth. "She bringest only thoughts of despair and death."

"Nay, Adar," Boromir spoke up. "She wast joy and love and laughter." Boromir put his hand on his father's sleeve. "Dost thou not know she was ill, in the end? Her illness didst not make her something to abhor!"

"She was weak!" Denethor stated shortly. He turned viciously towards his eldest, grabbing his arms in a powerful grip. "She wast weak and we canst not be weak. We must be strong, for Gondor. Thou must be strong for Gondor, Boromir! Like the sun, like the precious jewel that thou art! Thou must make thyself hard and strong and keep weakness as far from thee as Valinor is from this wretched mountain before us. Dost thou understand?" His face was twisted in pain. He shook Boromir in the passion of his words.

Faramir put a hand on his father's arm. "Ada!" he cried, "Thou art hurting Boromir!"

Denethor blinked, then blinked again. He looked upon his son, now full grown and taller than himself. He took in a ragged breath and let his hands fall.

"We have..." He paused for a moment to collect himself. Boromir shot a look of gratitude at Faramir.

Denethor sat down in silence on the soft green grass of the sward. He looked straight forward, but saw naught, only the face of Finduilas writhing in agony on her bed as the ground shook and he, kneeling at her side, trying to help her, to bring her back to her senses.

The horns of Gondor split the air with their warning sound. Denethor paled and looked towards the City. Naught seemed amiss from this vantage point. Boromir moved to gather their things. Denethor put his arm up and stopped him. "Please kneel, my son." Denethor said quietly. "I had other things I wanted to do. But they must be put aside for now. However, naught must stop this part of the ceremony at least, what we are about at this moment, for if this is not accomplished, Gondor will be weakened."

Boromir looked at his father in amaze. What could be more important than the warning calls of Gondor's horns! Shivering, he knelt, his heart racing, trying to understand his father's plans further than his scaring the daylights out of him with the hard grip, harsh words and his disregard for the horns' call.

"Today, thou hast come of age, my son. Long has the tradition of the line of the House of Húrin been that the Steward of Gondor, upon his son's coming of age, should confer upon him the title, Heir of Gondor. So now, my beloved Boromir, I do name thee." His hands held Boromir in a kneeling position before him. "Arise! Son of the Steward! Arise! Heir of the Steward! Arise! Man of Gondor! Arise! High Warden of the White Tower! Arise! Lord of Gondor! Arise! Prince of the City that Elendil founded!" He lifted his hands and helped Boromir stand.

Tears flowed down Boromir's cheeks as he realized what his father had done. He had not expected this, not this year. He had been taught that the ceremony would take place on his twenty-first birth day. What had made his father change the date?

"As is the custom," Denethor continued, "I pass to thee the Keys of the Realm. In further days, we will walk together and open every door, box, tower and drawer locked against thee." He handed Boromir a huge set of keys. "These are to be held in trust until the king comes."

"As is the custom," Denethor continued, "I pass to thee the Horn of Gondor." Boromir took a step backwards, drawing in a sharp breath. He was not to take the Horn until he was named Captain-General and that was many years away. Denethor took the Horn and removed it from his own neck; stepping once again in front of Boromir, he placed it around his son's own neck.

His eyebrow arched as he smiled. "I see thou knowest what this means. I am glad thou art so sharp-witted. With this Horn, I confer upon thee the title of Captain-General of all the Armies of Gondor and Captain of the White Tower."

Boromir stepped back again in amaze. He was not even a Captain of Gondor yet; how could he be her Captain-General?

Denethor smiled warmly. "Today, I name thee Captain of the garrison of Eilenach. The people will know thou art captain only. Faramir is witness to thy further titles. Of course, those who are astute in the ways of Gondor, especially the other captains, wilt know, when they see the Horn of Gondor on thy person, what has transpired. And thou wilt have their respect for the title. But thou must still earn their respect, Boromir; that I cannot give thee."

"Here." Denethor pulled a long sword from the packages they had carried up the mountain. "Here is the sword of the Captain-General, made by the smithies of Gondor. And a dirk to match it. Swear that thou wilt wield it for Gondor's defense, my son."

"I swear it, my Steward," Boromir said, his own voice cracking as he looked with awe at the beautiful blade in his hands. It was heavier than any blade he had ever held, but it was fair and strong. The workmanship was exquisite. The blade's flattened diamond shape and equally wide fuller reduced its weight, yet retained strength in the end of the blade by stopping just short of the tip. The guard, similar to that of his father's sword, showed a warrior's flourish in that it was formed from a square-edged piece of steel that had been twisted before being curved into a crescent. The handgrip was wide like the blade, and the pommel was an elegant and simple piece of steel that added weight to balance the blade. He looked at his father in love. "I swear, Father, that I wilt wield it as thou hast wielded thine, in strength and fortitude and perseverance with honor and courage."

Impulsively, Boromir stepped forward and hugged Denethor, the sword still in his hand.

Faramir found the sheath and belt in the packages and brought them forth. "If I may, Adar?" he asked and Denethor granted his request. Boromir turned towards his little brother and Faramir clasped the belt around Boromir's waist; then attached the sheath to it. Boromir kissed the blade, barely choking back further tears and sheathed it. His hands trembled as he held onto the pommel. He was the Heir. He was Captain-General of Gondor. He was loved and respected by his father and his brother. He would not fail them, he swore quietly, nor Gondor.

"There are..." Denethor began but the horns sounded again. Denethor blanched. "Come, my sons. We are needed." They scrambled to gather their things, then hurtled themselves down the mountain. The horns cried, 'Gondor is in desperate need of her Steward.'

They reached the hut as the sun descended behind the White Mountains. Faramir quickly built a small fire and boiled water for tea. Boromir checked their mounts. The horses looked rested and ready. Denethor sat, his eyes distant. "I should have looked before I started this venture," he mumbled quietly. Boromir stared at him as he entered the hut, wondering what his father spoke of. Faramir only shrugged while rummaging through their supplies. There was enough meal left for a small dinner. They would have to go without breakfast. The tea was ready and they sat and ate in silence. At last, Denethor stood.

"Father, you did not sleep last night and the climb up and back down the mountain was strenuous. You must... we must rest else we fall from our horses in exhaustion."

Faramir joined with Boromir - both boys were concerned for their father and both boys rued the fact that they had been the cause of their father's lack of sleep the night before. "The horses are rested and ready, Father. We will have no trouble pushing them. If we take but two hours rest now, we should arrive at the Great Gate by midnight."

Denethor stood - torn. Finally, rubbing his hand over his face, he agreed. All three lay down and slept immediately. Precisely two hours after they had fallen asleep, Denethor was awake, stoking the fire. He made tea quickly, then shook Boromir. "Prepare our horses; we leave in a quarter hour." Boromir nodded and ran to the shed. Denethor called Faramir who rose and began packing the last of their supplies. He handed his father a biscuit and ate his as he packed. Boromir returned. "We are ready, Father." Denethor nodded. Adding the packs to the horses, they quickly mounted and headed east. There was no moon nor stars to guide them, but Denethor knew this land well. His sons followed.

Gelmir, Captain of Henneth Amrûn, and Gwinhir, Captain of the garrison at Pelargir stood beside Derufin and Duilin. They spread maps out on the study's table - maps that Denethor himself had made - of Northern Ithilien. Gildor, Captain of the First Company, and Gorlim, Captain of the Second, stood at Indis' side. Berelach waited quietly near the door. Ever his heart and mind waited for his Captain-General. He felt lacking without his Steward beside him.

"We will send one battalion to Cair Andros and one to Henneth Annûn. You will command them, Gildor, from West Osgiliath. Gorlim, you will send a battalion to Henneth Amrûn and one to East Osgiliath. You will command from West Osgiliath also." Gildor nodded to his aide; Derufin saluted and left. Gorlim did the same and his aide, Duilin, saluted and left.

Indis smiled. "Dúinhir's sons appoint themselves well." Both captains smiled and agreed.

"They are becoming the mightiest archers in all of Gondor," Gildor stated proudly.

"Gelmir," she turned to the captain, "you will place your four companies under Gorlim's command. Gwinhir, I will not send any further men to Pelargir as of now. I want no troops moved from West Osgiliath. You are sure there was no sign of attack on either of your posts?" she asked Gelmir and Gwinhir. Both captains said, nay.

"I cannot appropriate men from Amon Dîn nor from Pelargir," Indis continued. "I fear further attacks may be imminent." All four nodded in agreement. "The signal came from Cair Andros two hours ago, as well as the signal from Osgiliath. Methinks that means they were attacked at the same time. Which leads me to believe that they are keeping their strength together; Easterlings only attacking Cair Andros and Orcs only attacking Osgiliath."

"I agree, my Lady, since they attack from the north and the east; I would have expected an attack from the south. There has been none. Though no signal has been sent from my men, I have been away far too long. By your leave, Lady Indis, I would return to my garrison?" Gwinhir petitioned.

"Of course, Gwinhir. And you too, Gelmir. The Steward thanks you for your reports to the Council this past week. Keep the signals ready. I would know of your need at first sign of attack."

"Naught. I sent four errand-riders for reports as soon as the alarm was given. I do not want to light the beacons, as of yet, though I fear we might soon."

"Nay. For information. We must know how our allies fare. The same for the southern beacons. I would know what is happening along the coast, with Belfalas. I sent another two riders to Dol Amroth. I will not recall the battalion that trains in Lossarnach, not yet. Moving the First and Second Company's troops from Minas Tirith will leave her practically defenseless, with only the men of the Third Company and the Tower Guard to protect her."

Turning red, Gorlim said, "I believe Gildor wondered about the Lord Steward's foresight."

Shaking with anger, Berelach strode forward. "The Lord Steward knows everything. Mayhap this is a test of your readiness."

Indis put up her hand for silence. "The Lord Steward indeed has the gift of foresight, but that does not mean," she looked hard and long at Berelach, "that he knows everything, nor can he discern the plans of the enemy even before the enemy knows his own plans."

Gorlim gave a small laugh. "Of course, my Lady." He apologized quickly. "The Steward has shown," again his face turned red, "amazing abilities at times. His men, in their love and admiration, forget he is human, after all."

"He is all too human and relies heavily upon his captains to keep their heads and do what is needed." She gently reprimanded them all. "He will return on the morrow and be pleased that we have begun Gondor's response."

They bowed, saluted and left, hoping their indiscretion would not be reported to their Captain-General.

"Berelach, I appreciate your loyalty to my brother, but you must control yourself."

"My Lady, I will." His pained look made her relent. He spoke again, this time in a softer voice. "I see what he does for our people; I see the strain he puts his body through for Gondor."

"He goes to the Tower, almost daily, and..." he bit his lip, "when he returns his eyes are glazed, his step weak. I know not what he does there, but it takes its toll, whatever it is. I know it is for Gondor's weal, but I fear for him."

"Would that others were so observant," she said bitterly. "How often does he go there, Berelach?" She was becoming worried; she had noted her brother's weariness.

"Once a day!" she almost shouted. "Berelach, you must tell me the next time he goes there."

She turned towards the map-covered desk. "When he returns, you will be the first to know. Please send a messenger to me. I must see him before..." She took in a shuddering breath; then waved Berelach away. 'I must stop him. This is too much. He will waste away to nothing; eaten up by that... thing!'

Listöwel appeared as soon as she noted all had left the room. "Indis!" she cried as she saw her friend leaning over and holding onto the desk, her knuckles showing white from the grasp of the hard wood.

Indis collapsed in her arms. Leading her towards a chair, Listöwel called for the guard. When he entered, she ordered a healer brought.

"I am afraid for Denethor. He does not sleep, nor hardly eats. There is naught I can do for him, but I must try. Forgive me, dearest sister-friend, for causing you alarm."

"I am only alarmed because I love you. I would not see you suffer if there is aught I can do to prevent it!"

They rode their horses hard, each man silent, knowing that the hourly blowing of the alarm meant Gondor was under attack. As they approached the Rammas, Denethor pulled up.

"Boromir." His son pulled up next to him. The Steward placed his hand on his eldest's shoulder. "We will part ways here. You must put aside your new command whilst we take up the burden of this assault. Ever the enemy attacks Osgiliath. I am sure this latest is against the old capital. Go there now and report to Captain Guilin. Do what he needs!" He looked long and hard at his son. "You have the Horn. Ever have the Steward's blown it before leaving on a mission. Do so now. It will put fear in the hearts of our enemy and courage in the hearts of our men! But, do not wind it again unless at your final need. Its sound is known even to the Orcs. They will step back, if only for a moment. That should avail you the time needed to escape." He heard Faramir suck in his breath, knowing what his father's words meant. "Tell the captain I want reports every four hours. And - take care, ion nîn. Return to me!" He pushed his son away and turned his own horse towards the City.

Boromir tentatively put the Horn to his lips. His father did not look back. He took a deep breath and blew with all his might. A squeal came out of the Horn and Boromir reddened.

Boromir smiled. "I wish I had had a moment to try this in some secret place, Faramir, not here on the Pelennor itself with the wind carrying the pitiful sound to the very walls of the City." He lowered his head for a moment, then blew again. A clear, rich sound rent the air. Boromir's face lit up, as did Faramir's.

"That was wonderful!" Faramir cried. Boromir smiled, hugging him fiercely. "Farewell little brother. Keep the City safe for me!"

Faramir's eyes stung with tears as he watched Boromir wave to him, then ride off.

Denethor rode like the wind. Faramir could not catch him, but continued to follow. They passed the Harlond. Their horses' flanks were covered in white sweat, mouths frothed. Denethor, wanting to reach the City as quickly as possible, still bled for his stead's pain. Finally, Denethor's horse stumbled and fell. Faramir pulled up and jumped off his own horse. Denethor was already standing, a dirk in his hand. As Faramir watched in horror, Denethor shoved the blade into his mount's heart. Sobbing, Faramir looked away.

"There is no time for weeping," his father spoke, but Faramir heard the sound of unshed tears in Denethor's voice. "The leg was broken. You must walk for a time," he said as he mounted Faramir's horse. "I will send someone with a mount." He turned, kicked hard with his heels, and left Faramir by the dead carcass.

Once, Denethor looked back and saw Faramir kneeling by the fallen horse. He shook his head. 'Too soft,' he thought sadly, 'too soft. He will be Orc fodder before he is twenty.' His breath hitched as he forced himself to face forward.

Silver trumpets rang through the air as he neared the Great Gate. He heard shouts of recognition and hope from the soldiers lining the wall. It lifted his heart. A lone rider, with a horse in tow, passed through the gate and rode hard towards Denethor. Squinting, Denethor noted it was Berelach. Gratefully, he changed mounts. Berelach left the spent horse there, knowing others would retrieve it and the Steward's son. Berelach rode behind his lord till they reached the gate at the Sixth Level. Ready hands helped them down and took their horses from them. The feel of the Citadel's marble under his feet filled Denethor with strength. He breathed a sigh of relief; he was where he belonged.

While they had ridden, Berelach could not share the news, but as soon as they dismounted, his aide launched into a full report. By the time they reached the Great Hall, Denethor knew everything that had happened these past two days. At the Hall, Denethor turned right and headed towards the Tower.

"My Lord," Berelach called, "I have food prepared. Would you not stop for a moment?"

Denethor never acknowledge his aide's words, just continued on into the Tower and up the long stairs. If he had had the strength, he would have taken the steps two at a time, but he found himself instead holding onto the rail the last few flights. Never had he felt such weariness. He was all but spent. Finally opening the door, he took a deep, steadying breath, and walked in.

It sat there, under the silken cover, waiting patiently for him. It knew he would come.

Before stepping towards it, Denethor turned to his left and looked out upon the Pelennor. He wondered if Boromir had reached Osgiliath yet. There was smoke coming from across the river, black and thick. It all but obscured the foothills of the Ephel Dúath as the first touch of the full moon broke through. He had been proved right again; the battle was for Osgiliath.

Taking another moment, he turned, then took five paces to the upright support. Pulling the cloth away, he noted the gentle hum that had, of late, greeted him when he removed the covering. Swallowing, he put his hands to either side and closed his eyes. Immediately, they flew open as pain lanced between his eyes. He shuddered and forced his eyes closed again, using all his will to control this thing, this tool, this weapon. His breath calmed, the pain lessened, and Denethor knew the stone would do his bidding.

Faramir stood on the Pelennor and watched the fading forms of his brother, riding off in one direction, and his father, in the other. Gulping back tears, he waited, his thoughts flowing in a thousand different directions, only two with any purpose: one with Boromir, one with Denethor. As he watched, his father entered the gate as another rider left it, heading towards him. Faramir licked his lips in wonder at his own temerity, but he had made his decision.

The rider stopped and held out the reins of the extra horse. Faramir nodded, took the reins, mounted and turned the horse east. The rider, caught unawares, called after him, but Faramir had ridden fast and was far ahead. The groom sat, unsure as to what he should do. Finally, he turned towards the City. What would he tell the Steward?

Berelach stood waiting, expecting her to act, but she did not. She accepted his report of Denethor's arrival and subsequent withdrawal to the Tower with hardly a glance. He did not understand it at all. When he had first reported that the Steward daily went to the Tower, she had reacted quite strongly. He would keep quiet. Once he was relieved, he would return to the bottom of the stairs and wait for his Steward.

The sun had barely risen above the Ephel Dúath and long shadows crossed the fields before her. Indis shook herself and dismissed Denethor's aide. Denethor was still in the Tower, but that could not be helped. She knew whatever words she would use would not sway him, not with the battle at hand. Harsh dark lines sliced through the verdant land, turning it from a garden of Gondor into a wasteland. She shivered as she beheld it - never had it looked so barren, so desolate, even when the winter winds dried it out and the empty fields stood in stark contrast to their spring and autumn splendor.

Once darkness was replaced by morn, she moved towards Merethrond. There would be no feast this evening. She would not even have to inform their guests. All knew, with the battle raging on two fronts, that none would celebrate the coming of age of the Twenty-Seventh Ruling Steward of Gondor. She spoke quietly with the cooks and servants, then left the dining hall. The food would not be wasted; what little the family needed would be sent to their private dining room and the remains would be taken to the First Level and distributed to the poor. The goodwill earned would help ease the burden that would soon be placed upon the food supplies, if the battles went ill.

Indis wondered where the boys were. Faramir had probably retired to his own rooms, exhausted from the last two days activities. Boromir would surely go to his friends, take them to the nearest inn, and celebrate the honor bestowed upon him. It would be a short celebration. Boromir would know that, later today, Denethor would send him back to Amon Dîn. She moved to their dining room, sat and waited for her loved ones to join her for the breaking of the fast.

Boromir rode swiftly towards the Rammas, his heart in his throat as he watched thick black smoke rise before him. Shouts of battle assailed his ears. 'Has the enemy crossed the river? Has he breached the city?' A hand reached out to stop him at the gates of the great wall, but he shouted the password, batted the hand away, and continued on. Sorry he had to treat the guard such, he was only obeying orders after all, but a panic had welled in the new Captain-General's heart and he deemed hurt feelings a small sacrifice for the needs of Gondor.

In only a short time, he stopped before Captain Guilin. He remembered little of this captain. They had gone through training at the same time, but the captain was four years ahead of him and they rarely spoke, except during matches, which most often Boromir had won. Boromir saluted and Guilin looked startled. "Captain Boromir reporting. The Lord Steward has placed me under your command to do what you will."

Boromir saw Guilin's eyes look towards the horn. He had pushed it behind him when he dismounted, but the action of saluting brought the thing slightly forward. Boromir blushed. He wanted to be only a captain, at the moment; he did not need to be burdened with wondering if others were upset, confused, or angry at this new title. He had not earned it.

"We have just been joined by a battalion from Minas Tirith, under the command of Captain Gorlim. If you are to report to anyone, I would suggest it is to him."

"Who sent...?" Boromir bit his lip. It was not his place to question orders. "Thank you, Captain. Where might I find Captain Gorlim?"

Boromir saluted. He turned, discovered his horse had been taken to the stables, and ran towards the bridge.

Captain Gorlim was easily found. The man had to be as tall as Lord Forlong. His head stood above all the others on the parapet. Boromir strode forward, saluted and waited. Gorlim caught sight of the Horn also. Boromir wondered if he should hide it somewhere. 'Nay! 'Tis the Horn of Gondor and it has been given to me. I will learn how to accept whatever response I receive when its presence is noted.' He stood a little taller.

"Two, my Lord. You are to send updates every four hours to the Lord Steward. And, I am to report to whomever is in charge of Osgiliath and offer my services as Captain of Gondor."

Gorlim stared at the young man before him. "Where were you stationed before this?"

Boromir was beginning to lose patience. Gorlim, if he had attended any Council meetings at all, which Boromir knew he had, was aware of the doings at Amon Dîn. Though the garrison was not in the thick of things as Cair Andros and Osgiliath were, they had seen their fair share of fighting. Orcs and Easterlings attacks were not unknown. But Boromir curbed his temper and answered evenly, "Not as much as I will see here, Captain, but I have been involved in a few skirmishes."

'So, the boy knows enough not to boast.' Gorlim turned towards the eastern city. "I have lost five captains already during the night. You will, indeed, see much more action than you want to. Go to the barracks, find yourself a place to sleep, take some rest, and return to me in two hours."

Gorlim watched the Steward's son leave. The boy looked spent. "Hold a moment!" he shouted as a disturbing thought assailed him. Boromir had not had the Horn the last time Gorlim had seen him. 'When was that?' he wondered. 'Ah, yes, only a week ago, when the boy returned for a short leave. So the Steward had the ceremony?' Gorlim was surprised. 'It should have been done next year, if I remember Boromir's age correctly. Why did Lord Denethor do this now?' He shivered. 'Did the Steward know that the enemy was going to attack? Was Boromir's ceremony done in preparation for this?' All who served under the Steward knew of his foresight. To have it shown to him so clearly was disconcerting.

"Go. And return to me in four hours," he ordered, noting Boromir's quizzical look and turning from him. He had been afraid the lad had been out celebrating last night. But he had not time. No wonder he looked spent. They must have ridden as soon as they heard the alarm. He should have known the Steward's son would know his duty.

'Now what am I going to do with the lad? The posts here are all dangerous. The Steward knows that. Where am I to place him that he will not be killed within the first five minutes of his new position?' Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hand, the captain looked east again. Fire was spreading in the city. He could not keep Boromir from danger. He would have to be sent across the river. He sighed and moved towards his maps. Duilin stepped forward.

Boromir ran across the bridge and to the barracks. He had been here before many times. During training, Húrin brought him here. He wanted Boromir to feel the destruction wrought by the enemy; he wanted him to know what he was fighting for and against. As he turned towards the barracks, he passed the kitchen. His stomach was empty, had been for almost a day now. He walked in and was immediately greeted by no less than five shouts. Many of his friends from training were sitting around tables, resting while they had a moment. He sat next to Iorlas. Immediately a serving boy brought food and ale. Listening attentively to Iorlas' assessment of the battle, Boromir ate quickly. When he was finished, he stood up, apologized for leaving so soon, and headed for the barracks. He found an empty cot and flung himself down, falling asleep immediately.

"Stay!" Faramir heard the shout and quickly pulled his horse up. "What is the password?"

Faramir shook his head. "I am on the Steward's business and must reach Osgiliath."

"None pass unless I hear the password." The guard said, still stung by this one's brother's insult.

Faramir sat, perplexed and angry. 'What am I going to do? I do not have the password. I am not even supposed to be here.' But he wanted to fight alongside Boromir. He wanted to be near his brother. His father's words made it quite clear that Boromir might not return from this duty. 'I cannot let him die alone...' He shivered. "Please send a missive," he said desperately, "to Lord Boromir in Osgiliath. He will vouch for me." Quickly scrawling a short note, he gave it to the man. "Give this to Captain Boromir."

The guard grumbled. 'Who does this upstart think he is ordering me about? And him just an esquire?' But this esquire was the Steward's son, and though the guard had the authority to block his progress without a password, he still best watch himself. "I will send someone as soon as I have a moment."

The guard swore and called one of his company. A young boy came forward. "Go to the barracks at Osgiliath and give this message to Lord Boromir."

Someone was shaking Boromir's shoulder. 'It cannot be time, yet,' he groaned to himself. 'It feels like I have only slept but moments.'

Boromir sat up, took the missive, swore as he read it, and put on his boots. "Get me a horse!" he bellowed and strode out of the barracks. Within but a moment, a horse was brought to him. He looked for Captain Guilin and rode towards him. "Forgive me, Captain, I have an urgent message to meet the Steward's messenger at the Causeway Fort. I will return shortly." Guilin nodded and Boromir rode off. He had not time to report his absence to his own commander. As brusque as Gorlim had been, he knew he was probably in for a reprimand when he returned. 'Why is Faramir at the gate? Is something amiss at home? But father would have sent a messenger, not Faramir. Is something wrong with Faramir?' He swore again and rode west as fast as he could.

After almost an hour's ride, he pulled up to the Causeway Fort and saw his brother standing, waiting. The guard looked none to happy to see him again. Before doing anything else, he must apologize. "I was on urgent business for the Steward," he said to the guard, "but that does not excuse my actions. I ask your forgiveness."

The guard swallowed hard. "Of course, my Lord. 'Twas your duty to obey the Steward and mine to obey my captain."

Boromir smiled. "Yes. Thank you." He turned to Faramir, pulling him away from the guard and walking with him onto the Pelennor. "What are you doing here? What is wrong? Am I supposed to return to the City?"

Faramir bit his lip, keeping his eyes on his boots. "I needed to see you," he whispered, suddenly very aware of what he had done.

The endearment made this even more difficult. "I was afraid for you... I heard what father said... I wanted to be with you... I do not want you to... "

"What?" Boromir clenched his hands to stop from screaming. None of this made sense.

"Faramir!" The sight of his brother in tears washed all his anger away. He stepped towards him and put his arm around his brother's shoulder. "I will not die, if I have anything to say about it."

"Do you have any idea of the trouble you are in? The trouble you have placed me in, Faramir?"

"Faramir. You are an esquire in the Army of Gondor. You have left your post. And you have made me leave mine. I do not know how we can extricate ourselves from this mess."

"You were tired and hungry and frightened. Too many burdens for one as young as you."

Faramir bit back a hot response as to his age. He had been wrong. There was no excuse for it. And now he would have to face his father. He shuddered slightly.

Boromir felt the shudder and understood the cause. "If I give you a missive as to my movements since I left him, say that I asked you to join me, he will be appeased."

"I cannot let you do that," Faramir said heatedly. "It was my decision. I must take responsibility for it. I will not put you in disfavor with our father for my mistake."

"I know," Faramir said quietly. "It would not be the honorable thing to do anyhow, whether I could manage it or no. I must tell him what I have done."

"Yes. Take this message with you; a missive from me might at least blunt some of father's anger." He quickly scribbled a note and gave it to Faramir.

"Thank you, Boromir. I will miss you. Please," and the boy looked at him with such pain that Boromir's heart clenched. "Please take care."

"I will, beloved brother. You too. It is getting late - you must ride hard and fast so they do not close the gate upon you."

He hugged him warmly, helped him on his horse, and hit the flank hard. The horse rode off, dust scurrying under its hooves, as Boromir watched. His heart was heavy as he turned and mounted his own horse.

As he listened to the bells in the City ringing the hour, Denethor thought of all the Palantír had shown him. Across the river in Osgiliath, fire was everywhere; he saw the bodies of his men, his warriors, strewn about on the road, the Crossroads itself covered in blood and corpses. The blinds that were so painstakingly dug and hidden were all destroyed. He could see arms and legs sticking out in different angles, attesting to the swiftness of the enemy's attack. At least six hundred men killed this one day in Ithilien.

He had turned north, once his stomach had settled, and saw the mass of Easterlings crossing the river, attacking the little island of Cair Andros, Gondor's closest garrison to the Black Gate. Rangers from Henneth Annûn had swelled the ranks of the fortress, but his men were still hard-pressed to stop the advance.

He had also seen Indis' handiwork. His sister was a marvel. The troops she had sent were the best he had, short of his own regiment, the Tower Guard. He could see their steady thrust against the enemy: Orcs fell back in droves from Osgiliath, returning to the mountains from whence they had spewed forth; Easterlings, struggling to keep their retreat fairly orderly, crossed the river, heading east. Grateful, as always, that he had continued to include Indis in the daily meetings with his captains, he smiled. She was a marvel indeed. The captains all knew she spoke in Denethor's name and had obeyed her completely. 'If she were a man,' the thought crossed his mind, 'she would be Steward.' His eyebrow lifted at the thought. 'And a good one, too!'

His eyes burnt from contact with the stone and he knew he would not be able to stand any time soon. As he had looked south, towards Pelargir, a horror had overtaken him and he had collapsed. When he came to, he had not the strength to bend the stone to his purpose. So he sat and waited. He must discover the cause of his alarm. Slowly, strength came back to him. 'It is time; I am rested.'

Boromir rode back to Osgiliath, trying to doze on the way. By the time he returned, he would have to report for duty. He was still amazed and confused by Faramir's actions. 'What was the boy thinking? Was he purposefully trying to anger our father?' He wished he could somehow have ridden home with Faramir, stood next to him when his brother faced Denethor. He could not. It had seriously hurt him to see the pain in Faramir's eyes. 'Why would he ever think I would let myself get killed?' he chuckled sourly. 'I do not intend to die on my first day as Captain-General.' Both boys knew, however, that it was a possibility. 'More than a possibility,' Boromir thought as he remembered the scene that day before him at the Dome of the Stars. The fresh troops from Minas Tirith were indeed pushing the enemy back, but the carnage that lay before him was terrible to behold. 'Of course, I did not expect being reprimanded my first day either - yet, that is what will happen, once I return.' He shook his head. There was no understanding his brother, at times.

He stopped at the kitchen once more as a groom took his horse, stuffed his pockets with cheese and bread, and filled a water skin before walking to the smithy. He left his sword and his dirk for sharpening, then walked towards the river. Iorlas was standing with a group of men, looking down. "'Tis an ugly sight, my Lord."

There had not been much rain this summer; the river flowed less swiftly than was its norm. As Boromir looked down its high banks, he gasped. At least a hundred swollen bodies covered it; most were men of Gondor. Their faces were unrecognizable, damage from the water and the hot sun disfiguring them, making them look like Orcs. But the black livery they wore, with the White Tree on it, marked them as Gondor's sons. He heard men weeping around him. Boromir wished he had not eaten. The slashed faces, missing limbs and grotesque bodies were more than he could bear. Trying to keep some measure of dignity, he nodded to Iorlas, walked away, and found a broken down wall to hide behind; he promptly lost his dinner.

Hearing the bells over his own retching, he realized he was now late in reporting back. Wiping his hand over his mouth and spitting trying to rid it of the foul taste, he ran to the smithy, retrieved his weapons, threw a thank you and coin at the man, and ran to the parapet. Gorlim, surrounded by his captains, pointed to a map. He noticed Boromir and motioned him forward. Quietly, but still loud enough for the men around him to hear, he said, "When I tell my captains to return at a certain time, I expect them to obey me." He did not wait for Boromir to reply, just continued with his instructions.

Boromir tried to listen attentively, but his embarrassment was great. When Gorlim finished, he dismissed his men. Boromir, walking away, was stopped by his captain's call. "Captain Boromir." He turned and walked back, his face ablaze.

"I understand," Gorlim said quietly, "that you disobeyed my orders to rest and even left the garrison?"

Boromir stood straighter. "I did not disobey, Captain. I did rest some. I was taken away from the garrison by a message from Minas Tirith."

Boromir swiped his tongue across his lip, then, bit it. "'Twas not from the Steward, my Captain, but a message for me."

"So, you rest for half an hour, leave the garrison, abuse a horse in a quick ride to the Rammas, receive a personal message, ride back again resulting in a horse that will be useless for many hours till it is rested from the pace you set, and still report late? Is this normal for a Captain of Gondor, or only for the Steward's son?"

The bite and scorn in his captain's voice was almost as harsh as Denethor's. 'Which,' Boromir thought tiredly, 'is no surprise. Does not Gorlim report directly to Denethor?' The captain had probably heard the same tone of voice thrown at him over the years. Boromir almost felt sorry for the man, but his shame was too great.

Gorlim waved him away and now Boromir felt thoroughly chastised. He walked back across the bridge, found his new second and his men, and ordered them across the bridge, swearing at himself the entire time.

They encountered a small band of Orcs almost immediately after entering the land just east of Osgiliath. Like any good captain, Boromir had sent scouts ahead, though the latest reports had said the Orcs had been pushed back to the Crossroads. Nevertheless, the reports were wrong, woefully wrong; Boromir swore as his scouts sent the signal that the enemy was near. He quickly ordered his men into the underbrush next to the road, half on one side and half on the other. The horses were taken away by handlers and hidden. He wished he had more men, but only three companies had been given to him. Silent, they watched and waited. Not a breath was sounded by any of the two hundred and ten under Boromir's care. He smiled. This group seemed to be well disciplined. He must get to know more of them as quickly as possible. He disliked going into battle with no idea of his men's strengths or weaknesses.

At last the Orcs appeared, a small band it seemed, but that could be a ruse. He waited till the last Orc passed his first men, though he could feel his lieutenant squirming in frustration. His scouts came up behind them. One whispered to him, "That is all, Captain Boromir. None others follow." With that news, Boromir signaled for the men to crawl through the scrub towards the enemy. There were at least two hundred Orcs, but they were obviously battle-weary. There was no sign of discipline, nor vigilance. Boromir watched and waited. The men reached the sides of the road where the Orcs were and Boromir gave the signal. All three companies exploded from the brush, screaming their hatred of Orcs and brandishing their weapons. It was a quick battle, lasting only nigh unto an hour. Boromir wiped his blade with his tunic and smiled. His men were good and competent. And valiant. He was most pleased. If he were nearer an outpost, he would have called for ale. As it was, he called for rest.

Arthad moved closer. "My Lord Boromir? I wish to ask your pardon for my lack of patience."

Boromir smiled at his second. "When you find your patience, I would most enjoy having some! I wanted so badly to jump out and kill them all as soon as the first appeared. But I have learnt that Orcs sometimes travel in small packs far enough apart to be missed by scouts, but near enough to help each other in battle. I am glad that was not the case today. Call the men together. I would congratulate them!"

When his troops were assembled about him, Boromir smiled. "You did well today. I am most pleased by your skill with your weapons. But I am more pleased with your obedience. It was of the utmost importance that we remained still, until I had my last report. You did admirably. Let us continue that on the morrow." He turned to Arthad. "You may dismiss them."

Boromir sat near the road in an abandoned blind. The place reeked of Orcs, but it was dry. The walls kept the night air away. They would not have a fire tonight. Wrapping himself in his cloak, he waited for his second's return. A whisper announced his arrival.

"Come and sit with me. I did not wish to stop for the night. The faster we travel, the more Orcs we will kill. But I deem it unwise to sally forth in the dark. Orcs have too much of an advantage as it is. We do not need to give them more. At first light, we will move towards Emyn Arnen. Our orders are to secure that area and wait for reinforcements. Are you familiar with Ithilien?"

"I am, Captain Boromir. I have been a lieutenant with the battalion of East Osgiliath for the last five years."

"Good!" Boromir slapped the man on the back and nearly upended him. "I too know the land well. It is my ancestral home."

He rode in the forefront as they entered the forest of Emyn Arnen. By now it was light. However, he could sense his men were nervous. He smiled. They probably did not trust him yet. He would not trust himself either. Most must have known this was his first command. To go into battle at such a time without experience must seem like folly. He noted Arthad speaking with some of the men as they broke their fast this morning. He had caught them looking at him; they had turned as soon as they saw him look at them. He knew what they were discussing. Arthad, he felt confident, would tell the men to trust him. He already knew he had Arthad's trust. One little battle can either make or break a new captain. He felt their battle last night had convinced his second that their new captain would not get them all killed, at least not for a day or two. He chuckled to himself.

They were on the main road almost immediately after his men had broken their fast, riding quietly east. He would not go as far as the Crossroads; he would turn south before they reached it.

As they entered the forest of Emyn Arnen, Boromir remembered a story his father had told him about a battle he had fought here years ago. His aunt, Indis, along with the Lady Listöwel, and Morwen Steelsheen, before she became Queen of Rohan, had also fought in the battle. Indis had brought him here many years ago, shown him the sight, and took him to the graveyard of the House of Húrin. He marveled again at the thought of these women fighting Orcs. His father, once he had discovered Indis had secretly been in training, had encouraged her. She still came to the training grounds, twice a week, to keep her arm strong. Boromir smiled; she had even challenged him once, when he was eleven. He rubbed his shoulder, remembering the bruise he had received. He had thought, in his naiveté, that he would beat her soundly. It had turned out the other way round.

He ordered a stop. Arthad moved his horse closer. "We will wait for the scouts to return. I will not press further without their report. Tell the men to break for nuncheon. I want six pickets set - not four."

As Arthad saluted and moved off to carry out his captain's orders, shouts were heard from the southern edge of the forest. The men, those who had already sat, jumped to their feet, others drew their weapons and waited. Boromir called order. Four scouts returned with a tale of a massive army coming towards them. They were still not discovered. They had the element of surprise on their side. There was no time for strategy. Boromir ordered all four scouts back to Osgiliath requesting reinforcements. He could not wait though; he would have to attack, hope that surprise would give him the upper hand, and send each company forward, separated by only sixty yards. He did not know the men; he was not sure who commanded which company, nor their capabilities. He turned towards Arthad.

Arthad's face was strained, but he quickly obeyed. When his lieutenants stood around him, Boromir said, "We will try to drive a wedge through the enemy; the forest will give us some cover. Their numbers are greater than ours. We will drive the wedge of men directly towards them. The Third Company will be the western edge, the First along the east, and Ragnor will command the Second - they will be our point. As they are forced to the outside, their flank on either side will be vulnerable. Have your strongest, bravest men at the head of each company. You know your men," he looked long at those around him, "use them wisely."

"I will ride with you. I have some experience with Orcs, but none with Southrons. I would hope you could teach me."

Ragnor smiled broadly. "I have fought them since I was your age, my Lord, and I still live."

"Watch not too long, my Captain, else I receive a lance in my heart," the man smiled.

"I will ride beside you, watching from the corner of my eye," Boromir smiled back.

Boromir laughed again and moved forward. His heart was in his throat, his skin shone from the perspiration upon it, and his hand shook slightly. 'This is going to be an interesting battle,' he thought and gave the command to move.

Denethor pulled himself away and stretched his mind. He had been looking south when the horror had taken him. There it was! A quick breath was all he could take as he watched the army move north. Southrons! There were no reports of such an army marching in Ithilien. They had already reached Emyn Arnen. He was too late to warn his men! He saw Gondor's companies taking their rest. The enemy would not remain hidden long. His men could deal with them, if reinforcements were sent quickly, of that he was certain. 'Wait!' He saw knights of Gondor riding towards the Southrons. A dark shape, large beyond belief, followed the enemy. Denethor gasped, gulped and watched spellbound. He had only seen one before. He tore his gaze from the great beast. Who was Gondor's captain? Who was in charge of the company under attack? He strained further, crying aloud when his eyes lit on the man in front. It was Boromir!

Suddenly, the stone went black. Denethor screamed and clutched it tighter. Naught showed; naught stirred in its depths. He cast it down upon its stand and ran to the window. The sun shone brightly; the air seemed clear and clean. The fires in Osgiliath had burned down and there was almost no smoke. Yet danger was coming towards his son, his first-born! He ran back to the Palantír and shook it, screaming his frustration. "Boromir! Boromir!" But naught appeared, only eternal blackness.

He ran down the steps, almost tripping in his fear. Berelach caught him as he fell out the doorway. "Send a signal," he screamed, "wind the horns, Osgiliath must be warned. The battle goes ill. Haradrim come in full force with a great beast."

Berelach, knowing never to question his Steward, ran towards the Citadel. Men from the Third Company had seen him and joined him. The warning signal was sounded and the trumpeter on the Citadel's Tower blew his notes of warning. Other horns took up the call and soon the air was filled with the strident call for help. Soldiers ran into the Courtyard, looking about in dismay.

Suddenly, the enemy appeared. Boromir shouted the order for attack and Gondor's finest surged forth, Ragnor and he riding at the front of the wedge. There was no time to confirm his troops did as he commanded. The enemy did not falter, at first, and Boromir's heart tightened. Then, slowly, he noted the wedge was severing the army before him. Soon, soon he prayed to the Valar, more men of Gondor would come forth and attack those his troops pushed to the side. It was the only thing that gave him hope. There must be warriors near; there must be!

He fought furiously and was gratified to see Ragnor doing the same. The older man had an easy air about him and it filled Boromir with confidence. They swung their swords in a measured cadence. Boromir first, then Ragnor. Boromir was surprised at the ease with which he fought at this man's side. Southrons have a way of fighting; scorn emanated from them, as if they were the better warriors. It drove Boromir mad at the thought, but Ragnor fought as if he were on a jaunt to the river. Boromir renewed his attack upon another snarling face before him. Slicing feverishly, he slew one after another.

A moment's break. He quickly gulped and wiped his sword clean. His sword. He looked down upon it in amaze. Had he not just the day before received this sword from his father? His heart lifted. He was Captain-General of Gondor. He would not lose this battle. With a shout, he lunged forward again, taking out two foes with ease. His men, looking with surprise and not a little delight, caught his fervor and passion. They joined his screams with their own and rallied again. "We will win this battle," Boromir shouted above the din of clashing swords, creaking leather, and the moans of the wounded and dying.

Horns sounded from far away; then others, probably from Osgiliath, joined them. Boromir knew they were warning horns telling the men of Gondor that a battle was being lost and help was needed forthwith. Someone, at last, had realized that Ithilien's southern lands were under attack. His men shouted with renewed hope! He smiled as he hewed down another of the horde before him. Reinforcements would be coming soon. Then, he heard it - a great crashing in the trees, a bellowing sound, thudding and bumping; cheers came from the Southrons.

"Ware! Ware!" cried Boromir to his men. "May the Valar turn him aside! It is one of the beasts of the Haradrim!"

Boromir's horse lifted its front legs and spilled his rider. Its eyes were white with fear. Trying to grab the reins while pushing himself up from the ground, he had left himself open. A smiling, sun-darkened face brought a blade down. Boromir flinched, but Ragnor caught the blade with his own and turned it aside. He had also lost his horse when the beast roared, but was able to stand quickly. Boromir had not the time to even thank the man as another and another came at him, the enemy renewed by the charge of their greatest weapon.

Ragnor and he continued, shouting encouragement to the men, who looked about to flee at the sight before them. The animal, if one could call a towering black hill an animal, became frightened by the horses' screams and the battle sounds. It pulled up, front legs, rather tree-like, flailing and knocking off men from its back. Boromir now saw that there was some kind of cart or... It was a war-tower! A war tower on top of the beast! But the creature was shaking and running; the tower and the men in it were being thrashed from side to side. Finally, the whole aperture fell over, clinging by straps to the underside of the beast. Men fell everywhere and were quickly stomped in the beast's fear.

Faramir heard the horns call as soon as he passed the Great Gate. A groom ran to him as he pulled into the Ranger's headquarters on the First Level. He dismounted and grabbed another saddled horse, one that stood ready for an errand-rider. The captain of the company shouted for him to leave the horse, but Faramir ignored him, jumped on the horse and turned its head towards the next gate. He knew what the horns were saying, a battle was gone ill; Boromir was in Osgiliath; therefore, knowing Boromir's penchant for being in the thick of things, that meant that Boromir was in the battle. He pushed the horse forward while the captain screamed to at least slow down if for naught but the horse's sake. But Faramir never heard, his heart in his throat and tears streaming down his face.

"You promised!" he whispered through clenched teeth. "You promised you would not be killed! You promised!" he kept chanting as he forced the horse faster and faster up the levels. His teeth chattered as he tried to force himself to some sort of calm. Swiping tears from his eyes, he slowed the horse. 'Tis not the horse's fault that Boromir is in trouble.' He brought the horse to a walk. He was only on the Third Level. Turning the horse towards one of the parapets overlooking the Pelennor, he stopped and looked out. Eastern Osgiliath was on fire. Boromir was stationed in Western Osgiliath. Perhaps he was not in the battle after all. Perhaps Faramir had panicked for naught. He shook his head. 'Nay. Boromir would not stay back if a battle were being waged. Father must know where he is.' He turned the horse's head to the Fourth Gate and passed through.

The Citadel itself and all the grounds around it were full of people, mostly warriors watching what they could from the parapet. Faramir had left his mount at the gate and walked through the tunnel. As he emerged, men caught sight of him and greeted him. "Your father awaits you," one of them said. "He is in the Great Hall."

Faramir nodded and went on. Pushing open the doors, he stepped into quiet. His ears hurt from the dark still of this hall and the shouts and moans of the masses on the parapet. The Chamberlain greeted him and ushered him forward. Halfway down the hall, the man bowed and quietly left. Faramir continued towards the Steward's Chair. Indis sat at his father's feet, silently stroking his hand. The sight sent chills down Faramir's back.

Indis saw him first, rose to greet him, and was held back by Denethor's hand. "Long has your return been, my son," Denethor said quietly, not looking up. "You would have my concern for your brother be o'ershadowed by concern for you?"

Faramir sucked in his breath. "That was not my intent, Father. I know naught of Boromir's state."

"Yes, Father. I rode to the Causeway Fort to speak with him once before he began his assignment."

Faramir swallowed. "I was wrong, Father. I... I was concerned and let sentiment guide me."

At that Denethor lifted his face and looked full upon his youngest. The tear-streaked face told more than his son's words.

"Boromir is in the midst of a desperate battle. I know not if he will survive. A mûmak, one of the beasts of Harad, ventures into Ithilien. Your brother is in the forefront of those assigned to stop it and the army it is with."

"I did not. But if I had known, I would have. Do I not trust your brother? Do I not trust his leadership, his skill as a warrior?"

Faramir swallowed again. "I... He would be proud to know you think so highly of him, Father."

They stayed thus for a long while. At last, Indis spoke. "Brother, you and your son need food. I will order the kitchen..."

"My Heir does not have food in the midst of battle, neither will Faramir and I. We will wait until Boromir eats, then we will eat."

The men of Gondor were not spared. Boromir looked on in horror as those mammoth feet crushed man after man, trying to escape. He screamed retreat and pushed his men before him. They ran in disarray, each trying to avoid the terrible beast before them. The Southrons were running also, all sense of battle driven from them as they tried to escape their own weapon. Suddenly, arrows flew through the air from the east. Bowmen, shooting feverishly, turned the great beast, though their arrows bounced off its hide. But it was enough. The creature fled. The Southrons, seeing that they were beleaguered by a greater host than ever, quickly turned, calling retreat themselves, and fled further into the forest. The archers followed.

Boromir called a halt and gathered his men about him. Quickly, his lieutenants called off the role. Boromir's face blanched as he heard silence too many times. At last, Arthad stepped forward.

"We have twenty-seven men left standing, my Lord. There are another thirty-two wounded."

Boromir stood, silent, hands at his side, his sword feeling heavy and cold. Of the three companies, he had lost one hundred and fifty-one men! The horn pushed against him. He should have winded it. What had been wrong with him? He could have saved his men if he had called for help.

"A valiant effort, my Lord," Ragnor put his hand on Boromir's shoulder. "Our men did themselves proud."

Boromir gulped and looked at his lieutenant. He should be praising his men, not berating himself with futile questions. He turned towards them and his heart flinched as he saw the haunted eyes before him.

"Ragnor speaks well. I have never seen such bravery. You are doughty men and true. Gondor will sing your praises tonight! Let us turn towards Osgiliath and rest." The men shouted with joy at the praises of their captain. "Arthad," he turned and smiled. "I am glad to see you alive. You did well!"

His second smiled. "I am glad to be alive myself! I have never seen such a beast before. What was it?"

"We will talk once I report to Captain Gorlim. Order the men back to Osgiliath. Meet me in the dining hall."

"Yes. We are too few and too haggard to bury our dead. Others will have to see to that unhappy duty."

The horns sounded and Denethor lifted his face towards the front of the Hall - and waited. At last, a soldier bounded through the doors. Quickly speaking with the Chamberlain, he saluted and left. The Chamberlain hurried forward.

"My Lord Steward. There is good news from Osgiliath. The Southrons have been vanquished."

The Chamberlain looked in surprise. "Boromir, my Lord? I know naught of Boromir. There has been no missive, just the call of the trumpet with news that the battle has been won."

Servants came in with torches to light the hall; the sun was setting and the natural dimness of the Great Hall was deepened by the sun's decline. When a torch was lit near to the Steward's Chair, Faramir gasped. "Father!" He stepped forward but quickly stopped at Denethor's command. "Come no closer. There is no need. I am well. You may wait here until the rider comes from Osgiliath, then you will return to your duties as esquire. I cannot keep you from punishment. You deserted your post, Faramir. You were not given this time off. Your penalty will probably be harsh. Was it worth it?" The last words were whispered.

"What do you think, Father?" Faramir said quietly. "Would you have left Boromir with no word of farewell?"

"Scribe!" Denethor shouted. One came running forward with quill and parchment. "Take this missive to Captain Gorlim." The scribe sat on the marble steps, ready.

"Captain Gorlim, great news of the battle won at Osgiliath this day. You and your men are to be commended. As soon as you are able, for I understand your pressing needs, send this rider back with a full report. If he should come to you after you have sent a report, then send..." Denethor stood and moved down the stairs. Walking towards one of the tall windows, he placed his hand on the sill and drew in a sharp breath. 'I cannot ask if my son lives,' he swallowed in grief and torment. 'I cannot ask anything about him. He is a soldier, a warrior of Gondor, the same as the other men there. How can I ask of him when I do not ask of others?' He held back a sob. 'So much power; so little power. My son. My son.' He clenched his sword, drew in a breath and walked back towards the scribe. "Just leave it end with a full report." He took the missive, signed it, and gave it to the errand-rider. "Go, and quickly. I expect your return before morning."

Denethor sat, silent, but Indis spoke. "It is late. The rider will not return this night. I cannot see you sitting here, without food or rest, until that time comes. You know Boromir is well. If he had been killed, the horns would have announced the news. They did not." She motioned and the Chamberlain came forward. After she ordered their repast, the man departed.

"Your men are trained well, brother. They would have sounded the horn. He is alive and is probably eating even as we speak."

"Captain Boromir," Gorlim stood as Boromir entered the room. "I have heard tales of your prowess on the battlefield and your defeat of a mûmak. How often does that happen?" He smiled broadly. "I have never even seen one and you have defeated one!"

"I did naught, my Lord. In fact, I have lost too many men. I should have winded my own horn, asked for help, but I mistakenly thought we could contain them until reinforcements came. I lost too many men," he again reiterated miserably.

"Your horn would not have called men faster than those who finally arrived. The bowmen were the nearest. Your battle could be heard all the way to the Crossroads and the bellowing of the great beast could be heard clear to the river. You did well. You lost many men, but they fought and died bravely. I was hard on you earlier today. I thought you might consider yourself above your men; however, I have heard only good reports about your behavior. Ragnor speaks highly of you and I value that man's opinion. How long did your fa-- did you plan on staying here? What were your orders?"

"The only order I received was to come to Osgiliath and help in this time of crisis, though I have been appointed Captain of the garrison at Eilenach."

"Eilenach. I was stationed there once myself. A lovely land. Close to the mountains, but not close enough to freeze. Once in awhile, the Horse Lords stop and tell tales with the men there. It can be pleasant."

Boromir's cheeks burned. "I was not made captain to sit about and listen to horsemen's tales," he fairly blustered.

"I did not mean that, Captain. There is no garrison left in all of Gondor that is always pleasant." The captain's tone was harsh. "I have said you appointed yourself well. I thank the Steward for sending you to us. Now, go and take care of your men and yourself. You will have one day's rest, then you will be sent out on patrol again."

Boromir bowed stiffly and left. 'He thinks I am to captain Eilenach to keep me from battle, to protect me." He shook in fury. 'Why would father send me here, then, if I were to be protected?' He was still livid when he entered the dining hall. Arthad waved to him and Boromir calmed himself. Smiling, he waved back, walked through the crowd of men in the hall, patting some on the back and shouting words of praise to others. The air was festive. The men were glad they were alive; tales of the battle with the mûmak were growing greater and greater in deed. Ragnor strode forward and put his hand on Boromir's shoulder, forcing him to sit next to Arthad. He waved for food and ale to be brought to his table. Then, he sat next to him.

"Nay. Only for the present crisis, Ragnor. I am to go to Eilenach, when the Steward says it is time."

"I would be with you to guard your back, my Lord. Seems to me you have not quite learned to do that by yourself."

"I noted another three or four times during that very same battle, that you saved mine. There is not cause for thanks. All in the line of duty." The man smiled and drank his ale. "But I am surprised at your ease in battle."

"I was not at ease. I was watching you. You were at ease. I followed your lead."

Boromir smiled and drank. With men like Ragnor, he enjoyed being a Captain of Gondor.

"You wear the Horn of Gondor. I was told that honor is only for the Captain-General of Gondor. Am I misinformed?"

Boromir sat still for a moment. "You are not misinformed. The title was given yesterday, or the day before; I am so tired I do not remember. It is only a title, Arthad, Ragnor. I command no one but the little garrison of Eilenach. And that at the Steward's will."

"If that is what you wish known, then we will abide by that. It is good, though, to know that the Steward places such trust in you."

Boromir smiled tiredly. "Do not go there, my friend. The Steward's trust is difficult to gain. I have not, as of yet. Now, I must to bed before I fall. I cannot remember the last time I slept. Tell the men to rest also. We have another day before we are on patrol again."

He rose, was greeted by shouts of approval, smiled at his men, and left the hall. His heart fairly burst with pride at the honor shown him. They were doughty men and he was their captain and life was good.

Denethor had insisted Faramir return to his barracks. Indis had promised Faramir she would send for him as soon as the errand-rider returned. As she accompanied him to the Sixth Level, she held Faramir's arm. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. He looks nigh unto eighty years old. He is not even seventy. What has happened since yesterday?"

"Amma. In one day he has changed. His hair is graying at the temple and lines run across his forehead. He did not have them yesterday. Worry for Boromir could not cause this."

"I will not. You may ask your father, but I doubt he will tell you. He does what he can for Gondor, Faramir. All that he can."

"You know that answer even better than I, Faramir. Even unto death, yours, mine, Boromir's, his own..." She started to cry and he stopped.

"Forgive me, Amma. I understand that the Steward and his family live and die for Gondor, but I cannot sit and watch him like this."

"There is naught you can do. Faramir, you must obey him, in all things, you must learn to be a warrior like Boromir is, he needs you strong, he needs your approval."

"Yours. He values you, Faramir. His foresight gives him cause for fear and he would... Every man of Gondor must prepare for the worst. He sees great battles before us and too few men for Gondor. He is torn between his love for you and his duty and passion for Gondor. Do not make him chose between you."

I borrowed Damrod's very words from TTT at the attack of the mûmak and gave them to his captain -I'm sure he'll forgive me. 'Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbits.'

"It was not so long ago, Théoden King, that we sat together at young Éomund's troth pledge." Denethor held the flagon of wine between his fingers, tracing the White Tree on the side of it with his other hand.

Théoden took the weary hand and held it. "He knew the risks. We all do, my friend. You knew his spirit - wild and free, too quick to plunge forward."

"What of your sister?" Denethor remembered the fair and cheerful daughter of Thengel.

"Théodwyn is not well. Her heart is fragile. I have asked her to return to the Golden Hall, but she refuses. She insists on staying in Aldburg. I fear for her. Her eyes, once so proud and bright as Morwen Steelsheen's, have faded behind a mask of stone."

"Théodwyn refuses her company, though none can control my mother. She went unbidden."

Denethor laughed quietly at the thought of the renowned stubbornness of the mother of the King of Rohan.

Théoden continued. "Morwen returned but a fortnight ago, went to her chambers, and wept. I would go myself, bring Théodwyn back with me, but Morwen says nay. I have an errand-rider at the ready, if need arises. When we are finished here, I will stop at Eorl's city and visit her."

As smoke from his study's brazier wafted towards the ceiling, Denethor remembered that conversation well. Théoden and he had met by the Mering Stream earlier this year to discuss horses and strategies and renew their friendship. They sat quietly the rest of that evening as tents flapped in the breeze. Both lords of Middle-earth had appreciated the quiet.

For three years Gondor and Rohan had battled renewed attacks. The assaults had finally slowed; all thought a time of respite was theirs. Soon after, grief once again struck. A tear slid down his cheek. Éomund had been killed in ambush by Orcs coming out of the northern Emyn Muil. He left a young wife and two small children.

Denethor remembered Éomund well. As an emissary of Ecthelion's, Denethor was sent to barter for horses; he had first met the young Rohir at the Mering Stream garrison. The meeting had turned into one of revelry, song and laughter between the men of the Mark under Éomund and Men of Gondor under Denethor. The memory of it still burned in his heart. He remembered the lovesick look that overtook Éomund when he spoke of the lovely Théodwyn.

When Denethor had returned from that sortie, he received a strong tongue-lashing from his father over the terms for the horses, but it had been a fair trade and Éomund had given him the best the Rohirrim had. After that, the two friends met frequently in Minas Tirith and along the border. Headstrong Éomund was, but one of the bravest men Denethor had ever known. It had not surprised him, the way he had died, but the loss angered and pained all of Gondor and her Steward.

Théoden had been proven wise in his concern for his beloved sister. Théodwyn had succumbed to grief this past summer. Denethor's heart grew heavy as he thought of Finduilas. A type of grief had taken her. 'Nay!' he thought angrily, 'Twas not so much grief, but fear and a too tender heart. Faramir takes after her.' Another tear slid to join its companion. 'Faramir! Beloved son! Too quiet, too gentle, too thoughtful.'

At last, a smile creased his face. 'The exact opposite of my Boromir. Strong, bold, brave, valiant. Quick to wield a sword and shield and jump into battle. None can best the lad, when he puts his mind to it. Except for Faramir - too often my eldest lets his brother win their contests of skill. I must speak to him. He cannot continue this. Faramir must...'

'Ah, but Faramir wields a bow and arrow like unto the Elves themselves, and only nineteen! That Faramir could be the same as Boromir. Gondor needs more like Boromir. Already the boy's sword arm is as strong as mine. His reflexes are even faster. Soon, I will not be able to best him.' His heart swelled with pride. A knock interrupted his thoughts.

He sent Boromir, of course. Boromir was always the one he turned to, at least these past four years. Instead of giving him the captaincy of Eilenach as he had decided upon the side of Mindolluin, he had kept Boromir in the City and used him as Gondor's spearhead.

Boromir was sent from one campaign to the next, always with orders to obey whomever the captain was at the garrison he was being sent to, but always with the secret order to watch everything, learn as much as possible, weigh heavily all options, and then, when the time came, inform the captain that he, Boromir, was to lead the assault.

If not for Boromir's skill and shrewdness, the Captains of Gondor might have rebelled. However, they watched his talent with shield and blade in admiration, listened to his battle wisdom and acquiesced to his superior aptitude, heard his words of encouragement and gallantry, and followed him willingly. When once the battle was won, they reveled in the glory that he gave to them.

He was magnanimous; how could he not be? With his father's full support, he wielded the authority given him with grace. His father's confidence in him was all he needed. He did not need the adulation of the masses, but he received it nonetheless. The people grew in their love for him; Denethor's love was absolute.

When Boromir's latest task had been accomplished, he sent an errand-rider to Minas Tirith with a missive. Denethor smiled as he read Boromir's note.

'I would request your presence, my Lord Steward, at the river Anduin at the noon hour. I would also request the presence of my brother, Faramir. There is much I would discuss with you, but away from the City. I look forward to our meeting, your son, Boromir.'

"Come, Faramir," he shouted, looking about wildly for his youngest. He knew the lad had been here a moment ago, waiting as always to hear of Boromir's latest exploits, to listen to the words of greeting that Boromir never failed to send to his brother.

Faramir ran forward. "I have ordered the horses saddled, my Lord," he exclaimed, excitement etched across his face. It had been eight long months since last he had seen Boromir and the thought of seeing his brother again filled him with joy. "As we speak, Cook is making a meal to send with us."

"Boromir will surely have planned a meal for us," the Steward laughed. "There is no need for us to carry anything but ourselves and our weapons. Come, my son, Anor is fast moving across the sky. We will be late if we do not make haste!"

Faramir smiled and followed his father out of the Hall and into the entranceway. Walking swiftly, he still found it hard to keep up with his father's long strides. But try he would, the goal was well worth a few moments of sharpened breath and tightened calves. They passed through the tunnel and turned towards the stable. A groom stood in silence with two horses saddled, one the great black stallion that was the Steward's and one the roan that was Faramir's. Quickly mounting, they rode slowly down to the First Level. Faramir beamed and many waved. Denethor bowed his head graciously at his people's regard. Soldiers broke into song as they passed; the melody echoed through the streets, cascading from level to level, fading as they passed one body of soldiers standing guard on the parapets, then swelling as they encountered the next assemblage.

Boromir strode forward to meet them. He had ridden out from the Guard-towers upon the Causeway. Indeed, nuncheon had been set upon a table and an esquire stood ready to serve.

Denethor met his son and enfolded him in his arms. "You look well, my son," he beamed. "Your last exploits are being told in all the taverns of the City. You had best keep away, ere your head grow too large for that helmet you wear," and he cuffed Boromir on the shoulder. Standing aside, he let Faramir move forward.

Boromir hugged his brother warmly, whispered a greeting in his ear, then stepped back. "We do not have many hours left before Anor sets and you must leave. Please let us sit and eat."

They took their moment of silence, then sat and ate. Birds sounded close by, speaking to each other of worms and water and cool air. The day was idyllic and Denethor wondered why they did not do this more often.

After a last sip of wine, Boromir turned towards Osgiliath and pointed. "Father, the Causeway Fort needs repair here and here. The Guard-towers need to be expanded. If the enemy attacks again, we will be sore pressed to hold those here at the Rammas. I have men who are skilled and ready to do the task. I wanted you to see the state of disrepair so that you would know what I say is true."

"Boromir!" Denethor said vehemently. "I have never accused you of falsehood. You did not need to bring me here. Your word is gold. I will order it so."

"That is not the only reason I have brought you out to the sweet fields of the Pelennor, Father. Indis ordered me to. She said you needed to be away from the City for a time. I cannot argue with Amma." He smiled warmly.

"I will be away from the City for quite some time, as will you and Faramir. Théoden King requests our presence at Théodred's coming of age ceremony. I have responded that we will, indeed, join his family."

"Do your people...?" His brow furrowed as he tried to put words to his question, finally giving up and deciding to be blunt.

"When Finduilas passed, even though she died while on the road to Dol Amroth, certain rumors surfaced." He blushed and tried to cover his shame by standing and retrieving the flagon of wine.

Théoden stood and took the flagon from his hand. "It is my home we are in; let me." He poured another cup for his friend, then, Denethor continued, "They say it was my fault that she is dead." He turned his face from his friend.

Théoden remained still. "Some say she threw herself from the White Tower. Others..." He took a deep breath to regain some control, "others even say I murdered her." He sat back, relieved to have finally voiced the stories that were whispered, even now, behind his back.

Twirling his glass between his fingers, he whispered, "I did not kill her, my friend." Quiet tears fell. "I did everything in my power to save her."

Silence filled the chamber. At last he asked the question, fearing what Théoden's answer would be. "Are there such rumors about your wife? Your daughter?"

Théoden stood. Denethor had come to Edoras to partake in the installation of Théodred as Théoden's heir, and to witness the embracing of Éomer and Éowyn as children of Théoden. It was to be a joyous time, yet Denethor dwelt in grief.

Walking towards the window, Théoden scrunched his neck, trying to consider what he could say that would soften the blow of his next words. Denethor waited. "I have heard no such rumors. It was childbirth that took my wife - though some could say different, none have. As for Théodwyn, she died at the garrison. Again, stories could be told, but I have heard none. Mayhap Morwen has."

The look of pain on his friend's face made Denethor wish he had not asked, but he knew he had to discover the truth. "If there are no rumors in Rohan," he said bitterly. "Then either your people have larger hearts and less suspicion than mine, or my people truly believe I had a hand in Finduilas' death." He leaned forward resting his elbows on his thighs and covered his face. "I cannot believe they would think that of me."

The lords of Gondor left soon afterwards. Denethor's heart was heavier than it had been since Finduilas' death. The suspicions of his people tore at him as naught else had done, not even his father's disdain, nor Thorongil's betrayal. Unbeknownst to him, the lies of the Enemy weighed heavily upon him.

When they returned from Edoras, they found another wave of attacks had engulfed Osgiliath and even into the Pelennor. Hordes of Easterlings were seen coming across the Noman-lands. Denethor quickly sent out company after company till Minas Tirith itself was laid bare. But the attacks continued. Finally, knowing Belfalas was not under attack, he ordered the beacon fires of the south lit. Dol Amroth sent knights, fourteen companies.

Gondor would prevail. But at what cost! New graves were being dug hourly by the shores of the Anduin, from Osgiliath all the way north to the Mouths of the Entwash. Banners, black and leaden, adorned the City. Grief lay heavy upon her people. Denethor sequestered himself in the Tower, lost in a constant battle with sorrow and exhaustion, as he commanded the Knights of Gondor. Once, a report came stating that Boromir had been lost, but two days later, a missive came saying he was well and with the men of Cair Andros. A bitter fight had been had at the island fortress. They lost four companies, two hundred and eighty men, in just two days.

Denethor's eyes, red-rimmed and swollen from fatigue, looked out upon the Pelennor. He had to step away from the globe; its power engulfed him and he was beginning to think that another voice whispered in the bowels of the thing. He shook his head. 'I am imagining things,' he thought wearily. Pushing his fingers against his temples, he willed himself awake. 'I must not rest. My people are dying.'

A light knock on the door brought him fully alert. "Who knocks?" he asked groggily.

Denethor covered the stone and slipped to the floor. He had no longer the strength to stand. "Enter," he whispered.

Faramir stepped into the room, noted his father's fallen form, and rushed forward. "Adar, let me help you up."

Denethor waved him off. He put his hand upon the sill of the window and tried to stand, but, to his chagrin, he could not. He sat back with a heavy sigh. "Bring the food here. Then you may leave."

Faramir swallowed. "I cannot leave you, Adar, not in this state. Let me sit with you awhile." He stepped forward and placed the tray of food at his father's side.

Eyes brimming with tears, Faramir stayed stooped, holding a goblet in his hand. "Drink this, please."

His voice was uneven and Denethor noted it. Sighing heavily, he took the cup from Faramir's hand. "Still you have not trained yourself to hide your feelings. How will you interrogate prisoners? How will you stand in front of the Council and disagree with them, while making them think you are only concerned with their welfare? How many times...?" He picked at the food before him. "Faramir, my son, I cannot stress enough how important it is to be circumspect. Will you try?"

Denethor's eyes closed wearily. "They have not rested, have not even buried their dead, yet I must send them out again," Denethor mumbled.

"Boromir!" The gray eyes filled with tears. "I have seen them, you know. They stream from the east, from north of Dagorlad. They come in the tens of thousands with their armor glinting in the sun and their faces filled with hate. He will have to go out and meet them."

"Nay, Adar," Faramir's voice grew soft and gentle. "You have not seen rightly. Boromir will prevail. Close your eyes for a moment. I will not leave you."

Silence filled the Tower room. Faramir sat next to the Steward and waited. His heart was torn. He wanted to take the wrinkled hand into his own and hold it, but he knew the gesture would no longer be welcome. They had drifted apart, somewhere in these years since Boromir had become Captain-General. He had lost his father's love.

"Ada! Ada! Please wake up. I have something I want to show thee!" Faramir held his adar's hand and stroked it.

Indis ran forward. "Hush, Faramir," she said gently, "Thy adar needs his sleep."

She smiled. He was such a dear. How could she say nay? "Just for a little bit, but thou must promise not to wake him."

"I promise." He placed the drawing on the table, then sat on a chair across from Denethor and folded his hands.

After a few moments, he slid off the chair and pulled it next to Denethor's. He scrambled up and sat quietly once more.

The garden was still except for the hum of honeybees. The wind was light and warm. His eyes started to close. His body startled awake. He looked towards his adar. Denethor still slept.

He looked with longing at the drawing - his need to show his adar fought against his need to obey Indis. He sighed and a small tear ran down his cheek.

A rough hand wiped it away. He looked up in surprise as his adar lifted him from the chair and placed him on the strong lap. He was being held close and his heart lifted. He was happier than he had ever been.

'When had his hands become so wrinkled and mottled with brown stains?' Faramir wondered. Still his father slept.

"I wanted to show thee my drawing but thou wast asleep and Amma said I couldst not wake thee but I wast falling asleep too and I wast afraid thou wouldst leave me and I wouldst not be able to show it to thee." He burst into tears.

"I think 'tis time. Listöwel!" he called out and she immediately came. "Faramir needs his nap," he gently chided.

She tried to take the boy from his father's arms, but Faramir clung tightly.

Denethor shook his head. Listöwel apologized profusely for letting the boy grow overtired.

"A moment, Listöwel," he said and hugged Faramir back. "Faramir, let me see thy drawing."

The boy climbed off his adar's lap and went to the table. He picked up the drawing and brought it back, standing proudly as Denethor took it from him.

Faramir stared at him, his eyes wide. "It is Nana, Ada." His chin wobbled again and tears spilled. "I wanted to make one of Nana," the boy sobbed, inconsolable.

Denethor swept him into his arms. "Hast thou seen this portrait of thy Naneth?" Denethor asked as he carried him into his private chambers. He pointed to a large portrait hanging on the wall. She sat in a garden on the south of the City with the infant Faramir in her arms and a sleeping Boromir at her feet. Her hand rested gently upon Faramir's head. Her eyes looked towards Minas Tirith. *

"Thy drawing has the look of this one, Faramir. I could not see it well with the sun shining in my eyes. But now that we art in shadow, I see what thou hast done. It is a marvelous drawing, Faramir. I wilt hang it here, next to this one. Wilt thou let me have it?"

"She is, Faramir, and so art thee. Thou lookest so much like her." His voice caught and he had to stop for a moment. "Thou art so like her."

He threw the goblet across the floor and this time managed to stand. "Leave me now!" Denethor bellowed. 'The boy just does not understand - there is time for naught but Gondor.' Firmly taking Faramir by the arm, he led him to the door, opened it and shoved Faramir out. "Do not come back unless bidden."

He leaned his head against the door as he heard the muffled sobs on the other side. 'He does not understand. I must be about Gondor's business even if it means my death.' Tears were batted irritably away. He rubbed his hands over his face, pulled back his hair, and walked to the covered stand.

At long last, the battles ended. The enemy skulked away, but great damage had been done. Not so much to the Rammas Echor or the Causeway Fort or even the City itself, but damage to Gondor's people. The number of dead reached close to a thousand. For all Denethor's strategy, the war, for that is what he deemed it, had not gone well.

He shivered as he stood on the escarpment, looking out across the Pelennor. The peregrine wheeled about the Tower. He looked up. 'Was it worth my time using it? Should I have been out upon the Pelennor myself? Should I have directed the battle from Osgiliath?' He shook his head. 'Nay, the losses would have been worse.' He had full view of every battle, every skirmish. He knew where every company was and exactly the number of the foe that fought him. What he needed was men. And the Palantír could not provide them.

Nor could it provide surcease for the pain he had caused Faramir. He shook his head at the remembrance of that moment. He had actually accused Faramir of being obtuse. Faramir, who kept his head in his books, understood the history of Gondor and its importance better than even he did, and supported his father with such grace.

'I was tired,' he excused himself. 'Nay!' he chided himself. 'I am Steward. I have no excuse. Would I have treated another soldier under me with such contempt? Would I speak to one of my captains with such scorn?'

He had sent for Faramir two hours before, yet none had been able to find him. He stood and walked towards the White Tree. The gentle drip drop of the water from the fountain as it struck the dead stalks that stretched out from the shriveled trunk reminded him of the tears his son had shed as he stood on the other side of the Tower door. Swearing softly, he ran towards the Great Hall.

His eyes lit up. Faramir was moving towards him. He grabbed the lad by the shoulders and pulled him close. Hugging him tightly, he said, "I am sorry." After another moment, he asked him, "Come with me to the seat by the escarpment? Please."

Faramir struggled to control himself. Remembering with wretchedness the words of his father, he nodded, not trusting his own voice. They walked forward, Denethor held tightly onto Faramir's arm, the same way, Faramir remembered, that he had held tightly to it when Denethor had thrown him out of the Tower room.

At that very moment, the wizard appeared and Denethor felt his son's arm tense, saw the smile that broadened his boy's face, and wished that that smile had lit Faramir's face when first he had seen Denethor just a moment before. He stiffened and let his arm fall.

"Mithrandir," he said coldly. "Your presence has long been missed. Have you been bothering my neighbors?"

The wizard smiled and bowed low, his great hat almost touching the marble floor of the escarpment. Faramir smiled and Denethor noted again the easy bond that existed between the two.

"Studying. I wonder. How many days and hours you spend in my library. 'Twould seem you have read everything of worth."

"Not yet. You know as well as I that no one could live long enough to read all the tomes in the Great Library of Minas Tirith. As long as I have your permission, I will come to read and to study."

"What exactly do you study, Mithrandir?" he asked coldly. He noted Faramir's wince. "Do you study things that pertain to Gondor? Or mayhap to Rohan?" His eyes lit up. "Perhaps even further - to Westernesse itself?"

"All of those areas have my attention. I hope to focus, during this visit, upon the Battle of Dagorlad."

"We have just finished such a battle. Not, perhaps as terrible as the one you research, but one terrible nonetheless to Gondor."

"Yet, you did not come?" Denethor's voice turned to ice. "You did not deem Gondor important enough to offer a wizard's aid?"

"There are other battles in this world that must be attended to, battles in places with less protection than Gondor has."

"Go, then, and read your books and stay away from me and mine." Denethor's eyes flashed.

Faramir stepped forward. "Father, Mithrandir has done naught to garner your anger."

Denethor stood still, his mouth set, drawing every once of strength from his great will to not strike the lad. "Very well, Faramir, go with him and be done with me."

The wind finally quieted. The dust from the battles settled. She sat in the garden with the letter upon her lap. Below her, the sounds of men burying the dead echoed from Rath Dínen, shovels and picks clanging against the hard Mindolluin marble that streaked through the hallowed ground. This garden was too close to that street. She should have gone to Finduilas' - more secluded, peaceful. A deep sorrow took her. So much death and destruction. So many people worn to shadows of their former glory. She did not know what to do.

How I wish you had joined your brother on his recent visit to the Mark. I so wanted to see you. My heart has been in such turmoil these last two years. To have seen your face, heard your beloved voice, and rested in your comforting arms would have been such a delight for me. I know you had your reasons for not coming. Forgive my whining, but...

The loss of Théodwyn... Only thirty-nine. A baby, a child. You lost your sister, so I know you understand the pain of the loss of my daughter. Never had I thought to live beyond her years. She was so dear to me, Indis. A friend as well as daughter. How could I not save her? How could not my love have been strong enough to heal her? Why would she leave me? Why would she leave her children? I cannot understand this. She was a warrior's woman, Indis. She grew up and lived amongst warriors. I cannot understand how she could lose her will to live.

I did not suggest it, but as you know, Théoden took her children as his own. He has always been such a stalwart man and so strong. I find I value strength more, now that I have lost my own. He is so dear to me. His father would be proud. He stands upon the portico of the Golden Hall, the winds whip through his hair, and his stance is one like unto the Valar. Denethor values him too, which makes me very happy. Who would not value such a man! I tell him so, in no uncertain terms, and he blushes. Blushes, Indis! A man of his years. And is not a mother allowed to say such things to her son? Am I not allowed to be proud of what he has become? I am proud, Indis. I see Thengel's likeness in his jaw and the way he walks. I wonder if he learned that walk from his father or if 'tis natural? Listen to me! You must be sick of my going on about my son. Shall I talk of my grandchildren!

Théodred has been named Third Marshal of the Riddermark. He is a delight. I so wanted to show him off to you. Your Boromir and Faramir are certainly sons of Númenor. Would not our beloved Finduilas be most proud? I love to watch the three of them together; their friendship is a boon both to Gondor and the Mark. Éowyn and Éomer are almost the same age as Faramir and Boromir were when that sweet lady died. Your boys spent time with my little ones while they were here in Edoras. They sat with them at the fire and told them stories of their father. Boromir fought alongside Éomund at one time, did he not? Well, whatever. They have been kind to these two little orphans.

The winters seem colder. Do they to you, dearest Indis? No amount of furs or blankets seems to alleviate the shivering that comes upon me these last years. I am only eighty! One would think I was old! Tell me that you do not have these pains, that you are well and enjoying life? Please, dearest sister-friend, for I need some relief knowing that at least one whom I love is not growing old.

Which brings me to the reason for this letter. You laugh, I can see you, but I do have a reason for writing, other than to complain to you.

Denethor looks haggard and drawn, Indis. I was so surprised when first I saw him as he passed through the gates into our city. His hands are wrinkled and spottled with age. His hair has grayed. He does not look like a man of Númenor; he looks more like a Rohirrim. My father was of Westernesse, Indis. He did not age like Denethor has. When he laid himself down to join his fathers, his hair was still almost midnight black and his hands were strong and firm. There were times when Denethor staggered as he walked through the streets of Edoras. He excused himself by saying the roads are rough, but he has walked these roads before and I have never seen him stumble. What is the cause for this?

My heart fears for him. Though Boromir is of an age to take the reins of Gondor in his own hands, I would wish for Denethor's wisdom and long years of experience. We of the Mark rely upon him, Indis. I know you do as does Gondor, but Indis, he looks so frail, tired and old. Has he succumbed to some wasting disease? Is there naught the healers of Gondor can do for him? Forgive my asking. I know you must see it too. I will bother you no longer on this. Just know I ask only because I love him.

On to other things. I fear my sword arm has become quite useless with the pains of old age upon it. I last rode out on patrol over three years ago, the same age as you are now, Indis! I am bitterly distraught over this prison that I now live in. Théoden refuses to even let me ride. Of course, I almost fell off a horse and he happened to be standing right there as I slid to the side. He did not seem to notice that I was able to right myself! The cad. What manner of child have I raised!

There are times I wish desperately that we had not had to return to Edoras. My beloved Thengel lies cold and alone. I am tempted to join him. Ah! I speak foolishly. You would ride here with speed and slap me if you could. I rejoice in our friendship.

I find I do not want to stop writing. I do not want this tenuous tie between us broken. I remember how we three were all wed, all with hopes and dreams before us, strong men at our side, not to protect us, but to support us. Those were three doughty men, were they not, my sweet Indis? I still cannot think of my beloved Thengel without crying. I know you share my pain. How has it come to this, Indis? Do the Valar despise us? Will they never again aid the Faithful? Blessed Elbereth, how has this happened?

Forgive me. I am at a loss today. All my thoughts turn to sadness and despair. I must play with the little ones; they bring joy to my heart. They are stronger than I am now, Indis.

Visit me soon, dearest sister-friend. I do not believe I have much longer to live. Or at least, write me.

'I should have gone with them! I should have seen her. She needed me and I stayed here!' Thoughts of the latest battles fled from her mind as she read of the melancholy of her friend.

"Faramir! Beloved, what can I do for you?" She paused a moment. "And why the downcast look? Have you and your father been quarrelling again?"

Faramir told her everything, minimizing, as best he could, the scene in the Tower.

"I must speak with him, Faramir." She held up her hand to still him. "Not about you so much, though that is more important, but it directly relates to the time he spends in the Tower. It is not healthy. He comes away not quite himself. He takes out his anger, his fear, his frustration on those who are about him at the time. Will you give him leeway, Faramir? Can your heart forgive him?" He looked askance and she continued. "Your words do not tell the whole tale of what happened between your adar and you, but I can see hurt, deep hurt, in your eyes." Again she stilled him. "Do not speak further. I know you wish to protect him." She laughed mirthlessly. "He does not see it, Faramir, your love and devotion, your obedience, your loyalty. But I do, as does Boromir. Does that lighten your heart?"

He hugged her tightly. "You have always lightened my heart, Amma. Boromir thinks well of me?"

She kissed him lightly. "He dotes on you; he adores you; he thinks none other can best you at anything!"

"I need to go to Edoras, Faramir. Would you come with me? I believe your adar will allow it?"

"Now, Indis? We have not even buried all our dead. I think father will need me close. Or do you think," he swallowed hard, "that he would prefer me away from him?"

"Oh, Faramir! That is not what I meant at all. I meant that, now that we have a moment's respite, he could risk having you gone."

"I will go with you. It will not be a long stay, will it, Amma? I think Boromir will be returning soon. I would not want to miss him."

She smiled. "It will be a very short trip. I am hoping to persuade Morwen to return to Minas Tirith."

When they had returned, without Morwen much to Indis' chagrin, Faramir found orders awaiting him. He had missed Boromir. His brother had been in Minas Tirith for a month and then had been sent to the Falls of Rauros. Denethor wanted the outpost there refortified. Faramir was to go to Dol Amroth. Boromir had left a letter for him. Denethor had told him of Faramir's promotion and his posting to Dol Amroth. Boromir had been profuse in his praise and congratulations. He exhorted Faramir to remember the great honor that their father bestowed upon him - his own captaincy and the highly regarded garrison of Belfalas.

Faramir went, but his heart was heavy. Imrahil was delighted to see him and welcomed him warmly. Faramir's orders were to take the leadership of the garrison there; authority for the garrison had been given, during the last days of Ecthelion's Stewardship, to the Prince of Belfalas. Denethor now took that authority back. He wanted the Knights of Gondor to answer to the Steward alone and not to Dol Amroth.

Adrahil was furious when first he heard the news, but when he understood that Faramir was to captain the garrison, he relented. 'The old fox knew I could not say nay to Faramir!' He ordered a state dinner to be held and invited Faramir and the other officers of the garrison.

Faramir was seated next to his adadhron. Imrahil, home for a time from sea duty, sat on Adrahil's right. Every now and again during dinner, Adrahil would touch Faramir's hand and smile. As they stood to retire for the night, his uncle stepped towards him.

Imrahil smiled, hugged him and said, "Of course. But I must say, I am happy to see you again. I love your father dearly; it is an honor to have his son in our home."

Faramir returned the hug, then walked away, the smile on his face quickly turning into a frown. 'I wonder how happy you would be to see me if you knew father had sent me here as an exile?' He laughed bitterly. 'Boromir would tan my hide if he heard me speak that thought aloud!' Did not his brother remind him that he had been promoted to captain and sent, as such, to Gondor's most prestigious post on the outskirts of Dol Amroth?

Faramir retrieved the package, fully intending to return to his adadhron, but Elphir stood before him.

"I waited for you to at least say hello," the young prince said. "Do you know how long I have waited for your return? You promised too long ago, that you would come every summer! I waited."

Startled, Faramir stood still. "I am not my own master, Elphir. You know that you must obey your father; that you cannot do things as you would wish. I returned home and obeyed my father. After our last visit, I became an esquire of Gondor. Now, I am Captain of the Dol Amroth garrison. The Steward dictates my comings and goings. I wanted to be here, to visit with you and spend time in the caves along the shore, but that was not to be. You were only three when I made that promise. I should have known you would not understand. I was only seven; even I did not understand. If I promised you, I was foolish. I am sorry."

The boy rushed to him and hugged him tightly. "Then now we will go to the caves and we will explore them to our hearts content; then we will go to Edhellond and look upon the ruins of the Elves. I know you were there; Adar tells me tales of you seeing an Elf, a really alive Elf, Faramir. I want to see one too. Might we not go? Please!"

Faramir laughed. "If it is within my power to take you to Edhellond, then I will do it. I would like to see an Elf again. You have grown so." He took the boy by the shoulders and held him back. "You are old!"

"You are older still, Faramir, and I love you still. Might not we go to the kitchens and get some sweets and talk about where our adventures will lead us? I have missed you so very much."

"I will meet you as soon as I am able. Stay in your room. I must meet with Adadhron. Then, I will come and get you and we will sneak into the kitchens. Hopefully, there is some of that wondrous pie left over from dinner."

Elphir hugged him tightly. "Go then and be quick about it. Remember, Adadhron likes to talk and talk. If you do not find an excuse to get away, I will be asleep before you come. Though, I promise, I will try to stay awake!"

Faramir hugged him, turned and ran down the corridor. As he neared his adadhron's chambers, he slowed to a more stately walk. He knocked and entered. Imrahil sat by the fireplace; Adrahil stood at the window looking out at the breakers as they crashed against the cliff's rocks far below.

"I wanted to see my indyo!" Adrahil stepped away from the window and strode eagerly forward. "Your father does me a great honor by sending you to me," he enthused. "It has been much too long since either you or Boromir visited your old Adadhron!"

Faramir laughed. "You are not old, dearest Adadhron. You are timeless as the sea." Faramir returned the hug, feeling as he did when a child. His adadhron's unreserved love brought quick tears to his eyes. He could not remember receiving so many hugs in such a short space of time.

He sat, upon invitation, and told of Adrahil's cousin, Morwen, of Boromir and Denethor. He told of the battles Gondor had fought recently and of the great triumphs that Boromir could claim. He spoke quietly of the loss of life. He offered Prince Adrahil the Steward's profound thanks for Belfalas' help during the last struggle. Though he had tried to keep his sharing light, the times he told of were grim. At last he sat in silence, holding a glass of wine in his hands. He smiled. This was the first time his adadhron had offered him wine. The glass was exquisite with the swan of Dol Amroth etched in its side. Faramir held it to the fire and watched the colors dance across it.

"And what of you, Faramir?" Adrahil's tone was gentle and kind. "You have told me naught of yourself. Are you well; are you happy?"

Startled, Faramir looked up. "I am well," he said shortly, then realized his tone was bitter.

"I make no excuses for your father, Faramir. I have dealt with him for many years. He is a hard man. Yet, and I say this grudgingly, he is wise and fair. However, his sense of duty, of purpose, never wavers. And therein lies his weakness. He sees too much. He knows too much. It puts a bitter, hard edge to him. Do not become like him, Faramir. He can see inside a man, find his weakness, and use it to control him. Always for the good of Gondor.

"I have long since forgiven him for your mother's death. I have come to see that it was a blow as bitter to him as it was to me. But I am now further concerned. Your words belie your appearance. You are not well and I can sense that your mind is in turmoil and your heart is wounded. Did you come to Dol Amroth willingly?"

Faramir took a deep breath, berating himself for being so transparent to his adadhron. Did not his father just recently chide him for not being able to hide his feelings? Would he never learn? "I will speak no ill against anyone. I have made some mistakes in judgment, as of late."

"I hear differently," Adrahil interrupted. "It is your father who has made mistakes, especially with you!"

"Please, Adadhron. Let us discuss this no further. As you say, father is under great duress. His mind is constantly battling Mordor and those on the Council who oppose him. I have not supported him as well as he would wish. Because of that, we clash now and again. He still loves me, this I know, and I love him. Do not press me further, please, Adadhron."

"If it is your wish not to discuss these things," Adrahil said, "Then we will not. Now, tell me of your plans for the garrison."

They rode through the villages that led to Edhellond. Imrahil had asked to join them; both Faramir and Elphir were delighted to have his company.

As they crossed the bridge into the forsaken city, Faramir shuddered in anticipation. It had been many years since he had seen his Elf. 'He is mine,' Faramir told himself. 'He came to me. How I hope he is still here, that I might thank him for his care. For watching over Boromir and me all these long years.'

He heard the gentle laughter of Erchirion, sitting before his father on his great stead, and vaguely remembered a time being in that same position, with Imrahil's arms around him. 'Ah!' he thought, 'when Boromir and I came here, I rode with Uncle.' His eyes suddenly filled with tears at the remembrance of Imrahil's kindness.

Dark was almost upon them when they reached the outskirts of the deserted city. "'Twould be best to camp here for the night," Imrahil said, "else we fall into some abandoned, ill-marked well."

Faramir nodded. "Elphir and I will collect wood. There is a small hill yonder that I would take him to. We can see the whole expanse of the city from that vantage point. It will keep us both sated until morning." Erchirion begged to be included. Faramir nodded, though Elphir was disappointed. He wanted to spend time alone with Faramir.

"As the youngest, Elphir, I would oft drive my brother mad asking to accompany him everywhere. I understand Erchirion's need to be with you. Will you not let him come?"

Imrahil laughed and waved them away. Both the man and the two youths scampered quickly up the hill. When they reached the top, they were out of breath. Lying down upon the ground, they rested for a moment, then, Erchirion jumped up.

"There!" Faramir pointed and the setting sun caught the top of one of the derelict domes and sent beams flying. They gasped in delight.

Faramir smiled. "They do like to come out in the evening, according to all the old tales. Mayhap though, we have frightened them."

"I was incorrect in my choice of words. Mayhap they do not wish to be seen by men."

Faramir had to smile. "We are indeed, Elphir. Let us be patient. Tomorrow, we will go into the city itself and look about. It was in the very heart of the city that I saw my Elf. Right now, it is going to be too dark for us to find our way back if we tarry any further. Come!"

They made their way down the hill with an armload of firewood and dropped it near a soldier who was putting the stones in a circle, preparing for the making of the fire. When they were done, they found Imrahil and helped with the preparations for the night.

"Will you tell us a tale of Elves, Adar?" Elphir asked once they finished supper.

"I would tell you a tale of Elf friends, Elphir. They became known as the Faithful, but in the beginning, they were known as the Edain. One of the most faithful was named Elros, the first High King of Númenor."

The tale lasted for some time, Elphir and Erchirion fell asleep before it was complete, but Imrahil, noting that Faramir listened intently, continued till the death of the king.

"It is a sad tale - to me," Faramir said quietly when his uncle ceased speaking.

"That brother should lose brother." He shivered. "I do not quite understand how Elros could leave his brother, take mortality to himself, and know that he left his brother alone. Nor how Elrond could take immortality, knowing he would never see his brother again. I find it a hard tale to hear." He lay on his blanket, turning his back to his uncle.

In the morning, Elphir was first up, before the sun even lifted itself above the mountains. He rushed to Faramir's bed and shook him. "It is time. Let us go up the hill again. Mayhap we will see some Elves from there and then go into the city and meet them!"

Faramir laughed. "We will go when it is light enough, cousin. Your father will not let us go this early. Come, let us stir the fire and make some coffee. It is good to be helpful. All soldiers must learn this. You are going to be an esquire next year?"

Elphir's chest bulged out in pride. "I will. I will be in Adadhron's old company. It is a high honor."

"Indeed it is. I was esquire in my father's company. Though sometimes I was held to account more closely because of it, I learned much."

"The coffee smells good," Imrahil approached and laid his hand on Elphir's shoulder. "As soon as we break our fast, we will ride through the city. Go and wake your brother."

Soon they were on their way. A small contingent of men stayed at the campsite while the rest accompanied their prince into the city. It was heartrending to see the desolation, 'But no more heartrending,' thought Faramir, 'than when riding through Osgiliath.' And he suddenly wondered where Boromir was and how he was faring and the thought of Elros lingered darkly in his heart.

They spent the day combing through the ruins. Every now and again, Erchirion would yell that he had seen an Elf. By the end of the day, Elphir had had enough. "Stop it!" he shouted after the last instance. "There are no Elves here!"

Faramir saw the tears in Erchirion's eyes and walked over to him. "Do not be discouraged," he said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "You are very young and will have many opportunities to see Elves. I know you will see one someday," he promised.

They camped for the night in the same spot. Imrahil accompanied his nephew and his sons to the top of the hill and sat with them on the grass as they watched the sun set. Imrahil told the tale of Nimrodel and Amroth. No one spoke when he had finished. The next morning they would leave this place.

Indis could not forget the pain in her friend's face. Morwen had grown as old as Denethor looked. She understood Morwen's fear for Denethor; she knew Denethor was Gondor's strength, and therefore, Rohan's strength. Somehow, she must pull him away from the Palantír, but how? Perhaps if peace was forthcoming, at least for a time, Gondor could pull her forces together, the army might be reinforced, and their losses could be recouped. Then, she would work to help Denethor improve his ring of spies and scouts. They should be able to apprise him of what was happening in Gondor, almost as quickly as that globe!

When she mentioned it to him, however, he turned upon her. "I know what I am doing!" he said forcibly. "I will, however, consider your suggestion." He smiled at her. "I am really turning into a scoundrel, am I not?"

"I... Faramir is only half mine. The wizard has his other half. What will happen further along is not known."

"It is known if you continue to drive him towards Mithrandir. He loves you, Denethor. Cannot you see that? Do you not remember the little boy that used to sit upon your lap? I have always admired your wisdom, but when it comes to the wizard, you make me wonder. I know, I remember your meetings with Curunír. They were hideous and he frightened the wits out of you. But you have learned how to use your mind, Denethor, more than any man I have ever known. Use it now to be strong for your son. Do not push him into the wizard's outstretched arms!"

"He is in Dol Amroth. With his beloved adadhron. He will recover. When he returns, I promise, I will mend the hurt done."

"When he returns may not be the question, Denethor. It could be 'if' he returns."

The anguish on his brother's face tore his heart out as Faramir stood before him in his study. Boromir himself had only just returned to Minas Tirith a fortnight ago from an inspection of the northern beacon-hills. The younger son of Denethor had arrived only a short time ago from Dol Amroth. He tried to report to his Captain-General, but the grief, the horror was too much to tell in words and his face contorted, betrayed the despair that ran through his heart. Boromir quickly stood, rounded the desk and hugged him close.

Faramir pushed him away. "We have caused this!" he practically screamed. "We have known of these raiding parties and have done naught. Always, it seems, we do naught." He shook his head, trying to understand, trying to fathom what recourse they had. He knew there was none. How did his father bear this trial? How had he survived all these years knowing that every step Gondor took forward was followed by two steps backwards? That naught that the Stewards could do would reverse the damage done in the past age. There were not enough men. Not enough resources to win this battle. Faramir shivered. How had Denethor not gone mad all these years? Sending his people to certain death at every battle, seeing Gondor raked by foe after foe.

Boromir was at a loss. Never had he seen his brother this anguished. "Please, tell me what you have seen."

Faramir took a ragged breath. "Father recalled me from Dol Amroth. He wanted certain reports and quickly. I brought a company with me over the waters of the Bay of Belfalas, through the Ethir Anduin and up the River. Just a short distance north of where the River Poros intersects with the Anduin we discovered one of the Corsair ships, deserted; we boarded it. It had obviously run aground, a gaping hole stretched across one of its sides. We were still cautious.

"I sent soldiers down the hold while the rest of us searched the captain's quarters, the galleys. Suddenly, I heard retching. I ran to the deck and discovered some of my men leaning over the railings. One of them pointed to the stairs leading to the hold. I went down slowly, cautiously. It was dark and it took a moment for my eyes to accustom themselves.

"I saw men, nay, rather boys, sitting at their stations, oars still in their hands. Their feet were chained and their hands. I walked to one slumped over his oar. My feet stuck to the deck as I moved. I was standing in blood, puddles of it. Their throats... Boromir! These were our people, Boromir! Lads from the villages of Gondor. Sons of our women. Boromir! Boromir!"

The tears started afresh and this time, Faramir let Boromir hold him. "They had been whipped and beaten before they were killed, their backs were raw! Probably their strokes were too short or too shallow. They were deemed unfit to save when the crew abandoned the ship. By the Valar, Boromir, how could men do this? I... I... I do not understand Orcs doing these things, but they are not human; they are creatures, ill made. But these, these Corsairs, they are men, Boromir." His breath came in gasps.

Boromir led him to the settle. He poured wine and passed the goblet to his brother. He remembered the first time he had come across the wickedness of men. It was hard to fathom such actions. Even more fearful was the tortured remains of those victims of Orcs. Faramir had not yet been introduced to that horror; Boromir had no hope that Faramir would be spared the sight of a man Orc-tortured.

Faramir looked up into his eyes and Boromir saw the betrayal that he felt. Faramir's eyes said his father had failed him and so had his brother. They had betrayed Gondor and its people. All that in one look.

Boromir sat next to him. "Faramir." He stopped as shivers ran down his arms. What could he say that would make this all right? "Faramir. It is just father, you and I. There is no one else who seems to understand this. The Council, the captains - none seem to see it as we do. I do not know why this is so, but it is. I believe things have been like this for a very long time. I believe father has fought it for as long as he has lived.

"We see... by some precognition or wizardry or what, I do not know. But we see and it tears us apart. And slowly, bits of us are torn away. For others, it is not the same. I believe they think that everything will work to the good.

"Perhaps because father is such a strong leader. Perhaps because he is wise. Perhaps because he does not show the fear and horror that I know dwell in his mind and in his heart. Ever has he been chained himself by circumstances. Indis once told me of their sister and how she had died at the hands of the Haradrim. Father had wanted to launch an army and attack Harad. Yet, Ecthelion was aided by Mithrandir who counseled restraint, along with a captain of his named Thorongil. And so his father did not attack. Indis said that it had ever weighed heavily upon his heart.

"We fail Gondor daily, Faramir. We are at a loss. There is naught we can do but try to stem the tide of destruction. We cannot prevent it any longer. We have our finger stuck in the dike, trying to hold back the sea, but the sea sneaks in from other ways and pounds the land and destroys it. We stand in the gap only, Faramir. And yet the gap widens and we are only three. Do you see why we must stay together, Faramir, back every decision of father's? There is no recourse for us. Gondor will fall. It may not be in our lifetime, but it will fall."

Denethor turned away, unseen, and walked towards the Tower. His own sons thought him a failure.

After a moment's hesitation, Faramir took Boromir's arms and held him tight. "Nay," he whispered. "Gondor will not fall, even if we are relegated to living in the White Mountains and fighting as we now do in Ithilien. As long as one Gondorian lives, Boromir," he said passionately, "Gondor lives. I will not lose hope. Join me now in that hope?" He stepped back a little and held out an arm. Boromir clasped it with all his might, swearing to his little brother to hold that vow.

Then, Boromir pulled him close, whispering in his ear, "You are my hope, Faramir. Remember that."

A/N - Song was a very important part of LOTR. In the first part of this chapter, I have Denethor and Faramir walking down through the levels of Minas Tirith, and as they pass along the walls, the soldiers break into song. I use this quote from ROTK, Book V, Chapter 1, Minas Tirith, as the basis for this incident. "Hand in hand they went back into the City, the last to pass the Gate before it was shut; and as they reached the Lampwrights' Street all the bells in the towers tolled solemnly. Lights sprang in many windows, and from the houses and wards of the men at arms along the walls there came the sound of song." And in that same chapter, "And last and proudest, Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, kinsman of the Lord, with gilded banners bearing his token of the Ship and the Silver Swan, and a company of knights in full harness riding grey horses; and behind them seven hundreds of men at arms, tall as lords, grey-eyed, dark-haired, singing as they came." And lastly, Denethor's most famous question of Pippin, "Can you sing?"

*Linaewen wrote the most beautiful story for the HASA Art Challenge focusing on a picture of a woman and her two children. I just had to incorporate the thought into this part of my tale - for the picture so stunningly could be Finduilas with Boromir and Faramir. The short story and the picture - http://lotrscrapbook.bookloaf.net/stories/01/lin/linaewen_respite.html

Just a gentle reminder - the ages of the men/women of this tale in the year 3002. Adrahil 85; Morwen 80; Indis 77; Denethor 72; Théoden 54; Imrahil 47; Boromir 24; Faramir 19; Elphir 15; Erchirion 12; Éomer 11; Éowyn 7

Indis walked through the dressing room and discovered Finduilas' brush and comb still upon the table. Her decanters of perfumed water lined the table. Framed pictures that Boromir and Faramir had drawn lay in peace next to them. Why had Denethor left these things here? She dared not remove anything; she knew not why he had left the room undisturbed.

Drawing in a sharp breath, she walked quickly to the little chair in the corner. Finduilas' cloak lay there, sad and alone. She held it before her. She remembered it too well and Finduilas' joy at the gift from Denethor. She had put it on and danced around the bedchamber. Sadness engulfed Indis. She did not remember Finduilas even living long enough to wear the beautiful garment. She fingered the stars lining the hem and tears fell.

Finduilas, one of her dearest friends, had succumbed to grief and fear, and now, it seemed, Morwen walked the same path. Somehow, she must convince her to move back to Minas Tirith, to the home that she loved so passionately. It was still empty. Indis had contracted landscapers to keep the garden tended and its fountain clean. It would take no time at all to air out the house and clean the rooms. Excitement filled her.

'Nay,' she stopped herself. 'It is not the house that she misses, nor Minas Tirith; it is Thengel. I cannot bring him back. What can I do for her? How am I to help her?' Head bowed in defeat, she turned to leave the room; the cloak, forlornly draped over the dressing chair, mocked her.

Denethor stood before her. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice holding a tone more of puzzlement than anger.

She stepped back. She could not remember why she had come into the dressing room. She had been in Finduilas' garden, weeding, and went to lave her hands and face in the bowl. That was it! There were no towels.

"I was looking for towels. My hands were soiled from weeding. Whoever last cleaned the bed chambers neglected to replace the dirty towels."

"Why were you weeding? Does not the gardener do that?" She looked down; pain crossed her face. "Never mind; I think I understand." He took her arm and gently led her out of the room. Closing the door, he locked it.

"Would you want me to clean out the room, Denethor? Some of the items could benefit the poor?"

He shuddered visibly. "I will have no one enter that room. Not even you." He turned and walked away from her.

'I do not know what to do,' she thought miserably. 'How can I help those I love when they refuse my help?'

She bumped into Arciryas in the hall. "My love," she cried. She wanted desperately to tell him how much she missed his presence in their bed, but she could not. The affairs of the Houses lay heavily upon him. He had slept with her a week a go. 'Nay, it was more like unto a fortnight.' As always, duty to Gondor superseded personal need. But her heart was torn and she needed arms about her.

He bowed low. "I am sorry, my own. I have a meeting with the Steward. Mayhap we can have supper together tonight? Nay, I forgot. There is a special meeting regarding our need for herbs. I must attend it. Then, I have something about the fever that might help us." She smiled, kissed him on his cheek, and let him pass. Tears fell. Unbidden.

'I will visit Adrahil. It has been o'erlong since I have seen Finduilas' father.' He could see Faramir, too, if the lad was not away on patrol. 'Not too transparent,' he thought wryly and laughed. 'I need to see him.' A sudden dread regarding Faramir had filled him, a fortnight ago, and he waited daily for a missive from Dol Amroth. But none came. Still, his heart misgave him. Try as he might, the Palantír would no longer show him his sons. 'My mind is surely too uneasy when I look for them. I must somehow find a way to compose myself before I touch it.' But he knew it was useless. When he had the globe in his hands searching for Boromir or Faramir, his heart beat wildly and his palms sweat. It was useless. Not since the attack of the mûmak had he been able to see his sons.

Turning from the Tower, he walked to the Great Hall. There was no guard at the Great Door nor the Chamberlain at the entrance to the Hall. Anger flared, but he stilled his heart and walked to the Chair. Pulling his cloak about him, he sat, plans for his trip filling his mind, his heart lightening.

Boromir was on duty at the fortress of Cair Andros; he expected him to return shortly. 'Should I ask him to accompany me? Yes! I will make it a state visit of sort.' His attention was drawn to a noise from the Hall to his left, the one that led to the Tower and meeting rooms. 'Finally, a servant deigns to attend me!'

Battle instinct saved him, but not the Chair. He deftly ducked and the axe bit into the marble arm, sparks flying everywhere. He found himself upon the floor, rolling as far from his assailant as possible. He swore briefly, wishing he had his sword with him instead of this decorative piece of... With no more time to think as his attacker raised the axe over his head, he kicked with his feet and the thug fell, cracking his head on the floor. Denethor jumped up, but not quickly enough. The assassin was up before he could pull the useless sword. Wordlessly, he stepped to the side, ducked low to miss another blow, swung around and pulled the sword from its scabbard. Inching slowly backwards, towards the door, he held the sword before him, glaring at his opponent.

The face was covered in a black rag, the head also. 'Haradrim?' he wondered for a moment. Then, the thug was rushing towards him, axe high in the air, screaming invectives in Haradric. Denethor knew a few of the words, would have laughed at the inanity of the curses if he were not fighting for his life. He held his sword in front of him, waiting for the death lunge. The man fell forward, an arrow piercing his throat. Denethor collapsed backwards, carried by the weight of his enemy as he fell.

Hands quickly pulled the dead man off the Steward. Denethor waited for a moment, trying to catch his breath, but he could not seem to. His chest hurt mightily. He could not breathe. He looked up into Berelach's face, clutched his aide's hand, and felt no more.

"He gives up everything, Faramir, and for what! To sit at the base of a useless Throne!" Boromir stood by his father's bed, watching as Denethor struggled to breathe. The smell of herbs hung rank and heavy in the room.

He had not changed upon arrival into Minas Tirith; he had done naught but ride directly from Cair Andros, as soon as the message was received, and found his way to his father's chambers. His anger was palpable. Seeing him laying there, the stalwart and indomitable Steward, as if dead, overwhelmed all sane thought.

"Boromir. The point is moot. Father has told you - we wait for the return of the king."

"What king?" Boromir spat. "There is none and there likely will be none. How long must we wait? How long have we waited? Is all the blood of the House of Húrin to be spent in vain?"

Faramir smiled. Boromir thought not of the Throne, Faramir knew, but his fear for his father took him places he should not go. "Come with me to the kitchen. Arciryas will send for us if we are needed."

They walked slowly down the steps and into the large, warm kitchen. Fresh bread for the morning sat, rising. The smell of yeast was heavy in the air. Faramir sneezed. He poured tea from an always-full kettle. Passing a cup to Boromir, he said, "Father has been wounded before, Boromir. He will recover. Not many have the strength nor the steel will that he has."

Boromir stood, sensing that what he was about to hear was not good. "I received a missive stating that father had been hurt and that I was needed. What else is there?"

Boromir sat, steeling himself for he knew not what, every fiber of his body held at attention.

"An assassin from Harad slipped into the Great Hall and attacked. Father would be dead now, if not for the shooting skill of Berelach. As it was, when the assassin fell forward, his axe glanced off him. One of the spikes on the axe head went into father's chest. The wound is deep."

"Where were the guards?" Boromir asked incredulously. "The servants?" His voice was tight.

Faramir quickly stood in front of him. "There is naught you can do, Boromir. Let those in command finish the process. They know full well to report to you. All know you have returned home."

Boromir stood, feeling stricken and helpless. Faramir's look told him he understood. "I must go to him. I did not know." He fought back the tears. "You may stay here if you like, but I must."

Indis sat quietly, watching as Boromir and Faramir entered their father's bedchamber. She stifled a sob as the tall, strong eldest fell to his knees at Denethor's bedside. "Adar," she heard him call and saw the shoulders shake. "Adar," he whispered again, but his voice broke and the sound echoed through the room. Faramir stood behind him, his hand on his brother's shoulder.

When there was no response, Boromir stood. As he turned to face Faramir, she was noticed. He strode quickly to her side, then knelt in front of her, taking her cold hands in his strong ones. Her heart soared to have them by her side once again. Too long had both boys been gone. Faramir knelt next to his brother.

"Amma," Boromir said, then buried his face in her lap. Uncontrolled sobs shook him. She put her hand lovingly on his head. Desperately she wanted to tell him all would be well. She could not. She knew Faramir understood her silence, for he too began to weep quietly.

"Arciryas has done all in his power to save him, but now it is up to Denethor. He has been stronger this past year." She had never told them of their father's use of the Palantír. She had been grateful that Denethor had let it lie these last few months. It sapped his strength!

"Faramir, would you make us some tea?" She felt the anguish of the youngest, held back by the steel will that was so like his father's. He nodded, stood and walked to the fire.

Squeezing her hand gently, he stood and walked to the fire. Taking the kettle from Faramir's hand, he put it back on the hook. Faramir looked at him, perplexed; Boromir took him in his arms.

"Do you remember one time, little brother, when I held you like this and told you that you were my hope?"

"I would be your hope this day. We will stay by father's side, you and I, and our strength will give him the strength he needs. We will not lose him, Faramir."

The errand-rider came from Belfalas in the night. The Swan Banner flew as the horse galloped at a break-neck pace towards the Great Gate. The silver trumpets of Minas Tirith sang out, heralding the princely messenger. Boromir was first to enter the Great Hall; Faramir ran up shortly afterwards.

"The messenger has not arrived as of yet. Did we send a rider to Dol Amroth with news of father's state?"

Faramir waved to the Chamberlain who stepped forward and bowed. "Was an errand-rider sent to Dol Amroth?"

"Nay, my Lord, not that I know of. Only two were sent - one to you at Linhir and one to Captain Boromir at Cair Andros."

"Then the news must indeed be grave," Boromir said. He sat in his father's chair, arm resting easily on the marble surface. Faramir stood behind him. The youngest could hardly stand still; concern etched his features. Boromir knew his brother had grown closer than ever to the people of Belfalas since being stationed there these past six years. What event had caused a rider to be sent from Prince Adrahil to arrive in the middle of the night?

His chest hurt as he moved, trying to relieve whatever pressed down upon him, constricted his breathing, and caused him such pain. He felt her soft hand slide down from his ear to his chin and moaned.

"Finduilas," he whispered, "I have missed you." She hummed the little love song that was theirs. He wanted to open his eyes and watch her smile, but they felt so heavy. Her finger ran down his neck and he felt her hand rest on his chest. Sharp pain! She moved again and he was able to breathe once more. She kissed his ear and he smiled as tears rolled down his cheeks, joy suffocating him once again. When he came to, she was still with him.

"Do you remember our betrothal day? We said the vows in front of father and you laughed. You were never more beautiful, Finduilas, 'cept when you birthed our sons. They are so beautiful. Boromir more like a warrior of old and Faramir like unto one of the Valar themselves."

Struggling with some tendril of memory, he tried again to open his eyes. They were too heavy. "I held you so close. I was afraid I had lost you. But you fought, Finduilas, you fought to stay with me."

His brow furrowed. "Finduilas," he called. "Finduilas!" But he had lost the scent of her perfume; her body warmth had left him. He tried to raise his hands to cup her face in them and kiss her sweet lips, but she had moved away from him. "Finduilas!" he called again and she touched his chest.

Fire and pain such as he had never felt before enveloped him. He could not breathe.

"Fear not, Lord Denethor, the worst is over. Rest gently now. Your family is with you."

"You must go, Faramir. You have been stationed there these past six years. Her people know you. There is none who will represent Gondor better."

"Nay! She cannot. I would. I really would take your place for I know your heart will be here at father's bedside, but I cannot. I must stay as heir and you must go."

"I will not," Faramir said stubbornly. "If he wakes and finds me gone... or if he - he..."

"He will understand - and approve! He knows duty, Faramir." A smile unbidden split his face. "Of all of us, he knows duty. Please, Faramir, we have no time for this. Uncle Imrahil and the southern fiefdoms need you at the burial. And think of young Elphir. He worships you. He will need you by his side, with Adadhron gone. Do you not realize that the country is in deep mourning? And they do not even know of father's injury. How will it seem to the lords of Belfalas, Anfalas and Lossarnach, Lamedon and Lebennin if none from the Steward's family attend the burial? You must see that fear and despair will fill our land with both leaders..." Boromir's brow raised in consternation. He put his hands to his face, rubbing his forehead with force. "You must see that you must go."

Faramir knew every word that Boromir spoke was true, but still he could not bring himself to leave. "Boromir. Did you not see father the last time we were with him? He was in such turmoil. I could not bear it if he... I could not bear it, Boromir."

"I promise, Faramir, I promise to hold him until you return. He will not leave us." And Faramir believed him because he must and Boromir wondered, if their father died, would Faramir ever believe his beloved brother again?

While Faramir had been stationed at Dol Amroth, Imrahil had asked him to guide Elphir, when the young prince's time as esquire was complete. Faramir had been delighted. He had taken the young man under his wing. He smiled at the appropriateness of the phrase. The young Swan of Dol Amroth had become his responsibility. They had spent the last three years together, in mischief, joy, sorrow, and battles beyond telling, with Denethor's permission, for almost anything Imrahil asked of the Steward, he was given. Such was the love and respect between the two.

Though Orcs spilled not from the White Mountains, Corsair pirates made it a practice to harry the coastline. And Elphir and Faramir became their scourge. Faramir had quickly learned the ways of the waters of the Bay of Belfalas. Elphir could climb the rigging faster and easier than could his cousin, but Faramir still gave him a run for the money. After six month's time, he was as fleet-footed and nimble as the young prince. They had their own boat and a few others under them, and they ran the seas searching and destroying all who would even consider plundering Belfalas.

Thoughts of the past scattered as he entered the great hall of the palace of Dol Amroth just as the ceremony was about to begin. Elphir ran from his place next to his father and embraced his cousin. "I thought you might not come," he whispered in his ear. "I could not endure this without you."

Faramir's eyes moistened as he accepted the hug, realizing Boromir had been right after all. He was the one who must be here in Dol Amroth to bury their adadhron. And to praise his uncle as he was lifted up as the Twenty-second Prince of Dol Amroth. He bowed low and allowed Elphir to lead him to his place.

Boromir walked the parapet. It had been nigh unto a half-month since Denethor had been wounded and still he slept fitfully; he had yet to regain permanent consciousness. Arciryas thought the axe's spike might have been dipped in poison. It was customary for Southrons to use such barbaric ways. Denethor's body would have to endure the poison till it dissipated. He was strong, the healer kept assuring Boromir; he would survive. It would take time.

'I do not have time,' Boromir thought furiously. 'The needs of Gondor weigh heavy upon me and I would serve her, but I do not know how. I need a sword in my hand and my shield and horn!'

He had sat in many council meetings, but never took part, always watching in amaze as his father wielded the members like 'Kings and Stewards' pieces. He remembered congratulating his father after one such 'match' between Denethor and Lord Amandil. Though the lord was of an illustrious family, he was no equal to Denethor. The man had wanted the lords of Minas Tirith who were of pure Númenórean descent to be taxed at a lesser rate than the other lords of Gondor. Denethor had bowed low to the old man and begun to tell all of the lordliness of Amandil's family - distant descendants of Elendil himself. Then he went on to tell of the devotion of Elendil to the Valar and to those who were unjustly persecuted for their faithfulness. How Amandil's namesake had given his own life to try to save his people. He finished the discourse by saying he was incredibly sorry for having misunderstood Amandil. That he realized, as he was telling the tale of his ancestors, that Amandil must have asked that those of pure blood be taxed at a greater ratio than those not.

Amandil, so taken aback by the words of praise, could only sputter and say that Denethor had indeed misunderstood him, that Amandil had asked for greater taxes. The man had left the hall muttering under his breath. He had rarely spoken at council meetings after that.

When Boromir had met Denethor after the council had adjourned, his father gently rebuked him for being happy that Amandil had been 'put in his place,' Boromir's very words. "These men are our allies, Boromir. Gondor relies upon them to bring just causes to her attention. As Steward, we must remember that, give them the respect that is due them, but never let them diminish Gondor. Therefore, you will never rejoice in winning such a battle, Boromir. They are not our enemy, like the Orcs you fight; they are our people."

'But they are so weak, Father,' Boromir thought disconsolately as he leaned against the parapet's wall. He had spent every day for the last fortnight in the Great Hall, listening to the troubles of the people of Gondor, hoping that he was offering the correct solution to their complaints, the needed services to them. He shook his head, walked to the very end of the escarpment, and looked out upon the fields before him. The stars shone brightly in the sky. He looked for Eärendil the Mariner and found him, low in the southern sky. He heard her before he saw her. Turning, he smiled. "Amma."

"You are weary. I see it in your eyes. And your shoulders are bent over as if a great weight is upon them." She touched his cheek and held it.

The warmth of her touch lifted him, gave him strength. "I am tired. I wish you would sit in father's Chair. I do not belong there. I have not the training nor the insight. Faramir should be there! Yet I am the one who sent him away."

"Faramir should not be there. You are the heir. It is your duty. I have watched you." She smiled as he looked at her in amaze. "Yes. I have watched you from the shadows and you have shown yourself well. Your father will be proud, once he recovers."

"How could he be proud? Did you not hear what I did today? Gave away farmlands that had been in one man's family for ages."

"You did not know all the facts when you passed the decision. Once you were informed, you brought the wrong doer back and gave the lands to the rightful owners. If you had let the error lie, in pride or foolishness, then, your father would not be proud. As it is, he will be very proud indeed."

He hugged her tightly. "You would have been a perfect queen for Gondor, Amma. You have always been my queen."

Faramir continued walking along his mother's garden. He stopped by a small shrub of athelas. Picking a handful of the fragrant leaves, he inhaled them deeply. A sense of calm overcame him, the first he had felt since leaving Minas Tirith more than a month ago.

"I know. But there has been no word. Father should have recovered by now. Boromir promised he would send word."

"I know that." He dropped the sprig of leaves and covered his face. Deep sobs shook him. "I cannot lose him, Uncle. We fight, we do not understand each other, but I love him. And I will..." He stopped and sat on one of his mother's favorite stoops overlooking the Bay. Darkness had descended but the moon shone on the whitecaps hitting the outer wall of the harbor below. He laid his head heavily on the stone parapet surrounding the garden.

"Adrahil was a hard man, in his own way, yet I loved him deeply. I miss him terribly. I am too young," Imrahil laughed, "to carry the weight of Belfalas on my shoulders, but I must. Know that you are as important to me, Faramir, as are my sons. If you ever need anything, send for me. Else I will be hurt beyond measure."

Faramir stood and embraced his uncle. Memories flooded his mind of all the kindnesses that this man had done for him. "How honored I am to be your nephew."

Another breath. All he needed was to take another breath, but fire filled his being when he did and a moan was torn from his lips. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Boromir stood by his bedside. He had vowed he would keep silent as Arciryas poked and prodded him, for Boromir's sake. But the pain was beyond endurance. He shivered uncontrollably and closed his eyes. He sensed Boromir kneeling next to him, then he felt the strong hands that he knew were his son's holding him still. He bowed his head and tears fell, unbidden. Boromir gently wiped them away. "My son," he whispered.

He shook again as the healer touched the wound, a scream forcing its way from his very being. More years than he could remember had it been since he had last lost control of himself. In the fires of Emyn Arnen. Yes, that had been the last time. His teeth began to chatter; Boromir held him tighter. The healer poured a hideous smelling mixture down his throat. He choked. "You are trying to murder me!" he gasped. He heard Arciryas' chuckle. The pain lifted, gradually, and he was able to open his eyes. Boromir's beautiful gray eyes, pain and sorrow-filled, looked down upon him. He raised his hand slightly and Boromir noted and quickly took it in his own. "I am sorry."

"What have you to be sorry for, Father? Pain is friend to a warrior, lets him know he will live. The wound is grievous. Your cries help you endure as your body heals. I am no longer a child, Father; I know pain and its uses. Scream if you must. I will hold you."

Boromir bowed his head. "There is news from Dol Amroth, Father. Adadhron is dead."

"A fortnight ago. Faramir has gone in your stead to present Gondor's condolences."

Silence filled the bedchamber. At last, Denethor took a shallow breath. "I would that I could have gone. Your mother loved her father very much. I would show all of Belfalas the depth of that love. But Faramir will have to do." His voice gradually weakened. The healer stepped forward again and poured a little more of the medicament down Denethor's throat. "I am sure..." but Denethor had not the breath to reprimand his sister's husband.

Arciryas knelt. "It is good to see you angry again. I could not bear the loss of that fierce temper of yours." The man smiled warmly. "You will be your old hideous self in less than another fortnight. Now, I bid you rest. Boromir," he stood and motioned for the heir to follow him, but Denethor put out a hand and stopped him.

"Please, let my son stay a little longer." His voice rasped and caught. Boromir was instantly at his side again.

"Very well. But I want no talking. Every breath you take strives to undue the stitches in your chest. Talking only worsens it. Do not talk, do you understand?"

Denethor nodded his head, as did Boromir. The healer smiled and walked towards Indis' chair. "I will hold you responsible." She smiled at him; he kissed her cheek and left the room.

"Did not your Master Healer order you not to talk?" Indis said as she stood and walked to his bedside. "You are too oft stubborn, my brother. And I am now responsible for your well-being."

"You have always been responsible," Denethor whispered and tears fell again. "Beloved sister."

She found herself weeping and, in consternation, started fluffing his pillow and pulling on the bedcovers. "Enough of this foolishness. You are healing rapidly and will resume court soon. Boromir has done well." Her eyebrow arched. "You would be most proud of him."

"Sh! Did I not tell you to remain silent?" She smiled. "Never am I allowed to speak for so long a period. It is a heady feeling."

"There have been many cases that have come before your son that have needed a wise hand and for good counsel to prevail. Boromir has risen to the task, brother. He has learned much, sitting at your side. I think it now time that Faramir return from duty abroad and sit at your side, to learn as Boromir has done. Boromir is Captain-General. For the time being, his place is in the field with Gondor's warriors."

"Uncle I am ready to play 'Kings and Stewards.' Where are you?" He thrashed about the bed.

"Listen, listen! The muffled drumbeat of the cortege on its way to the burial grounds."

"Amdir!" he cried urgently. "Where are you? The flames... have you found the child? The roof - it falls - Amdir! Run!" He started to choke; the smoke filled his lungs. Moments of silence.

He coughed desperately. "I do not understand. The fire has been many long years ago, yet my chest still burns."

"It is cold here, Finduilas. I am grateful you are in Dol Amroth. You do not belong here." Mumblings.

"Orcs! Only three, Amdir. We will prevail." Silence; his head lolled from side to side. "Amdir!" The scream shook the room. The body convulsed in agony as sobs tore through it.

"Faramir, go to your room now. I will be... I will be along presently." The tears flowed harder and sobs shook him. "Death; all is death."

Boromir bowed his head in grief. He was glad Faramir was away for this. Arciryas told him the medicaments for pain caused these hideous dreams, but he found it unbearable to listen. How unbearable for his father to relive them. He prayed to the Valar that Denethor would not remember them once he woke.

He would not think upon his mother, he told himself fiercely, but he could not keep her out of his mind. The room his father had made - the Sea Room she had called it. So many months they had spent there. From the moment the sun came out till the moment it set, she would bring them to that room and they would play in the sand as she sat on the lounge, watching them, then sleeping, always sleeping. He shivered. Putting his hands over his face, he let his grief flow. None would see him. Denethor was off in some dreadful world and Indis had gone to bring Boromir nuncheon. After some moments, his shoulders stopped shaking. He wiped his hands over his face, removing the trace of tears. He put his hand on his father's brow. Still warm but not as warm as it had been last night. Arciryas had said that he would heal; he would recover. If the fever was leaving him, then, mayhap, the healer was correct.

He remembered his Uncle Amdir. The man knew how to laugh. And he could tell the best stories. And his mother could bake the best bread. They would ride, the three of them, Uncle Amdir, Father and Boromir, over the Pelennor, letting the horses have their way and laughing in delight. He never knew exactly what had happened for Amdir died at the same time as his mother, and that time was still a blur to Boromir. He sighed. 'All is death.' It had touched him too. Too many times death had touched them all. Would it never...?' He laughed to himself. 'Only if we are Elves will we ever be free of it, of death.'

'But Uncle Amdir is free now, as is mother. Both adadhrons.' He wished that he could have gone to Dol Amroth with Faramir. He loved Adrahil. He smiled remembering the warmth of his adadhron's hand upon his head when he would speak. Always approving. The man never said a word of reprimand. Always kindness. He had been afraid of his other adadhron. There was a hard glint in Ecthelion's eyes and Boromir, even now, shivered as he thought of him. He remembered when Ecthelion lay on his deathbed and held his arm tightly, frightening him, and telling him not to obey his father, his own father. He had stood still and listened and then Denethor had saved him, pulled him away from that tight grip and taken him to his mother.

They had been spared death this one time. Perhaps it was content with Adrahil. Perhaps this time, only one needed to be sacrificed, for the Valar to show them mercy. He stood, stretched, and walked to the window. He cocked his head; a smile lit his face. The horn, the signal sounded; Faramir was come home. He ran towards the door, ready to call the guard to stay with Denethor until he returned. But Indis was there, and he had to quickly grab the tray she held to prevent its contents from slipping all over the floor.

Long days passed and Denethor regained his strength. The poison that covered the axe's barbed tip was known to the Master Healer. It had taken long to counter its affects, but Denethor was strong and the healer would not be beaten. After another week, he let Denethor sit by the window overlooking Finduilas' garden. Boromir sat next to him; Faramir sat on the floor at his feet.

"There were lords from all the fiefdoms, Father," Faramir continued in his retelling of the funeral for Adrahil. "Uncle Imrahil held himself well. He is gracious and kind. My heart sorrowed for his sons, for they were closer to Adadhron than Boromir and me. To have lived in the same house, to have seen him every day, to have felt his hugs..." Faramir bit his lip, conscious of the fact that hugs were few in the household of Denethor. "Father, Mithrandir sends his greetings," Faramir said innocently enough.

Boromir swore under his breath. 'Will the lad never learn!' He watched his father's eyebrow raise. He quickly spoke, to take the sting from Faramir's remark. "The men of Gondor have always farewell'd a warrior with grace. I remember..." He drew in a sharp breath and, under his breath, cursed himself.

"I remember Uncle Amdir's burial. The soldiers all crowded 'round him and fought as to who would carry his bier."

Denethor's eyes widened and he tried to stand. Faramir held his arm. "Father! Do not tax yourself."

Denethor sat back in his chair, his face white; he appeared to struggle to breathe. Faramir ran to get the medicament that steeped on the table, waiting for Denethor's need. He returned and held the cup before his father. Denethor looked at him, his eyes uncomprehending.

Boromir stood and took the cup. "Here, Father, just a little sip of this, please." He pressed the cup to Denethor's lips. His father looked up at him. "Please, Father." He tilted the cup and some of the warm liquid went into Denethor's mouth, but most slid out the sides and down his chin.

"By your order, Father." Boromir looked at him, puzzled. "Is that not what you wished?"

"I looked for him. Every time I rode out onto the Pelennor, I looked for his grave. I rode to his mother's farm. But he was not there. I even rode to Emyn Arnen - thinking that perhaps he was buried there. And all along, he was one level from me." He started to stand. "I must go to him."

Boromir gently held him down. "Father, you cannot leave this room. Please, tell me how Uncle Amdir died. I do not remember anyone telling us. Is it too hard for you to tell?"

Denethor shuddered, closed his eyes for a moment, then bowed his head. "I am too tired. Help me to my bed."

Faramir ran back to them and took the Steward's left side, while Boromir held him on the right. Slowly they walked to the bed. Indis ran into the room; she had been told of the alarm, and stopped. Boromir shook his head, smiling. She understood and sat in her chair. His sons lowered him to his bed, helped take off the robe, and covered him, once he lay down.

"I do not remember much of that year. Your mother's... Gondor struggled with her grief. I could not stay in the City afterwards. I left you with Indis and rode out to Osgiliath. I had hoped it would bring healing, being away from the City. After a time, I sat on the banks of the Anduin. My friend found me there. He helped me, as he had always done. We talked. Then, Orcs attacked. Only three. I was sure we would prevail. The first was easily slain. The second had a crossbow, cocked, ready to fire, but I slit his throat. As he fell, the arrow loosed." He sat still for many long moments. "Amdir took the arrow in his chest. I remember naught after that. Small little pieces of memory come into my mind, then float away, and I wonder if they are real or not."

"I remember they brought him back to the City," Boromir spoke low. "Faramir did not understand and tried to comfort you. You turned him away. I stayed by Uncle Amdir's cart. I wanted to hear him tell me another story, but Baranor said he had gone away. They took him, that very day, to Rath Dínen. You did not come with us. I can show you where he lies, Father, when you are better."

"I will tell you about her. She was the most beautiful woman in all of Gondor, nay, in all of Middle-earth. And the kindest woman. She loved you and Boromir very much. She would hold you in her arms and coo. Cooing is a woman's way of talking to a babe. I could not do that. To make silly noises... it embarrassed me. But she would sit for hours, with Boromir at her feet, and coo to you. I would sit in the study off your nursery and listen to her. Sometimes, she would sing," Denethor's voice broke and tears fell. "I am tired," he said, "The medicaments affect me," and turned his face away.

"If you do not sit still, I cannot ascertain the healing of your wound," Arciryas hissed in dismay. "You want to return to your duties; you will not until I have finished my examination."

Boromir laughed and Denethor scowled. "It is time you were away again; your idle time here in Minas Tirith has ended. I have heard what you do in your spare time. When you should be in the practice court, you are in the inns that line the Fourth Level. I believe I will send you to your uncle."

"Nay. Faramir is to stay in Minas Tirith. It is time he learned some of the ways of the Council. Too long has he been away." He scowled again, his brow furrowed deeply. "I was not too sick to miss what he said about Mithrandir. Obviously, their paths have crossed a number of times. I want him here, by my side, to protect him from the wizard."

He raised a hand. "Do not speak, Boromir. I am not a dotard. I know he values the wizard. I have said it before and I will say it again, I fear for him. Mithrandir speaks of things that are not for Gondor's good. What are we here for - " he stopped and quickly hissed. "You have the hands of an Orc!" he shouted at Arciryas. "Are you trying to kill me?"

The healer snorted. "If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it a long time ago. But your sister would be put out."

Denethor laughed. "We must not 'put out' Indis, must we? How you have ever stood being married to her for this long, I cannot fathom!"

"And what about me cannot you fathom?" Indis entered the room, then moved towards the chair where Denethor sat and kissed him lightly on the brow. Alarmed, she turned towards Arciryas. "He feels fevered?"

She smiled and kissed Denethor again. "Then, brother, stop your ranting and raving. Your court is in session and the people wait for you. They would greet you in joy. Long have they waited for this day. All of Gondor is glad for your recovery."

"Yes." He helped him pull the tunic over his shirt. "You are ready, my Lord, but let me remind you that you must take your time. Spend only one hour in court, then return to your room. Else, I will send Indis after you."

They walked slowly down the steps from the Steward's chambers to the door that led to the Great Hall on their right and the door that opened onto the Courtyard that stood in front of them. Boromir steered him towards the Courtyard door and Denethor frowned.

"We have something to show you," Faramir said quietly. He walked on Denethor's left. Indis and Arciryas followed behind.

A guard opened the door and Denethor, at first blinded by the light of midday, stepped onto the Courtyard. A great cheer met him. He blinked his eyes a number of times. It seemed as if all of Gondor stood before him. The Steward's banners were clutched in the people's hands and they waved them as they shouted. "Long live, Denethor, Steward of Gondor!"

He almost tripped; wet covered his eyes. His grip on Boromir's hand tightened. "You knew of this?" he hissed.

"Yes, my Lord," Húrin said quietly. "We have found three others, two from Minas Tirith itself. They are men your father hired years ago from Harad. They have never shown themselves to be traitors."

Denethor's breath caught. "Because I allow you to partake of the Council's meetings, you deem yourself ready to give me orders?"

Faramir stood before the Chair and bowed. "Father, I only ask that you take a moment. Let not your anger, your fury, cloud your judgment."

Denethor's brow arched. "There is but one judgment for treason. That is hanging. I want it done today." He turned to Húrin. "Today."

As Húrin left the Great Hall, Faramir tried one more time. "You could banish them to Harad, Father."

"Banish them to their home?" he asked in scorn. "What kind of punishment is that?"

"They would go in disgrace, Father. Their comrades in your service would hold them in contempt. They would listen to the taunts of those they hold dear as they were escorted from the City. It would be an acceptable punishment."

"It would not! You would be kind in the face of treason. Kindness of that sort would cause the fall of Gondor. I have seen this in you before, Faramir, this need to appease our enemies. It does not fit you."

"Nay, Father. It is not to appease our enemies. But it is to show our people that their Steward is wise and does not let anger nor bitterness sway his decisions."

Faramir shook his head, tears filling his eyes. He knelt before the Chair. "Father, you are the wisest man I know."

"But not as wise as the wizard? I see it in your eyes. He counsels restraint. Even when..." He took in a deep breath. "Do not listen to the wizard, my son. He will lead you astray. He says he has only Gondor's weal in his heart, but that is a lie. I know it. He thinks beyond Gondor. He would sacrifice Gondor for other lands." By this time, Denethor stood. He stepped closer to his son and helped him stand. "Do not listen to him." His eyes widened in alarm and understanding. "I am too late. I have lost you."

"Nay, Father!" Faramir shouted. "I am not lost. I am yours." He pulled Denethor close and hugged him tightly. Then stepped back in distress. "You wear mail?"

"I can trust no one, Faramir. I also wear my sword, here at my side. I will take neither off ever again."

The campfires were lit and some of the men were settling down. Boromir had camped north of Pelargir. Faramir had joined him this night; they had planned this meeting. Boromir's ship had sailed into Pelargir two nights before. A song was started, low and sad at one end of the camp, and at the other end a few men made a makeshift dance line, laughing as they tried to master the new steps being done in the City.

Boromir laughed. "Come, little brother. Let us show these poor excuses for dancers how this is supposed to be done!" With that he grabbed Faramir's forearm and hauled him to his feet. Faramir grinned. Both men unbuckled their scabbards, drew their swords, throwing the scabbards to their esquires, then placed their swords on the ground.

Suddenly, stillness filled the night air. The stars themselves seemed to pause in their flight. The tension was palpable. All left what they had been about and formed a circle around the two men. Everyone knew this was a contest, for, though great was the love brother for brother; great also was the love of competition. The men started a slow steady clapping as they sang the familiar battle song; they knew they were in for a treat.

The brothers smiled and started circling their swords and each other. Slowly, they moved to the dance. The men's clapping grew faster, the singing louder. The brothers' feet flew, hands held high in the air one moment, then reaching for their swords in the next. The clapping spurred both brothers' feet into faster movement. Laughter was warm upon Faramir's face, but Boromir's, though a smile covered it, showed deep concentration. Faramir danced with grace Boromir knew, but at speed, none could match him.

As the clapping became faster and stronger, shouts roared from men caught up in the excitement that was before them. Suddenly, Faramir stumbled and fell backwards. Hoots of laughter went up from the men, but a look of consternation covered Boromir's face. He growled at the men who immediately ceased their taunting. Faramir started to get up, but Boromir was quickly at his side with his arm outstretched.

Faramir smiled and clapped Boromir on the shoulder as he was pulled upright. "That was fun. You always did best me when the dance raised its speed, though perhaps..."

"None dance as gracefully as you, little brother," Boromir interrupted. "Any great brute can move his feet quickly. It takes skill to move them well. I am sorry!" He hugged him fiercely and with great pride. The men strode forward and pounded them both on their backs, congratulating them.

Silence shattered the moment. The men quickly parted and Denethor stood before them. An embarrassed smile spread across Boromir's face as he moved forward to greet his father. Denethor sidestepped Boromir and advanced upon Faramir. Faramir kept his head high, keeping his eyes focused straight before him, but he did not look at his father.

Denethor stopped a few steps short and faced Faramir. "So, I send you to Pelargir to consult with your brother and what do I find?" Scorn dripped off his words.

Boromir took his father by the arm, a broad smile on his face, and guided him to the perimeter of the camp. The men quickly made way for them and moved out of hearing.

"Father, I would that you remember who I am; your heir and future Steward of Gondor. I will not have you reprimand Faramir or me in front of my men."

Denethor stood to his full height. "And I would remind you who I am. Do not begin to think that I am incapable of reprimanding you whenever and wherever I think it necessary."

Boromir's cheeks flushed red. "Yes, my Lord," he stated flatly. "I will remember. Please, come to my tent. I have maps that I would like to discuss with you, and some wine. Faramir," he called out, but Denethor's hand on his arm stayed him.

"Father!" Boromir's face reflected the hurt in his heart. "What has he done, Father, to cause this anger? What has he done?"

"It is not your affair. Right now we have strategy to discuss. I want to promote some of your men. Send them to other garrisons. Just this past month, we lost two captains. They must be replaced and quickly. I would ask your advice."

"Osgiliath needs a new captain and I would have you take that post. It is our most important garrison. I will need a captain to command the garrison in Pelargir. I also need one for Cair Andros. Who would you suggest?" Denethor asked as he took a sip of the wine Boromir offered.

"I very much think Berelach is ready for the garrison of Cair Andros. Long has he been with us, Father. He has served under you for more years than I can remember and yet, he has never been raised beyond lieutenant."

"Yes. He has been my right hand, but now I need more than a right hand. I can do without him at my side. I will station him at Cair Andros as you suggest. If I have need of him, it would take him but a short time to return to Minas Tirith. Yes, I will make him captain. And Pelargir - what think you of that?"

"Father. You have asked me for my opinion and I give it. Faramir is most capable. He had been Captain at Dol Amroth for the past six years, until you recalled him to Minas Tirith. He is a statesman and a warrior. Prince Imrahil thinks only the best of him. We need a statesman in Pelargir. Too many of our enemies are close to that garrison. Strength is needed there, also. And Faramir is strong, Father, truly he is, and a good statesman besides. With the time he has spent in Minas Tirith at Council meetings, he will do well there."

Denethor looked at him quizzically. "Yes, I believe you are right. I will send him to Pelargir. He will still be far removed from the wizard's presence and that will be good."

"Father," Boromir asked, "why do you fear his relationship with Mithrandir? They are only friends."

"Friends!" Denethor laughed harshly. "Faramir dotes on him. Every word the wizard utters seems as gold to him." Denethor stopped. He shook his head. "I sound like I am ranting. Like an old fool. I do not trust wizards, my son. You know that. I thought Faramir had the sense not to also, but in that, I see I have been wrong." He gave a dry laugh. "What do you think of wizards, Boromir?"

"I have had no dealings with wizards, Father. I have too much to be concerned with.

"It is naught to be proud of, Boromir. Books hold so much wisdom. Would that you had spent more time with them."

"So, my Father, you are saying that I am a dolt?" Boromir laughed gently. "Faramir spends enough time with books for the both of us. I..."

"I hone other skills, Father, skills that Gondor needs now. Faramir thinks I am wrong. That I should seek the wisdom of books, much as you have said this night. But there is not enough time in the day. Battle skills are what Gondor needs. The sword, the dirk, the spear... These are my books, Father. Once you said I was your warrior and Faramir was your councilor; I turn to you and to Faramir for my wisdom. And you have not failed me."

Denethor's eyes shone. "My son. You do me proud. Forgive my ranting about Faramir. He spends his time wisely. I do not like the wizard," he said, his voice rising at the word. He shuddered slightly. "I have had dealings with wizards before and I fear I do not trust them. Did I ever tell you about one named Curunír? Of course I have. He was long before your time, though he lives still in Isengard. I cannot even tell you what he did to me, or why I fear him, but I do. That sense of ill has transferred to Faramir's wizard. I am afraid for your brother, Boromir. Afraid that Mithrandir plants lies in his mind, twists his words and his loyalties to him and not to Gondor. I can only hope that I am wrong. Do you see it, Boromir, in his bearing? In his words? Disloyalty to me?"

"Father!" Boromir almost shouted. "Faramir is only loyal to Gondor. And to you! You have naught to fear."

"Then I will send him to Pelargir." He paused as Boromir whooped. "But - I will not send him as captain of the garrison. I will send Elphir."

Boromir stood stock-still. "Elphir? He is a Captain of Belfalas. He has a garrison that he commands near Dol Amroth itself. He will not come."

Denethor's visage steeled visibly. "He will come. His first duty is to Gondor. If I tell him he is to captain Pelargir, he will captain Pelargir."

Boromir shuddered slightly. "His father will be most displeased," he said quietly.

"I know." He rubbed his chin. "I will send a missive to Imrahil first, asking for Elphir's services." He laughed mirthlessly. "I can be most stubborn, can I not? It is their duty, both of theirs, to obey the Steward of Gondor. Until the king comes." Now his voice held the slightest trace of irony. "Do not look at me like that, Boromir. Have you still not learned the way of a statesman? Your face betrays you. You must learn to conceal your feelings."

"Of course they do. And to the death." He paused and closed his eyes. "Faramir - Faramir is the one who has finally learned to mask his true thoughts."

"It is a good trait to learn. I am not deprecating him. As for Imrahil, I will write of the situation and he will understand as one father to another."

Boromir cried again. "You cannot do this, Father! You cannot embarrass Faramir in this manner. You cannot tell Uncle Imrahil that Faramir is not ready to captain an entire garrison! He has already proved himself time and again. For the Valar's sake! Faramir taught Elphir! And to have Elphir captain over him, that is ludicrous."

"He has been under Imrahil's tutelage in Belfalas. This is just a continuation." He stopped at the scorn on Boromir's face. "You do not approve?" He continued on when Boromir said naught. "Nevertheless, I will have Elphir ride to Pelargir. I will ask Imrahil to let him stay for six months to help Faramir acclimatize as commander of a full garrison, have Elphir report on the state of the garrison, then I will have Faramir take the captaincy. Will that suffice?"

Heaving another sigh, Denethor said, "I will stroke him with words of praise for his son and say I need someone with a discerning eye to look over the garrison and to help my son prepare for his captaincy. I will say naught disparaging about Faramir. Is there aught else you request?" he asked, the question voiced with some sarcasm.

"Yes, I have missed you. But we will keep the wizard out of Minas Tirith while Faramir is on leave."

Boromir laughed. "Then sleep, my Father. My tent is yours. I will stay the night with Faramir."

He ran as fast as he could towards Faramir's tent. "Faramir," he shouted. "Faramir, I am going on leave for a few weeks. I am coming home!" He hugged him earnestly and with great glee.

"Come, I have much to tell you," Boromir said and Faramir's tent flap closed upon them.

He stood before the tomb. The torchbearer stood next to him. "Leave it in the holder." The man did as he was bid, then bowed and left.

Denethor walked slowly to the marble bier. On its top was chiseled, in finest black marble, a likeness of Amdir. He touched the face, ran his fingers down the shoulder, then stopped with his hand where Amdir's heart should be.

He knelt, deepest sorrow overtaking him. "I asked you not to leave me," he whispered. "So long ago in the Houses of Healing. After the fire. Do you remember it, Amdir? I sat at your bedside and wept and begged you to stay with me. I told you that you were greater than me... That I needed you beside me. Your goodness and your wisdom. Always it comes back to wisdom," he sobbed. "I know strategy; I know troop deployment; I know how to bend a man's will to mine. But true wisdom, Amdir. You were supposed to be the one I leaned upon for wisdom. And what have you done? You have left me.

"You left me with a son who will not listen and with a wizard who steals his heart. I would ask you about Faramir. How I should treat him? He is so like me. So very like me when I was a youth. Too soft. Too much the scholar. There is no time for him to become strong like I now am. I do not know how to speak with him. Boromir does his duty. He listens to me and obeys, without question.

"But Faramir - he questions everything I ask of him. I did not have the strength nor the courage to question Ecthelion outright. But in my heart, I questioned him. A thousand times. And the few times I found the courage to say what I thought was right, he treated me as I treat Faramir. Nay! Worse. For how many times was I sent away to learn obedience, to learn fealty, to learn to bite my tongue and keep my own thoughts to myself...

"I only had you, Amdir. You listened," he smiled, "and I listened to you. You are sorely missed, my friend. If, by fate's chance you have the ear of a Vala, ask for mercy for me, for Gondor, and for Faramir. I fear I have lost them all."

A/N - APPENDICES: Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers (iv) GONDOR AND THE HEIRS OF ANÁRION. "(Faramir) He welcomed Gandalf at such times as he came to the City, and he learned what he could from his wisdom; and in this as in many other matters he displeased his father."

Boromir and Faramir accompanied him to Rohan, along with Indis and Listöwel. It was just past the feast of Yáviérë and Gondor had celebrated the harvest day with much rejoicing. There had been an uneasy peace the last twelve years; Gondor and Rohan had held against the most formidable of attacks by the enemy and prevailed! Denethor had survived an assassination attempt. The farmlands were heavy-laden with crops, spring had been greeted with many new lambs and calves, and the Mark's slim stock of mares had had many foals. The grasslands of Rohan swayed as waves upon the sea. Denethor reveled in the openness of the land, the wind on his face, and his sons riding beside him. Returning to Rohan was always a welcome relief, for he left the cares of Gondor behind him. Trumpets blared to announce their arrival.

Indis had insisted they celebrate the harvest with their neighbors. It had been too long since she had last seen her sister-friend, Morwen Steelsheen. How Listöwel and she rejoiced when they reached the foot of the steps leading up to Meduseld and she stood before them, slightly bent, but her face full of joy.

"Too long, too long has it been!" Morwen cried. They ran to her and held her, tears streaming down their faces. As abruptly as the tears came, laughter followed.

"You are too thin! Your hair has turned white! Where are your swords?" Their instant rekindling of friendship delighted Denethor and Théoden. The three women went off, chatting joyfully.

Denethor smiled. Théoden grasped his friend's hands and held them tightly. "Too long indeed. What has occasioned this visit?"

"Indis. It came into her head three months ago and I could not dissuade her; I did not want to dissuade her. How are you, my friend?"

Théoden smiled. "Well. In fact, I have someone I want you to meet." He turned and motioned to a young man who stood in the shadows. "This is my trusted advisor, Grima, son of Galmod. He came highly recommended from the Lord of Isengard."

Grima bowed to Denethor. "All know of the might and wonder of the Men of Gondor. To meet their leader, their Steward, is a great honor."

Denethor blinked in disbelief at the pale-faced man who stood before him, yet his own face did not betray him. He bowed to Théoden's advisor. "Grima - from Isengard?"

"Nay, my Lord. My family is from the Mark. Long have we lived here. My father was a captain in the Eastfold, under Éomund. He died in the same attack that killed the Marshal."

"I am sorry for your loss."

Grima bowed in acknowledgement. "I must be off. I am in charge of today's meal. I hope it meets your approval." He turned and walked slowly into Meduseld.

Boromir and Faramir waited. Théoden smiled as he saw them fidgeting like young colts. "You wish to see Théodred and Éomer, I suppose?"

"Whatever is your wish," Boromir said tactfully. "We wait upon father."

"Go, but do not be late for supper," Denethor said with a smile. They ran down the steps and towards the stables, their usual meeting place.

"Come, old friend," Théoden smiled. "Let us to my study. It has been o'erlong since you have visited me."

Once they settled and shared wine, Denethor locked his fingers together and sat in silence.

"You do not approve of Grima?"

Denethor snorted. "I do not approve of the wizard. Anyone or anything coming from him is suspect, in my mind."

"I know your unease regarding Curunír, but the man has lived with him these last twelve months and I find much wisdom in his words."

A sharp hiss from Denethor greeted this pronouncement. "Wisdom, in what way?"

"As it regards our land and our people." Théoden's voice became sharp. "Is wisdom only for Gondor?"

Denethor looked long at his friend. "Wisdom for Gondor is usually wisdom for the Mark. And wisdom for the Mark is usually wisdom for Gondor, my friend."

He knew Théoden heard the reprimand in his voice, but his friend stood and walked towards the fire, not speaking. Late autumn and the winds from the mountains were already cold, but not enough to need a fire. Denethor watched as Théoden held his hands before the flames, rubbing them together.

"Are you cold?"

"My bones seem to feel the wind more intensely this season."

Denethor wondered. "I will send you a cloak from our weavers. Lamb's wool keeps a body warmer, I think, than the fur of bears."

"I do not need a cloak of Gondor. What will my people think? That I prefer things of Gondor over those of the Mark?"

Denethor blinked, but otherwise kept his emotions in check. "Your father preferred many things of Gondor over those of the Mark. Particularly your mother." He smiled gently. "I meant no insult, Théoden. And you know that I prefer the stallions of the Mark over any horse bred in Gondor."

Théoden turned towards him. A look of consternation filled his face. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I do not know what came over me." He smiled. "Mother would agree with you. I think she looks towards Gondor for Théodred and perhaps Éomer and Éowyn also."

Denethor smiled broadly. "There is hope in such thoughts."

"Would you consider?"

"Of course." He was interrupted as the bell for the midday meal rang out. Both men stood and walked towards the hall.

Long tables were set and food covered every inch. There was hardly room for plates or eating utensils. Denethor was surprised to note that Grima sat on Théoden's right. He looked for Théodred and found him at the other end of the table, flanked by Boromir and Faramir. 'What goes on here?' he thought, his concern for Théodred fighting with joy at seeing the three friends with their heads bent in laughter. His heart pinched for a moment as he remembered the times Thengel, Amdir and he had sat thus, rejoicing in their friendship.

The meal was superb. 'If this is Grima's handiwork, he has shown himself well. I wonder why Morwen did not plan the event and the menu?' Denethor thought absently. But his mind was on his sons and Théoden's plans for them. 'I cannot let them marry a Rhovanion,' he thought wildly. 'The blood of Númenor must not be diluted further. How will I prevent this without hurting my friend? Though Morwen is of Westernesse, is the blood pure enough? Kin-strife was done in the name of Eldacar's parentage. I would not let Thorongil...' His mind whirled with the implications of that thought, but he stilled the thoughts, would not walk that path.

Morwen herself walked towards him. "Forgive my lack of manners when you entered Edoras, my Lord. I was so delighted..."

She did not need to continue; he stood and took her in his arms. "Your love for my sister has always made my heart glad. You are precious to Gondor." She returned the hug and he held her back in surprise, looking at her in distress. "Are you well?"

"I have been fighting a cold, I think, of late. But the leech is confident I will be well soon."

"You have no strength in you. Your embrace is like unto a child's. How long have you been ill?"

"For two weeks, no longer. And I am as strong as ever I was."

"You are not! Théoden!" He turned in alarm towards Théoden King. "Have you not noted your mother's health? Take her hand. It is hot. She has fever." He picked her up and quickly carried her out of the hall and to her chambers. Indis and Listöwel scurried to their feet. They followed Théoden, who had also jumped up, concern etched across his face.

"We are going to be skinned within an inch of our lives. We have missed the king's meal. Father will be put out."

"Hush, Éowyn. If I had known you would put up such a racket..." Éomer hissed. "Why did you come with us, if you were going to be afraid of everything?"

"I am not afraid. And who found this cave anyhow?"

"She is right, Éomer. It is wonderful; it goes back forever. So odd to find such a large one here in the foothills." Faramir peered into the deep recesses of it. "Might we go in further?"

"There may well be jewels buried here or mithril," Éowyn said, her voice rising in excitement.

"It looks like someone has been here before us. Look. Signs of digging." Boromir picked up a stone and ran his finger along the yellow vein that ran through it. Putting the finger to his mouth, he touched it lightly with his tongue. He quickly spat. "Arsenic. The ratter must have been here digging for the poison. Let us be away from here."

Éowyn gasped at the news, but refused to leave. "But there might be jewels or mithril," she complained.

"There is naught here but death," Boromir said, grasping her arm firmly and leading her to the cave entrance. "Théodred, do not come back here again. And I suggest you tell the ratter to hide the entrance. The poison here is potent."

"Then if we cannot stay here, let us at least ride to the river. I would put my feet in and tease the fish."

"It is turning cold. The stream runs from the mountains. It will be frigid," Éomer said with a superior tone. "You will take ill and I will have to listen to your moans. I will not go."

"I would ride," Théodred said. "I have not raced you for at least a year, Boromir. Are you up to it? Will you accept my challenge?"

"Where to?" Boromir said, his face splitting with a great smile.

"The river. It will stop Éowyn's murmuring and give us a good long race."

"Then it is the river." Boromir jumped onto his horse.

Faramir and Éomer mounted their own horses. Éowyn was still trying to decide whether or not she should go back into the cave. "Come, Éowyn," Théodred ordered. "Join us."

"The horse uncle gave me is too slow. I have no chance to beat any of you."

"Éowyn, stop whining," Éomer chided. "We will meet you there. You wanted to go to the river and now you have your wish."

Théodred called out, "One! Two! Three!" and all four men spurred their horses forward. Éowyn clicked and followed them as best she could.

By the time she reached the river, her sibling and friends were laving their faces in the clean, cold water. She quickly ran to them and unceremoniously splashed them as hard as she could. Amidst their yells, she shouted, "There! That is for leaving me behind. I could have been warg fodder or Orc meal. Father will surely punish you for leaving me behind!" She was furious and shook visibly.

"Be still, little sister. You were not alone. We watched you as we rode. Do you think we would seriously leave you alone on the plains?"

"Did anyone bring anything to fish with?" Boromir interrupted.

"I have a hook," Faramir said.

"I will sacrifice my shirt for the line," Théodred said.

"I will find some bait," Éomer said and scurried off towards the rocks, shoving them aside. In a moment, they heard an "Ah ha!" and Éomer ran towards them, a small cricket in his hands.

"Éowyn, start a fire. If we catch anything, we can eat it here." The excitement in Faramir's voice echoed the excitement of all present. All but one.

"I will not." She was so tempted to stamp her foot that Faramir, who rarely missed such things, had to stifle a laugh. "I want to fish, too."

"We only have one hook, Éowyn," Théodred said patiently. "Let Boromir fish first; it was his idea and he is the best amongst us. Then, you can fish."

"But why do I have to start the fire?"

"Because starting a fire is woman's work," Éomer snorted. "And you are the only woman here."

"Éomer," Faramir stopped him. "Éowyn is a fine horsewoman and good friend. You chide her for things she has no control over."

Éowyn scowled. "I do not need a Gondorian to defend me. I can defend myself."

Her eyes smoldered, but she did not put Faramir off. "Of course you can, Éowyn."

"Now you mock me!" She wanted to scream, but instead, jumped upon her horse and rode off.

"I caused this," Faramir said, "I will follow her."

"We should return anyhow. Dark will be upon us soon and we are already in trouble." Théodred smiled. "It has been a most pleasant afternoon."

When they entered the hall, chaos reigned. Théodred grabbed a servant's arm. She squirmed, trying to free herself. "What is going on?" he asked as he held her tightly.

"The queen is ill. Very ill." The woman used Morwen's old title in her fear. "We are bid to scrub down the tables, lest others become sick."

"Where is she?" Boromir stepped between the two.

"I know not. The Gondorian took her somewhere."

"The Gondorian?"

"Father," Boromir said simply. "He probably took her to her own chambers. If we can find Amma, she will tell us what is happening." He put his hand on Théodred's shoulder. "She will be fine. You will see. Your leeches are good, Théodred."

Éowyn ran down the hall. Théodred and Éomer followed. Boromir put up his hand to stop Faramir from following them. "This is a family matter, Faramir. We should wait and let them discover what has happened. Let us go to father's room. He will be there, I am sure. And Amma is probably with him."

They quickly crossed the hall and soon found themselves in front of Denethor's guest chambers. Boromir knocked. They waited but no answer came.

"Where would he be?"

"Wait a moment." He knocked again and their father's voice bid them enter.

"It is the flux," Denethor said quietly, after he let them in. "They believe she drank tainted water a fortnight ago. The healer thought she was recovering, but she is not. She cannot control herself, but even worse, she is in extreme pain. Indis is with her."

"I do not understand," Boromir stood next to his father. "Rohan's leeches are very good. How could she have become so ill so quickly?"

"It is the nature of the illness. It does not lead to death. Usually." Denethor turned towards Faramir. "You look ill. Are you all right?"

"I am sorrowed for her. Is there naught we might do?"

"Naught. Just keep mischief from you, if you can. Where were you? You were missed at dinner. I did not need to worry about the two of you whilst this was happening."

"We were distracted, Father. Forgive us. An unusual cave and then fishing."

Denethor smiled broadly. "Fishing! At least someone in this family can fish. What did you catch?"

Boromir blushed. "Naught. The truth of the matter is, we never did get to fish. Éowyn - she became upset and we deemed our transgressions enough to keep us in trouble for nigh unto a year."

Laughing, Denethor put his hand on Boromir's shoulder. "For a fish from that stream, I would have forgiven almost anything. You have set my mouth to watering." He stopped and his face blanched. "You did not drink from the stream?"

"We did, Father. It is mountain-fed and was clear and clean."

"Be careful. Only drink that which is boiled and strained, or ale or wine. There is naught to fear. This sickness is easily remedied, but I would prefer you not to have to suffer with it."

Boromir smiled. "We will obey you. Faramir and I will retire to our room. If you need us, we will be there until morning."

"Stop at the kitchens; you have not eaten."

They bowed and left.

For three days Meduseld and its people lay in turmoil. Morwen had taken a turn for the worse during the night. Her discomforts, instead of lessening, increased. She was given to convulsions. Horror filled the court and her friends. Grima worked long and hard with the leech to make sure that everything that could be done was being done. He had some books and herbs that the wizard had given him, and he even tried those. But to no avail. By the afternoon, she was wracked with convulsions and her hair began to fall out.

Indis and Listöwel never left her side. Grima forced them to eat and drink to keep up their strength, but both women had not the stomach to eat much. In fact, Indis was already complaining of nausea, brought on, she felt, by watching her dearest friend suffer so. By evening, the leech noted there was blood in Morwen's fluids. He shook his head. Indis took him by the shoulders and shook him. "There must be more you can do, something you have forgotten!"

"Indis, would you chide Arciryas in such circumstances?" Listöwel pulled Indis away from the leech.

"You know I would, if it meant a friend's life! I cannot understand this. We boil everything we give her; we give her only soft foods, and yet she becomes more ill. Perhaps it is not flux." She started to sway. Listöwel ran forward as she fell. She started to shake herself as the leech took Indis from her arms and laid her on the settle by the fire.

"She is just weary. There is naught to fear. She has slept little in the time since she arrived. I will have one of the servants take her to her quarters."

Listöwel looked at the pale face before her and ran from the room. "Denethor!" she cried when she reached his room. Banging on the door and calling his name, she grew nauseous herself and slid to the floor.

An hour later, a servant found her thus. Calling for the guards, he picked Listöwel up and took her to the chamber she shared with Indis. He laid her on the great bed next to the Lady of Gondor and ran for a leech, almost knocking a guard over as he ran from the room.

They sat quietly in the stables. "Father said we must return to Minas Tirith soon," Faramir said, disconsolately. "I would like to stay, at least until your grandmother is better."

"If she gets better," Éowyn sighed.

"When she gets better," Théodred scolded.

"Sometimes, the sickness runs such a course," Faramir said. "I remember we had a servant with the same ailment, and Arciryas assured us he would recover and he did. She will be well again. You will see."

Boromir looked at Faramir and realized his brother spoke the words to keep his own courage firm. "This is foolish. Morwen would not want us to sit about, worrying. Let us to Aldburg for a day or two. There are wild boar in the mountains near there. We can bring back one or two for a feast in celebration of her recovery."

Théodred's eyes lit up. "I will ask father. I think that wise. She will recover and the people will want to rejoice."

"You could at least come to the city with us," Boromir said. "You could shop and visit old friends."

She snorted. "Nay. Uncle does not even know that I have trained as a shieldmaiden for the last six years. Grandmother..." Her voice choked. "She helped me find a tutor and encourages me. Uncle supposes I am learning how to be a proper lady." She sighed again. "At least he lets me ride. Though that nag he gave me is as lazy as Grima." Her face contorted in a grimace. "I cannot stand him. He watches me."

Éomer laughed. "You are imagining things. He is so concerned with ingratiating himself with our uncle," he explained to Boromir and Faramir, "that he has not time for anything else." He turned back to Éowyn. "Grima Wormtongue is not worth your concern."

"It is a nickname Éowyn and I gave him," Éomer laughed. "Suites him perfectly. He worms his way into uncle's list of advisors. Yet, I see no wisdom in him."

"Let us give no further thought to him." Éowyn did not want to be talking about Grima. "We can leave now, with uncle's approval. Let us find your fathers and ask."

They walked quickly to the Golden Hall and entered. All was quiet, the court still shaken by the Queen Mother's illness. Théoden sat upon his throne; Denethor stood next to him, leaning over and quietly speaking. His manner was relaxed.

Boromir hoped that meant Morwen was recovering. "Father. Théoden King. We have a request." He continued on as neither parent spoke. "We would like to journey to Aldburg and bring back a boar or two for Edoras' celebration of Morwen's recovery?"

Denethor smiled. "It is good to hear that your heart is not heavy with worry. She will recover. Grima has assured Théoden. So a celebration will be in order. You have my permission."

"And mine also," Théoden smiled. "It is a good plan. Éowyn, you will stay behind. I would have someone at my side until your Grandmother returns to her rightful place."

Faramir noted her hands were clenched. "Mayhap sometime away from her usual duties would be helpful to Éowyn, my Lord. She has been constantly in contact with Grima regarding her grandmother and has spent much time helping to care for her. We would most treasure her company."

"It will only take moments to pack. The horses are ready. We will return in two day's time," Théodred said. "Thank you, Father."

He waved them away and the five almost ran out of the hall. Within moments they reconvened at the stables, carrying small bags with only the essentials. The guards smiled as they left Edoras, golden hair and raven shining in the warm sun of midday, laughter filling the air about them.

"My Lords!" A guard entered only moments after the friends departed. "Lord Denethor is needed in Lady Indis' chambers."

Denethor looked up in surprise. There was fear in the man's eyes. He bowed to Théoden and moved towards the hall leading to the guest chambers. Théoden took his arm before Denethor had taken two steps. "I will come with you."

The hall was crowded with servants and such. The guard had to move them aside so that Denethor and Théoden could enter the room. When they did, the guard closed the door and stood in front of it, barring any from entry.

Indis lay on the bed, her face pale. Listöwel lay next to her in the same state. Their breathing was labored. Denethor moved to Indis' side. The healer stepped back.

"Indis?" he whispered. She opened her eyes and he blanched at the pain they held. "I am here, sister. So is the healer. Rest now, whilst I speak with him." He squeezed her hand and waited until she closed her eyes. Then, he took the healer by the arm and pulled him far from the bed. "What is wrong with her? And with Listöwel?"

"I fear they have been too long in contact with the Queen Mother. They have caught the sickness from her, though the illness seems to be stronger in them, probably because they have been with her for so long."

"She took a turn for the worse right after the first meal. She willingly ate the broth that was prepared, and with fervor, but shortly after, she collapsed against her pillows, her strength taken from her. I do not understand this. The sickness should be leaving her. It is o'erlong for such a minor illness." He held his arms open. "I have done everything I could for her."

Théoden shook him. "What are you saying? Are you saying there is no hope for her?"

"Her convulsions continue - at times, unabated. I cannot help her." The man's agonized face looked downward. "She bleeds. I am sorry, my Lord."

Denethor sat hard in the settle by the fire. "And there is no hope for my sister nor her friend?"

"If their illness is of the same strain as the Lady Morwen's, I do not see them recovering."

Denethor sat back in shock. Théoden sat next to him. "This cannot be happening. Indis is strong, as is Listöwel. They carry the blood of Númenor in them. I do not understand."

"The swiftness of the illness is surprising," the leech continued. "That is why I am so concerned." He turned towards Théoden. "I think you should summon the family to farewell your mother."

Théoden lifted his face towards the leech. Denethor held his arm as he saw anguish flood his friend's face. "I will tend to that. Go to your mother's side," he gulped quickly. "Guard!" he called. The guard entered the room and walked to his king's side. "Escort Théoden King to the Queen Mother's chambers." The guard did as he was bid, not thinking to question the order that stemmed from the Steward, as his king's face contorted in grief.

After Théoden left the room, Denethor returned to his sister's side. "Sweet Indis." She opened her eyes and he saw her attempt to smile. "Rest, darling sister. I am here and will take care of you. Listöwel is here also. You both have o'ertaxed yourselves and I am quite angry. So now I order you to stay here in your room and recover. Morwen is doing well," he lied as Indis' eyes fluttered shut. "Therefore, you are not needed at the moment. I have a few missives I must write to the Council, then I will return. Will you promise you will stay here and rest, my dearest sister?" His voice caught and he forced himself to calm. She opened her eyes again and he kissed her forehead. He bit the inside of his mouth to keep the cry of surprise from startling her. She was burning with fever. "I will return soon," he promised. She closed her eyes and he stood, swaying slightly. He shut his own eyes for a moment, fighting the fear that threatened to engulf him.

"Continue to minister to my sister and Listöwel, leech. I will return shortly. Do not give up. Do you understand me?"

Denethor strode quickly from the room and into the hall. Noting the guards all seemed to have left the area, he ran to the Golden Hall. There, a guard stood by the throne. He started as Denethor ran towards him. Instinctively, he held his spear before him.

"The Queen Mother is deathly ill and Théoden King has retired to her chambers. There is no guard in the guests' hall. Send someone there to keep watch. Also, I need to send a rider towards Aldburg. The king's son is needed here. He must be recalled."

"Lord Denethor. I cannot leave my post, as you well know. The doorward, Háma, will be able to order the guards."

Denethor thanked the man and ran through the hall and to the entranceway. The doorward's office stood to the right. He never considered knocking, just entered and found Háma speaking in quiet tones with two other guards. Háma looked with surprise at the Steward, but saluted and stood at attention. "How may I help you, Lord Denethor?"

Háma did as he was bid, not even blinking at the Steward's temerity, then motioned for Denethor to sit. The Steward paced the small room instead. Háma stood and waited.

"The Queen Mother has taken a turn for the worse. The healer recommends Théodred be sent for. My sons and he, along with Éomund's children, set out for Aldburg before noon. They must be found and bid to return here."

"If they left so long ago, I must do my king's bidding now. I will be back in a moment." He strode from the room, waiting for no further word.

After only a moment, he returned. "Forgive me, Lord Denethor. Now. There is more you need?"

"There are no guards in the guest hall. My sister has succumbed to the sickness. I would have a guard at her door."

"My deepest sympathies, my Lord," Háma said, his face whitening in sorrow and fear. "I will assign someone immediately. Is there anything further I may do for you?"

"I must send a rider to Minas Tirith. The Council has to be notified that I will be staying here longer than planned."

"I will send one to your quarters. Perhaps the missive will be complete in a half hour's time?"

"Yes. And when my sons arrive, would you send word to me immediately. I will be in my quarters or with the Lady Indis."

"I will bring them myself, my Lord." His face trembled, and Denethor realized the man was truly sorry for Indis and was struggling to hold back his tears.

"Thank you," was all Denethor could say. He bit his lip to stop his own tears as he walked towards his quarters. He needed to write the missive to the Council of Minas Tirith, but first, he decided quickly, he would visit with the king's counselor.

He found Grima walking slowly from the kitchen, his hands holding a goblet. "I would speak with you, if you have but a moment?" he asked quietly.

"I am on my way to the Queen Mother's rooms. I have another potion that I am going to give her. It is stronger than others I have tried, but she is failing and drastic measures are needed."

"Has any told you that my sister and her friend have also succumbed to the illness?"

"Nay!" The surprise and concern on his face gave Denethor a start. "I will go to them as soon as I have given Morwen this draught. They are in the guest quarters?"

"They are. I will wait for you there." He stepped aside and Grima walked away. Denethor looked after him, his eyes narrowed.

"If we leave you at Aldburg, will you promise to meet us this evening?" Boromir thought the girl too headstrong to comply, but he hoped she would make the promise.

"Of course I will. I plan to visit my cousins and to shop, as you think that is all I am fit for."

"That is not what my brother meant, Éowyn," Faramir tried to mollify her. The ride out had been less than pleasant. The men had spent the entire time talking of troops, placement, and weapons. Éowyn spoke not a word. When it was time for the midday meal, she started the fire in silence. Faramir felt uncomfortable. It hurt his senses to have someone so upset and he not able to help. 'I am like Indis in this respect,' he thought wryly. Éowyn seemed close to tears, in Faramir's eye, and so he tried to soothe her. But she would have none of it, and, as soon as they finished their meal, she mounted and started forward.

He joined her, riding alongside her. The others scattered the embers, poured water over the last hot parts, and joined them. They road south.

She turned to Faramir. "I am tired of you," she whispered. She clicked and her horse flew forward. All looked on in surprise. Yet, none followed. The horse, as Éowyn had noted, was not fleet of foot. They would have no trouble catching her.

Théodred smiled. "She has great heart. If grandmother has her way, she will one day be a great shieldmaiden."

"She is too moody. She lets her mind take her places a woman should not go. But enough of that," Éomer said, "What kind of weapons do the Easterlings have?"

They launched again into the weaponry of the enemy. Faramir noted Éowyn had slowed and that they were catching up to her. "I like their swords. They have...." He stopped. Éowyn had turned to wait for them. In surprise, he noted she looked behind them. He turned himself. "A rider approaches," he said, "at speed."

Denethor walked slowly towards Indis' rooms. 'Something seems wrong here,' he chewed his lip. 'I cannot discern what, but I am ill at ease in this place now. We must leave and quickly.' He shook slightly. Putting his hand to his head, he pushed hard against his forehead, willing his thoughts to grasp the fear he had suddenly felt. 'It is as if the wizard is here!' He shook even more. 'It is not possible. Théoden would have informed me. He knows of my discomfort with Curunír.'

Slowly, he entered her bedchamber and moved towards the bed. The sheen of sweat on her face told him more than the words of the leech that she was dying. He swallowed a sob and knelt at her side. "Indis," he murmured in his grief. She did not stir. He fought the tears that threatened. He must take her back to Minas Tirith to her husband.

Indis moaned; her body roiled on the bed as a convulsion took her. The leech stepped forward. "My Lord Steward," he said quietly. "I must clean her. If you would leave the room for but a moment; she has no control," he apologized.

Denethor looked at him, nodded and stood. "I will... I have things I must do. I will return shortly." He took the man's arm and gripped it tightly. "Give her something to ease the pain, even if it be poppy. She is beyond worry over abuse." The healer nodded and he turned and left the room.

He picked up his pace, entered his own room, and leaned heavily against the door. 'The missive. I will not write one. I will gather my family to me and leave here immediately. Indis needs Arciryas' attention. He will be able to heal her. She is not so ill that she cannot make the journey. Where is Boromir? I need him here now.' He walked towards the table, then turned and quickly left the room.

The groom at the stables was surprised to see the Steward of Gondor standing before him, a scowl on his face, and a sharp command shouted at him. "I will have a horse ready in just a moment, my Lord." He whistled and another groom came from one of the stalls. "Get the Steward's horse ready." He turned back to Denethor. "Do you need supplies? Where is your guard?"

The groom ran to the back of the stalls and helped the other prepare Denethor's horse. Within moments, Denethor was riding out of the stables and down and out of Edoras' gate.

Turning south, he spurred his horse onward. He could hold it back no longer; he screamed his anger, his fear, his hurt, all of it he screamed into the winds off the White Mountains. Tears streamed from his eyes; his cloak stretched out behind him, tossing fitfully; his horse, given free rein, ran like the very hounds of hell were after it; and Denethor's mind went into dark places it had not known before. Racing through his thoughts were all the pain that ever assailed him - from the moment of his birth until this very moment. And he took it into his heart and embraced it, finally accepting and making it a part of him.

It ran, like a dirge's refrain, through his mind - his banishments at his father's hand time and again, Cranthir's death, the White Wizard, Turgon's death, Morwen's death, Thorongil's treachery, Mithrandir, Finduilas' death, Amdir's death, Adrahil's scorn, the Palantír, the further destruction of Osgiliath, of Gondor itself, the armies of the Haradrim, Easterlings, Orcs, and that damnable mountain that spewed fire and ash daily. The list went on and on. But it did not stop there, it repeated itself over and over again until he thought he would go mad. Stopping his horse, he slid off the saddle and crouched on the ground, holding his head and sobbing piteously.

Boromir was first to see the horse, first to urge his own forward, first to reach his father, and first to jump, before the horse even stopped, and slide on the slippery grass to hold his father tightly. "Adar! Is Morwen dead?"

"Adar." Boromir cupped his father's face and lifted the strong chin so that he could look him in the eye. He drew back in horror at the look of utter despair that consumed those once steel-gray eyes. "Adar," he whispered.

Faramir was kneeling next to him in an instant. "Adar. It is Boromir and I. Wine!" he turned and shouted to Théodred, then turned back to Denethor. "Adar. Be at peace. There is no harm in Rohan."

Denethor's eyes blinked at Faramir's words as Boromir lifted the flask of wine to his lips. He drank but a little, then shut his eyes.

Faramir put his hand on Boromir's arm, questions rising through him and spilling, unasked from his eyes. Boromir shook his head and looked back at Denethor. He raised his voice a little and put command behind it. "Lord Denethor. Is there aught we can do for you?"

Denethor stirred, opened his eyes, and looked at his sons. "Boromir!" he slurred the name and Boromir's heart fell in agony. "Faramir, where have you been? I have looked for you for hours."

"We are here now, Father. Let me help you stand," and Boromir put his arms under his father's and pulled him upright. "Now. Shall we ride back to Edoras?"

"I see the messenger met you. Then you know that Morwen Steelsheen is near death?"

"We must return and quickly." He looked towards Théodred. "I am bitterly sorry, young man. I cannot tell you the grief that courses through me at your loss. Would you and your cousins go ahead now? I wish to speak with my own sons."

Théodred took the Steward in his arms and embraced him. Looking with concern towards Boromir, he hugged him, turned around and mounted his horse. Éowyn and Éomer had not dismounted. They were on their way north in moments.

Boromir watched in dismay. He wanted to be with them, his friends, as they greeted their sorrow, but his father was more important. 'It cannot be Morwen's death that has caused him to be out here on the plains of Rohan alone!' He stood and waited, Faramir at his side.

Taking in another deep breath, Denethor turned to his sons. "Indis and Listöwel have taken ill. The healer believes it is the same ailment that has felled Morwen. We must leave Edoras immediately. I will take her home with me, to Minas Tirith and to Arciryas." His head shook a little as his brow arched upwards. "He will save her." His words choked him and he began to cough.

"She lies on her bed in Meduseld and is barely able to open her eyes. Morwen is not dead, not yet, but it is only a matter of hours. By the time we reach Edoras, she will probably be gone."

Denethor started in surprise. He stood and walked away from his sons and towards the bed where Indis and Listöwel lay in drugged sleep. He knelt next to his sister. "She stayed with your mother until we had to let her go." He bit his lip. Faramir and Boromir moved to the bed and sat on the floor beside him. "She sat with me when I was a child, ill or fevered or heartbroken. She never left me. Always defended me." He turned and looked at Faramir. "But you ask not of your Amma."

He pushed himself up and walked back to the settle. Boromir smiled at Faramir and they joined him, once again on the floor at his feet. It was as they had done since they were babes; he would sit and they would converge upon him. He would tell them stories and laugh at their antics. So long ago.

"She hated the mountain. Once, I had come here, to Edoras, for some state function. The mountain had shaken. I think neither of you have felt it as hard as it was that night. She was alone and... When we returned, it took all of Arciryas' skill to heal her from the fright. I think that was the beginning, now that I look back upon it. Boromir, you were just a babe.

"I promised, too often, that we would visit her home and her father. But Gondor called every time - some new attack, some treachery, some meeting. I hold myself responsible. She needed to see the sea more often than I could take her."

"But father, you made the Ocean Room and it was grand," Faramir cried. "I remember the hours spent there. I remember almost naught of Naneth, but I remember she loved that room."

"Too late, Faramir. I am always too late for those I love." His tone lowered. "I remember when I asked father's permission to marry her, he held her Elven heritage against her, much to my surprise." He turned to face his sons. "I believe she faded away. Just stopped wanting to live." His eyes opened wide as he saw something in his sons' faces that startled him.

"It was not because of you! She loved you both deeply. She was a frail thing. When I sent her away, hoping that the air of Dol Amroth and the arms of her father would heal her, she was already lost. Her eyes... those beautiful eyes that burnt my very being, those eyes were glazed. I did not believe it; I would not believe it. I still hoped." He took a shuddering breath.

"But Indis does not have Elven blood in her. She has the blood of Númenor and she will fight this. We leave first thing tomorrow morning. I am hoping she will pass the night in peace, and rested, will be able to endure the journey. Be ready, my sons. Now, say your farewells to your friends. We will not return here soon."

"Is your grandmother any better?" Faramir asked as they sat in front of the fire in Théodred's quarters.

"She passed a short time ago. Father is not yet ready to announce it to the people. She was well loved. Sorrow will fill the Mark this night."

He put his face in his hands. "I will miss her. We never had a moment to speak before she was gone. I wanted so desperately to tell her of my love for her, my respect, my devotion."

Éomer smiled sadly. "She was a very wise woman, Théodred. She knew these things. You never had to say them. Had you not noticed the times she would sit and smile, while on the throne, as you made one or the other of your reports? I noted. As did your father. She was the greatest woman I have ever known."

"Then give your sister the same respect, Éomer," Boromir suddenly spoke up. "Because she is a girl does not mean that she is useless. Your grandmother is a shining example of that. If not for her, Indis and Listöwel... Did you know she brought the shieldmaiden to Minas Tirith to teach them how to wield swords, how to protect themselves? If not for her, they would have been hacked down by Orcs' ambush many years ago. If not for her..." Boromir took in a deep breath. "The Mark is no friendly place, as you well know. As daughter to the king, she should be groomed for defense also. Théoden does not see this." He looked down at his hand, clutching his own sword's pommel. "I speak out of turn because I respect you, Éomer. You diminish yourself by diminishing your sister."

The room filled with silence. None of the friends looked at each other. Boromir raised an eyebrow. "I leave in bitterness because I spoke my heart?"

"Nay," Éomer finally replied. "She is my little sister and I treat her as such. Yet, she is a woman full grown. By this time, many have already had two or three babes. She does not want that for herself. I find her difficult to understand."

Théodred struck him on the back and both men went rolling off the settle. Faramir looked at Éomer, shaking his head. "Always he counts himself as the lover of Gondor."

Éomer joined in the laughter. "So now, Captain-General, you will regale us with stories of your conquests?"

"There is naught to forgive," Théoden choked out. "Your grandmother loved laughter. It is a fitting tribute to her. However, I need you in my chambers. There are many details to discuss before we bury her." His brow furrowed in pain.

"Yes. She is. Bring her along." He turned to Boromir and Faramir. "Your father has told me he plans to leave first thing tomorrow. I have changed the time for burial so that you may be present. She would want that. Would you speak with your father and ask him to delay his departure for just a few hours?"

"Of course, Théoden King. Though his grief for you is great, greater love has he for his sister. I will go now and prepare everything for our departure to help ease his mind. If he is assured that we will leave as soon as the ceremony is over, he will stay."

"We are done now, Father." He turned to Boromir and embraced him. Tears fell. "I look forward to our next meeting. May it be not delayed o'erlong."

"Faramir," the prince took his friend by the shoulders and held him. "Until we meet again. Take care of your brother. He is impossible." He smiled.

"Do not be a stranger to Minas Tirith," Boromir choked out. "The road leads both ways." He embraced Théodred again, turned and walked from the room.

The sun shone brightly upon the snow, blinding any who looked south from the mountain town of Edoras. The people had gathered by the mounds. Thengel's was open and waiting. As the cortege moved from the Golden Hall, down through the streets of Edoras, and out of the gates, keening and wailing began. The women covered their heads while the men wore their battle armor. Though Morwen Steelsheen was not a warrior in the strictest sense, all who knew her, knew a warrior's heart beat within her. She was clothed in her shieldmaiden garments, her sword was laid on her chest, and her helmet lay next to it.

Éowyn started to keen the funeral dirge. After a few moments, the hills rang with the raised voices of the women of the Mark, joining Morwen's grandchild in the death song. The men beat their spears against their armor in time with the chant. The mournful echoes from the mountain stirred the air and the wind picked up into a gale force. None noticed.

As quickly as the singing had begun, it ended. The wind continued to blow, its soft shush turned into a roar. Théoden motioned and the mourners began their return to the city. The king stood there, with Théodred at his side, quietly weeping. Grima stood between Éomer and Éowyn, offering soft words of consolation. "Meteútsiht, the flux. Clear case of it," Grima said sadly. "Such a wonderful woman."

Denethor could stay no longer. 'Indis waits in her rooms, close to death. We must leave here now,' his mind screamed. He stepped forward, before the allotted time of mourning was complete, and spoke. "Théoden King. I cannot tell you how my heart aches for you and for your son, your sister-son and sister-daughter. While Edoras mourns, so does Gondor. But I must be away. Forgive me." And tears fell as he hugged the King of the Mark. He stepped away and motioned for Boromir and Faramir to follow. Théoden stood, unblinking in the morning sun.

Grima 'tsk'd tsk'd' at the display and the interruption of the mourning period. Faramir could hear him speaking to Éomer and Éowyn saying such. Faramir's skin bristled and he thought, thankfully, that it was well for the cocky little worm that Boromir did not hear him. The more he was in contact with this advisor, the more he could not stand him. He stepped forward and took Éowyn by the arm, moving her out of earshot of the erstwhile consoler. "You will be welcome anytime in Minas Tirith. If you ever have need, think not that Gondor will not answer. I promise thee." He had slipped into his mother's beloved Sindarin without realizing it. A warmth came over him, but the moment ended when Boromir took his arm and pulled him away.

Indis lay dead in Denethor's arms. They had not even reached Amon Anwar, not even touched Gondor's soil and she was gone. He sat in the wagon, holding her close, whispering her name over and over again, but she did not hear. Listöwel lay silent next to him, her labored breathing the only sign that she yet lived. Boromir sat next to him and Faramir next to Boromir. He wanted to scream, but he had not the strength to even breathe. If he had not been leaning against the wagon's side, he would have fallen himself. Every ounce of him, every breath, every hair and sinew burned with sorrow. Anguished sobs filled the cart as he finally let his pain flow.

His beloved sister, his confidant, his protector, his friend. It was too much to endure, this pain. His chest hurt and he remembered the pain of Finduilas. Surprised, he had not noticed when it left him. Not that he did not love her less, his wife, but that the physical pain was gone. He lowered his head in shame. He should never have lost that pain. He should still feel it today, cutting through to the very depths of his being. But it was gone. Did he not love her enough? Is that why the pain was no longer with him? Had his love only been a transient thing, a flighty thing - given as show for the world and then filed away and forgotten.

His sobs increased. Sorrow for Indis mixing with sorrow for Finduilas, for his father, for Amdir. Tears continued to fall down his cheeks and into her hair. 'Ah, Indis,' he thought, 'how often did I chide you for not taking care of yourself, for not brushing your hair? And here I have destroyed it.' He tried to smooth it out, dry the tears with his tunic. At last, he gave it up and cried aloud, "Indis! Do not leave me. Please. Do not leave me."

Boromir put his hand on his father's shoulder and held it tightly. His chin shook as he tried to hold back his own sobs. His other hand was on Faramir's leg, silently supporting his brother in his grief. Not since Finduilas died had the three come to such united grief. How could he help his father? He was too young when his mother died to be of any use, but now he was grown. Was there not some word he could say, some gesture that would ease his father's pain?

Faramir's sobs were muffled. He buried his face in Boromir's sleeve, trying desperately to be strong for his father. But he found he could not. When Denethor screamed, he shook. Never had he heard such sorrow. Indis' death was overshadowed by his grief for his father. He clung to Boromir and waited. Waited for grief to ease. But it did not. Denethor wept. The sun was setting and still he grieved aloud.

The soldiers stood nearby. Many had known the warm kindness of this woman. Many had gone to her in their need, asking for her help in requests from Ecthelion, when she sat at court with him. Many had found her wise, offering solutions to problems they thought nigh impossible to unravel. They busied themselves as best they could, keeping their voices low, noises to the minimum.

Night fell. With it came the baying of wolves from off the mountains. The soldiers started a fire. Boromir came out of the cart and the soldiers stood, waiting.

"Men of Gondor. The Lady Indis has passed and so has her dearest friend, Captain Amdir's beloved, Listöwel." He turned to go back into the cart, but stopped. "Thank you. Thank you for... We will ride again at first light." He saluted them and turned back into the wagon.

A/N - 1) For the use of the word 'hell.' The Silmarillion, JRRTolkien. Chapter 13: Of the Return of the Noldor. "But Fingon could not release the hell-wrought bond upon his wrist..." Chapter 14: Of Beleriand and Its Realms. "...he took up his abode in the endless dungeons of Angband, the Hells of Iron..." Ibid. "...there were green things even among the pits and broken rocks before the doors of hell." Chapter 19: Of Beren and Lúthien. "...neither law, nor love, nor league of hell..." Ibid. "There the fire and anguish of hell entered into him..." Ibid. "...and hurled like thunder from his throne lay prone upon the floors of hell."

2) For the use of the word 'damn.' The Two Towers, JRRTolkien. Chapter 10: The Choices of Master Samwise "...but think-there's someone loose hereabouts as is more dangerous than any other damned rebel..." The only one who used 'damn' in all of the Tolkien books that I have on file, was Gorbag, an Orc.

“Thorongil!” he hissed. ‘It cannot be.’ The Steward brought his face closer to the shimmering globe. ‘In the Dead Marshes. What is he doing there? I have not seen him before. Where has he been? Ah! He is searching, searching for something.’ Moving his gaze northward, Denethor saw naught. He brought the vision back to Thorongil and then searched westward, eastward, and finally looked to the south. ‘Naught!’ He should have been surprised to have even found the man in the midst of the smoke and flames. Yet, there he was. He heaved a sigh. ‘It is getting late; Boromir is due home soon. I cannot stay here, yet I cannot leave until I discover what he is doing!’

He stepped back for a moment. He found it easier and easier to control the thing. Long hours had he spent since... Prickles ran through his mind as he contemplated the bits and pieces of evidence against Grima... Arciryas, almost beaten down when seeing his beloved Indis dead, had intimated that other than flux caused her death. The Master Healer spent the year listening to all who would tell him what had happened, studying various poisons, and trying to discover why she had succumbed when Rohan’s leeches were well-versed in the care of those stricken by this malady. Then, late last year, Denethor’s Master Healer and friend had died, the grief and guilt too much for him.

Denethor had bent his will towards Rohan, towards that slimy creature, towards even Isengard. Still he had no answers, but Théoden was failing, and quickly. Did Grima have the temerity to poison his own king? He had seen Théoden send Théodred off to the west and Éomer off to the east, leaving him quite alone with... Wormtongue? Is that what Faramir had said his name was? Suitable. He scowled. ‘Did you murder my sister, you snake?’ His lips curled in anger and frustration. He put his hands to his face and tried to rub away the sight of the tower of Orthanc, his people’s tower, now held by the wizard.

But, nay. There were more important things to focus on for the moment. Thorongil! And Boromir? Nay! Boromir was indeed returning from a patrol of the Cormallen. And Thorongil was only leagues from him in the Dead Marshes. Denethor’s brow furrowed. Had they met? Was a rendezvous planned? Could he not trust...? ‘Nay! I will not think that.’ He grit his teeth and once again held the Palantír. ‘Boromir is true to me and to Gondor. It is a lie.’ But his hands shook as he watched his foe walking slowly across the marshes.

Finally, the man bedded down for the night. Denethor breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever it was the man looked for, it had yet to be found. Denethor pulled away from the globe and walked slowly down the steps. Boromir met him on the landing before Denethor’s own chambers. He wondered if his own face shone with delight, as Boromir’s now did. Striding forward, he grasped his eldest in a fierce embrace, shame for his earlier thoughts lending strength to the embrace. Boromir returned it.

“I was concerned that you had left the City,” Boromir said, brow furrowed. “None seemed to know of your whereabouts.”

“If I had left,” Denethor smiled, “all would know. It has been quite some time...” His own brow furrowed. He would like to go to the Anduin, but the memory was too painful. To Belfalas, but that way led to more painful memories. To Rohan - no longer a welcome there. He had nowhere to go. He shook his head, smiled at Boromir and said, “You must be famished. Go. Wash yourself and return to my chambers. I will have supper waiting.”

“He is not. He is still in Pelargir. I would speak with you concerning him. But, go now. It will wait.”

Denethor smiled indulgently at the concern in Boromir’s voice. “He is well.”

Boromir hugged his father once again and left. Denethor entered his chambers, nodding to the guard who opened the door for him. He pulled the rope and, moments later, his manservant appeared. “Help me out of this.” The coat and tunic were easily removed; at last, the heavy mail was lifted over his head. Denethor stretched.

“Boromir will be joining me shortly. Please have some food and wine brought up. Then return.” He strode towards his bedchamber as the man turned and left.

Denethor went to the washbasin, took off his undergarments, and sponged himself down. Drying himself off with a heavy towel, he walked towards his bed, grateful to see fresh clothing laid out. Dressing quickly, he moved into his study. He pulled a map from the wall behind him and spread it on his desk. There! There were the Dead Marshes. He chided himself for looking, but he had to. There also was the Cormallen. Not many leagues apart. His brow furrowed. Just then, the servant entered the room, carrying the mail with him.

A slight smile lifted the corners of Denethor’s mouth. “You wish I would not wear it? Does it disturb you?”

“Yea and nay,” the man said shortly. “A rest from it may do your body good. You appear o’ertired this evening.”

“My body is fine as it is. Besides protection, it keeps me strong. I am stronger than I was seven years ago, when first I started wearing it all day.”

“But now you wear it at night also, my Lord. Surely you would sleep better were you not to wear it to bed.” He helped slide it over Denethor’s head.

Long ago, when Denethor would put it on, a feeling of exhilaration would fill him. Now, he only felt the weight of it, crushing against the bones in his shoulders, preventing him from taking the long strides he once loved, preventing deep breaths, and keeping him from sound sleep in the night. But it was worth it, all worth it, for did not he need to protect himself, to strengthen himself as he battled Gondor’s enemies?

The man stared at him for a moment, as if he would speak again, sighed gently, bowed and left.

Boromir strode into the study and Denethor’s heart leapt. “My son!” he cried, “It is good to have you home again.”

Boromir’s glance told Denethor that the warmth of the greeting surprised his son, but his heart had been heavy since leaving the Tower and now it was lightened. “Come. Let us eat. Then we will talk. I am famished.”

Fingering the goblet after they had supped, Denethor looked up and found Boromir staring at him. He smiled. “You know me too well, my son. If I had left the goblet sitting in peace in my hand, you would not now be concerned.” He sat forward, all pretense of calm gone from his face. “I had hoped to bring this matter to you when peace had settled upon our land. But things grow worse instead of better. As your reports aptly describe.” He stood and Boromir sat straighter.

“I was late myself in marrying,” he began and stopped as Boromir stood. “Nay, my son. Sit and give me the grace of your attention.” He strode towards the fire, the goblet still in his hand. He looked at it as if at a strange devise. His face saddened. “Théoden King thought that Éowyn might hold your interest. But that was many years ago.” He turned back towards Boromir. “I have seen the King of the Mark stumble.”

He walked back towards the settle and stood before his eldest. “When the king comes. You know that saying well, my son. If there were a king, if he came, you could marry at will, for the blood of the Steward need not be as pure as the blood of the king.” He sat and put his hand on Boromir’s shoulder. “You have read the accounts of the Kin-strife and understand what caused it. You know the devastation, for every time you are sent to Osgiliath you walk in the blood of your forefathers. Until the king comes, you cannot marry other than pure Númenórean. Is your heart set upon Éowyn, my son?” His smile faltered.

Boromir lowered his eyes. “Éowyn was a child when last I saw her, Father. She holds no sway over me nor my heart.” Boromir paused for a long time and Denethor gave him the time needed. “I would wed, if that is your will. However, I do not think this is the right time. As you have said, the Enemy has grown strong and our battles are many.” He smiled. “There is hardly time to woo someone.”

Denethor leaned back against the settle and closed his eyes. “I cannot have another child. First, because of the honor I hold for your mother, but secondly, because my body grows old, even by the standards of Westernesse, and I am too tired to even attempt such a thing. You are the heir. If... if fate would have it so, and you passed without a son... There is always Faramir, I suppose.”

Boromir gave a short laugh. “You speak of him as if he is a last choice, Father. Someone you have to settle for. His blood is purer than mine.” He held up a hand to stop his father’s rebuttal. “You know it, Father. You can see it in his eyes; his mind is sharper than mine, on a par with yours.” Boromir shrugged. “I am the warrior, Father. Your bloodline should be continued through Faramir.”

“I will not have that. Oh, I would have Faramir wed and with children. No man should be without children. But you are the heir. Is there any other who has caught your eye?”

“I cannot sway you, can I, Father? Well, if that is your wish, there are none. I bow to your will; find her and I will wed her. The acceptable time is one year prior to commitment. I will wed next summer, if that is what you wish.”

He had meant to speak with Boromir about so many things that night. But the subject they did discuss weighed heavy upon both men and Denethor thought it prudent to wait a day or two before discussing his other concerns.

The weekly Council meetings were becoming bitter; the discussions more heated. The Lords of Gondor no longer wanted to send their sons in service, to let the blood of their sons be spilled upon the land, and Denethor could not fault them. Though this was nothing new, the vehemence with which the lords spoke against conscription had increased. Denethor sat silent and listened.

Boromir, being home on leave, was left by his father to defend Gondor’s cause within the chambers. Denethor watched with pride as Boromir’s passion pushed him from his chair to place Gondor’s case before the lords of the Council. He walked avidly back and forth, gesturing occasionally, his voice strong and firm. Many a lord felt Boromir’s keen love for Gondor, remembered that love from their youth - for were not all the lords former warriors of Gondor - and once again rallied to the cause. Men were pledged for the spring offense and funds were pledged for repairs to the southern roads. The road to Pelargir especially had become a gaping hole from the winter storms.

Denethor watched. To see the light that Boromir kindled in these men’s eyes sent his spirits rising. The full Council would meet within the week. With his councilors behind him, Denethor was sure the other members would have to agree to his plans.

At last, on the third day since Denethor had first espied Thorongil upon the marshes, he found him again. His brow furrowed in confusion. Thorongil had acquired some animal as a traveling companion. A short, gangly creature walked in front of the man. Try as he might, Denethor could not make out what kind of creature it was. It seemed there was a rope or some such tied around the animal’s neck and Thorongil held the other end. Swearing softly, Denethor let go of the globe and rubbed his hands over his eyes. Looking once again, he realized Thorongil was nearing the Emyn Muil. He stepped away from the Palantír. Boromir was waiting and Thorongil would be many days in the hills; he would not lose him.

His heart grew heavy. What next he had to discuss with Boromir was grave - Faramir. His eldest would be angered at Denethor’s next plan of action, but it must be done. A sob stole from his throat, but he quickly stifled it, grit his teeth and walked down the Tower’s steps. He had only a little more to give to Gondor - but he would give it.

Boromir walked slowly up the long stairwell towards Denethor’s private quarters. He had been summoned to supper, but not in the family’s dining hall. His brow furrowed as he looked, once again, at the missive. The tone was stilted, formal, and boded ill for Faramir, in Boromir’s mind. The last time Boromir had met with him, his father had hinted at some dire pronouncement for Faramir, but what it could be Boromir could not fathom.

Reports from Pelargir confirmed that the garrison was well run and that the city thrived. ‘So, father’s call cannot be about the garrison, or can it? Have others reported problems? Nay!’ he thought emphatically, ‘As Captain-General, I would have received copies of such reports.’ He paused his upward movement. ‘Unless father has someone watching Faramir, someone who only reports to him? I would not be surprised. That would be beyond cruel for Faramir, but it would also mean father does not trust me. Nay! That is not possible.’ He started forward again; he did not want to irk his father by being late.

He stopped for another moment at one of the stairwell’s windows, and looked, unseeing, at the landscape before him. Blinking a few times, he opened himself to the sight that met his eyes - once he cleared them - the shoulder of Mindolluin. Tears filled his eyes; many the times, he and Faramir had climbed up this very side of the mountain, laughing in the joy of being together and away from the confines of duty. His brother had grown; they would no longer be free to climb together. Each sent his separate way to serve Gondor.

‘Their love has changed,’ he thought miserably. ‘Nay. Not so much their love, but their trust. Faramir has proved himself a dolt too many times when it comes to his mouth. He is ever the diplomat in the Council chambers, but when he is with father, it seems he loses all caution.’ He smiled. ‘He does lose all caution; he knows father will listen with approval to his words. But as soon as he brings up anything to do with Mithrandir, father bristles. I do not understand why Faramir does not take my warning words to heart on this one issue.

‘I miss him. He has been gone too long from the City. And when he is gone, I cannot protect him.’ He sat heavily on a cold marble step. ‘I cannot protect him anyhow. I cannot even protect my own men.’ He swore quietly, then hit his fist against the stairwell’s wall. Even with his eyes open, he could see his men lying about him - dead.

They traveled through the Nindalf, close to the bottom of Rauros Falls, when Orcs struck. He lost sixty-seven men. Sixty-seven strong, doughty men of Gondor. He checked himself. Sixty-three at that time, for they did not find the bodies of the other four until a fortnight after the battle. He turned his three companies towards home, camping near the borders of North Ithilien. There, hanging from trees, they found the bodies of his missing men. They had not been eaten, a surprise, but had been gutted and hung. The carrion crows had ravaged their remains. When they cut them down, Boromir and his healer inspected them. Their tongues had been cut out, their finger and toenails pulled out, their...

He shook his head, not wishing to think further. Denethor was well aware of the barbarism of their foes, Boromir knew, had seen it too many times imaginable, especially with the Haradrim. Denethor knew of the exquisite tortures that Orcs, when not eating their captives, visited upon them. How many times their father had warned Boromir and Faramir not to be caught alive. No matter what happened, to cut their own throats before allowing themselves to be captured.

Boromir had given the same instructions to all his men. Not for Gondor’s weal - the men did not know enough of Gondor’s secrets to be of any use and the Enemy knew that. But for their own sakes. Orcs held no mercy for their foe, had no compunction to let a captive free. Captivity was for torture, mocking, and entertainment. And eventually death - mindless, hopeless, long-suffering, pain-filled death. For Orcs did not kill their captives easily. They would cut out a tongue and wait a few days. Break their arms and legs another day. Then pull the nails from... Then more days and more torture.

Even after all these years, Boromir was still not able to see the evidence of such torture without retching. They quickly buried what remained of his men and turned south. As they rode, Boromir again demanded death from his men, demanded that they remember what they had just seen, and remember to take their own lives if all hope was gone, if they knew they would be captured.

He visited each one of his men’s homes, those he had lost, and spoke with their wives, their children, their mothers and fathers. How many years had his father done the same duty? How had he not succumbed to grief and bitterness? And Boromir had wanted to say, ‘Your son was killed in battle,’ ‘Your husband fought well and died well,’ ‘Your father died bravely.’ But he could not. He could only tell them they had fallen and try to hide the manner of their loved ones deaths. However, the people of Gondor were not fools; most knew exactly what he meant and cried in pain, disbelief, and horror.

Boromir screamed aloud in helpless frustration and pain, and the sound echoed through the stairwell as once again, he hit the wall.

Denethor stepped out of his room and looked down upon his son. “Come, Boromir,” he said gently. He turned back into his room so as to give Boromir time to wipe the tears from his eyes.

When Boromir finally entered the room, his father offered him a goblet. “Some of the finest from Dorwinion,” he said, turned and walked to the fireplace. “Sit, please,” he said without turning.

He waited for a quarter of an hour. The bells sounded. He turned. “The battle was hard?”

“But something about it has harmed you,” Denethor was matter-of-fact. “Torture?”

“Four men captured, four men tortured, four men hanged.” Boromir sat for another moment, then stood and walked to his father’s side. Placing his hand upon Denethor’s shoulder, he gently turned him to face him. “How many hundreds, Father, have you seen?”

Denethor’s smile was bitter. “I lost count after your mother passed.” His eyes were far from Minas Tirith.

“How can I not? Who will care for Gondor?” Denethor motioned towards the settle and they sat. “I do not believe your adadhron suffered such things during his time. Oh yes, there were death and battle. My uncle was a great warrior, killed before his time; he and all his men killed in an ambush in Osgiliath. I remember his funeral well.

“I do not think there was as much, or as many killed, during Ecthelion’s time. And I do not recall such tortures as now are visited upon our men. Your great-adadhron, Turgon, was the lucky one. Fate, or whatever it is that punishes us, was kind to him. There was peace, for a time, upon our land. But come, my son. I have not seen your face so cheerless. The battle was many days past. What brings it to your mind now?”

They sat in silence. At last, a knock on the door roused them. “Come,” Denethor called.

“My Lord,” his manservant asked, “supper is getting cold. Shall I send for more?”

“I am sorry. I forgot it was ready.” He turned towards his son. “Boromir, forgive me. You must be famished and I have forgotten.”

“I am not hungry, Father. I would discuss what was hinted at in your invitation. I cannot eat until we have finished that, if that meets your approval?”

“Yes.” He turned towards the servant. “Bring food in an hour and tell the kitchen I am most sorry for the waste.”

The man bowed, turned and left. They heard the clinking of dishes in the outer chamber. Denethor smiled, for he knew the noises were made loud to remind Denethor of his servant’s long-suffering. He began to chortle and Boromir joined him. After a moment, they quieted.

“Faramir has excelled at Pelargir. The garrison is better than when I was there. The reports I receive swell with praise for him. The city is more prosperous than ever and there have been no attacks against it nor the surrounding countryside. I am most proud of him, Boromir. I have sent a missive to him, carried by Captain Angbor recalling him. Angbor is from Lamedon and will be grateful to be stationed nearer to home. He only has another two years in service to Gondor’s army. This will suffice.”

“I know what you would say, Boromir, and it pains my heart to do this. However, his own renown has earned him this. I could not keep it from him, if I wanted to.”

“Earned?” Boromir cried. “Condemned, rather. Do not do this, Father. Please.” Boromir knelt at Denethor’s feet and took his hands into his own. “It is a death sentence. The captains of Osgiliath die within a year of their stationing there. Please, Father,” he begged again.

“Not every one dies, Boromir. You exaggerate.” He stood and lifted his eldest to his feet. “Do not speak this way.”

“How else am I to speak when my heart twists within me, when my gut wrenches at the very thought?”

“Listen to me, Boromir. I will not send him to Osgiliath garrisoned the way it is now. I plan to expand the stronghold. Return it to a full battalion’s strength. And I will forbid him to lead any patrols or sorties. His captains will do that. He will be... administrator of the garrison. I need him there; I need his wisdom and his knowledge of battle,” Denethor emphasized the word need with his teeth clenched. “If we lose Osgiliath wholly, we lose Gondor.”

Boromir sat. “He will not stay administrator,” he said quietly. “You know him, Father. Even if you order it so, he will find some excuse to venture forth. And then he will be killed. Are we so strapped that we must e’en sacrifice my brother?”

Denethor walked towards the fire. Leaning against the mantle, he sighed. Tears filled his eyes. “E’en my son, Boromir. E’en both my sons.”

“Would he have it any other way, Boromir? Would he allow you to be sacrificed and not him?”

Denethor’s face quirked into a mirthless smile. “I cannot. You are needed elsewhere.”

Boromir stood and walked to the door. “If you do not mind, Father. I will leave you now. I have much to think about.”

Denethor noted Boromir’s jaw tightened and that his hand clutched at the pommel of his sword. “I have said the same things to myself, Boromir. Do you not know that? Do you think I receive pleasure in sending him there? Please,” he motioned to the settle. “Please sit.”

Boromir took his hand from the door and straightened his shoulders. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself more wine, then he stood next to his father. “I do not question you, Father.” He smiled sadly. “Not as Faramir questions you. However, I do not agree. I am selfish, I know. Is it right that you send another man there to die instead of my brother? That Faramir and I receive assignments that are not as dangerous as others receive?” He turned Denethor to face him. “We are sent on dangerous missions. We are sent to die. As are all warriors of Gondor. But Osgiliath, Father, Osgiliath is ever in the Enemy’s mind. If you send him there, you will condemn him to death. The One we do not name will know he is there. He dogs our every step. Will he not be tempted beyond endurance once he knows that Faramir is there? Will he not send army after army against the fallen city in order to capture Faramir? I cannot let that happen.” Boromir’s hands tightened painfully around Denethor’s shoulders. “I cannot let him die. Send me instead, Father.”

“I cannot. We need more men, Boromir. And you are adept in persuading our fief lords to send them. You must be about that work. I will do everything I can to protect Faramir. I know of what you speak regarding the Enemy. He will not prevail. And I will send my most experienced captains with him.”

“Come, let us eat.” He took Boromir’s hand and led him into the outer chamber.

A table had been set; Boromir had not noted when first he had entered. “When will Faramir arrive, Father?”

Boromir stabbed at his food, his anger simmering. At last he sighed. “I cannot agree, Father, but I cannot gainsay you. I will support you, but let Faramir stay in the City for a few weeks at least. We have time for that, do we not?”

Denethor heard the longing in his son’s voice. “Of course we do. And there are preparations that you can help Faramir with. Preparations that will shore up Osgiliath’s defenses. We will meet once a day to discuss our objective. I say ‘our,’ Boromir, for I know what your objective is.” He smiled warmly. “With the sons of Gondor busily preparing, the Enemy will be thwarted. Trust me, Boromir. I will not, willingly, send either of my sons to their deaths. How could you even think this of me?”

And prepare they did. Faramir returned from Pelargir the very next day and the Hall rang out with the joyful shouts of brother greeting brother. Denethor watched them and a smile played upon his lips. Only when his sons were with him, did he smile.

Faramir turned from Boromir’s arms and stepped forward. “Forgive me, Father, but the great brute would not let me pass him without his strangling me.” Faramir’s laughter rang out and warmed the columns lining the Hall. He stepped before the Chair, bowed low, then saluted the Steward. “The Captain of Pelargir wishes to report to his Steward.”

Denethor accepted the salute with a nod of his head. “I will listen to your report when the full Council convenes three days from now. Come with me to my chambers. I have nuncheon ordered.” He led the way from the Chair towards the back of the Hall and then up the stairs to his private quarters. When they entered the room, he gestured to them to sit and went to the fireplace, poured the wine, and returned. After giving each a goblet, he sat in a chair opposite the settle. “Your brother has missed you.”

Faramir’s eyes grew moist. “I have missed him too, Father.” He struggled not to say more, for, of late he had noted, the Steward preferred to be more formal in his dealings with his son. “I hope the reports you have received from Pelargir have been satisfactory?”

Denethor’s eyes pierced his. “I see you are ever aware of my plots, Faramir.” He waited a moment. “Yes, I have had you watched.” Another pause.

Faramir did not stir nor flinch, but Boromir squirmed in his seat as if he were once again a child. “I think I hate the both of you!” he finally exploded.

“We have no one left. It is only we three. And yet the two of you speak as if strangers. I will put up with this behavior no longer. Kiss and make up, if you must, but do something to make me believe I have a father and a brother!”

Denethor began to laugh. “It is better that Faramir attends the Council meetings, Boromir. Your eloquence and fervor always win over those who would oppose us, but you cannot keep a civil tongue. Nor know your place.” His laughter stopped. “Faramir is mine to deal with. I do what I must for Gondor.”

“You do not have someone watching over me, do you?” Boromir asked incredulously.

“Of course not. First, they would not be able to find you. No matter where I send you, I suddenly receive a missive from another part of Gondor saying you have strayed from your course. Secondly, I know you...”

“I know he can take care of himself, not be swayed by others, obeys me.” Denethor’s lips pursed.

“You and Boromir have taught me everything I know, Father. Do you not know that, when I make a decision, I weigh your counsel, even if I cannot ask it? I know you, Father. I know you well. I believe I know what you would do in most of the situations I must deal with. Yet, you do not trust me?”

“You listen to the wizard. I know he was in Pelargir only a month ago. I received no report of his visit.”

“He did not come on state business, Father. He came as a friend. We sat and talked about music.”

Boromir put his hand on Faramir’s arm. “Music? What sort of music, Faramir?”

“The kind Elves make. He taught me a few of their songs as we watched the stars. He said Elvish music must be sung under the stars. It was a pleasant evening. But only one, Father. I swear, we spoke of naught else.” He watched Denethor closely then shivered. “You look at me as if I were one of the lords on your Council.”

“You are a Lord of Gondor. I am disappointed. I would say that I have not made my wishes clear, but I have, countless times. I do not trust wizards, Faramir. I especially do not trust this one, though I have had few dealings with him.”

“If you spent some time with him, Father. He thinks you are a great and wise man. He has told me on numerous occasions.”

Boromir bit his lip, swearing to himself. ‘I cannot believe you, Faramir. You dig the knife in deeper every time you open your mouth.’ He stood up. “Father, let us invite the wizard here. You say you do not know him; you need to spend time with him. He is alleged to be mighty. He could become Gondor’s friend. And, barring that, if he be Gondor’s enemy - one should keep one’s enemies close, should one not?”

“He is not an enemy!” Faramir stood also. “He is a friend who speaks highly of the Steward of Gondor.”

Denethor motioned for both men to sit. “Faramir. You will contact Mithrandir and ask him to attend us.”

“I... I am not sure when he might be available, Father. He is headed towards Mirkwood. To the realm of Thranduil.”

“Ah!” Denethor took a deep breath. ‘To the Elves. Mayhap that is the path Thorongil takes.’

Denethor looked up. The door to his study was open and the servant waited. He stood; his sons followed him.

“So,” Denethor began after they had eaten. “You are going to take the captaincy of Osgiliath.”

Denethor’s eyes grew thoughtful. “As a child, I was oft there. Well,” he paused and his brow furrowed. “For a few short years, I was allowed to visit my uncle. We would play...” He looked up. They watched him quietly, expectantly. “I have not told you, but that is where I learned to play ‘Kings and Stewards.’ Your great-uncle, Cranthir, taught me. We would play all day. The game took many months to finish as I only was allowed one day a month in Osgiliath. My father deemed training and other duties more important. I loved Osgiliath, though one of my greatest shames came from a visit there.” Pain crossed his face and was gone as quickly as it formed.

“You will love Osgiliath, Faramir. You can smell the forests and fields of Ithilien from there. The spices are incredible. There was such game - rabbit, pheasant, duck, partridge, quail, deer, turkey... Though, of course, the number of wild has diminished as of late. Boromir has been going over the city’s plans, devising better uses of the men and weapons. You will spend the next few weeks with him, if that is amenable to you,” and the Steward smiled, “I will be giving you a full battalion. In your adadhron’s day, the garrison was always full-stocked. It will be again.” He looked down at his hands. “Your sword and bow are needed in Osgiliath, Faramir. But more importantly, your battle knowledge. I have been pleasantly surprised at your grasp of the needs of Pelargir. I expect the same for Osgiliath.”

Faramir nodded, but remained silent; the unexpected compliment caused a slight blush.

“When I was stationed there, we devised a... Well, that will not be feasible now. East Osgiliath must remain in our hands. Though I will not station any men there. But it must be watched closely, Faramir. If the Enemy gets a foothold there, it will be easy enough to spill into West Osgiliath. Once they are over the river, and Osgiliath is the only feasible place to cross south of Cair Andros, they will be free to run rampant over the Pelennor. I cannot impress strongly enough our need.”

“I understand, Father. We will hold Osgiliath. All of Osgiliath. Give Boromir and me time to formulate a plan, then we will bring it before you.”

“Good. That is all I can ask.” Denethor took a deep breath. “The Council will meet in three days. Your Pelargir report will be given then. We will not speak of Osgiliath at that time. I want everything in place before I bring this to the Council. Now, be off with the both of you. Spend some time together on Mindolluin, but,” and he looked warningly at Faramir, “I do not want any more falls. Climb with leisure.” He smiled and rose.

Boromir embraced Denethor, then the Steward turned to Faramir. “Welcome back, my son,” and hugged him warmly.

“What have you got there?” Boromir asked as they approached the guard of Rath Dínen.

Faramir chuckled. “Of course. She will know you meant to bring some. It was thoughtless of me not to tell you that I planned stopping at her bier on the way.”

The guard saluted, opened the door for them as they acknowledged his greeting, and let them pass into the Hallows.

“You are all I have, Faramir.” Boromir’s voice dropped to a whisper in deference to the inhabitants of the place. “All I have of mother, of Amma... I rely upon you for so many things, things you do not even know about.”

Faramir looked at him questioningly and so Boromir continued. “Father would have me perform feats of wizardry and save all of Gondor... Nay! All of Middle-earth. And I would do it, Faramir, but I cannot. But I would save you!”

“Boromir,” Faramir looked kindly at his brother. “You do not have to save me. As I told Father, and you both refuse to acknowledge it, I can take care of myself. I am not being cocky, as the look upon your face would say, and I do know that the forces that assail us are greater than you and I, but I know when to duck,” he smiled. “You taught me that. And I will duck when the need arises. I cannot hide away in Osgiliath, Boromir, though that is what you would wish me to do. I must lead my men in the way I deem fit. But I promise you, big brother,” the smile lit his face, “that I will be careful, for myself and for my men.”

“I wish there were some other way, Faramir.” He stopped before the tomb that held Indis, daughter of Ecthelion, and put his hand on the cold marble. “I wish so many things. One of which is that she was still with us.” He bit his lip. “I still cannot believe she is gone. Did you know she was the first to teach me to hold a sword?”

“Father had promised and promised and still I did not have one. So, she took me to the armory, found an old beaten down little thing, and we went to the dungeons.” Boromir smiled broadly. “She learned her own swordcraft in the dungeons with Listöwel and Morwen Steelsheen. She talked the whole time, which was unusual for her. But I think the memories flowed through the room and tugged at her heart. I wish she were here.”

“You see, Boromir,” Faramir said as he laid the bouquet upon the crypt, “She would have tried to save us too, but she could not even save herself.”

Boromir brushed away the tears. “Nay! And Father could not even save her, with all his knowledge and wisdom.”

They stood for more than a few moments, listening to the quiet, remembering their beloved aunt, rejoicing in the moments spent together. At last, Boromir turned. “Let us be away from here, Faramir. My heart will grow weary if we stay. And we have so little time.” They turned, gave the tomb one last pat, and walked towards the back of the street.

The guard saluted and unlocked the further door for them. “You know the signal for this week?”

Boromir nodded and walked through the door onto the vast mountain. Faramir followed.

He was surprised, extremely surprised, but incredibly happy. He saw them; saw them in the Palantír as they climbed Mindolluin. Now, at last, his heart could be at peace; he could watch over them. He began to pull away, look towards the north, towards where he had last spotted Thorongil, but ever he came back to the sight of his sons enjoying each other’s company.

They had lain down on the grass... ‘Grass? It is early spring; the mountain should be covered in snow.’ His brow furrowed as he wondered what wizardry this was. Another moment and he saw Faramir crashing down slowly and inexorably towards the sharp pikes laid out from the bottom, where the mountain and the City walls conjoined.

“Ah,” he cried as horror and finally understanding enveloped him. ‘This is the past. This is the day Faramir almost fell to his death - how many years ago? And yet, this thing shows me the past!’ He could not take his eyes from the sight, watching Faramir fall closer and closer to the pikes. He shuddered. Knowing that Boromir saved him did naught to ameliorate the fear that wrenched at his gut. At last, the last possible moment it seemed to Denethor, Boromir reached out and grabbed his brother’s hand. Breath drawn raggedly through clenched teeth, Denethor blinked hard. Neither son had told him that death had been so near.

He let go the globe and walked to the Tower’s window. Staring unseeingly towards the Pelennor, he sobbed. “I cannot lose another. I will go mad.” The words echoed through the chamber and soft laughter filled the room. Denethor looked up in surprise. Prickling skin told him he had not imagined it. He quickly stepped into the outside corridor. No one was there. He moved back into the room. It was a small apartment with no doors but one, no windows but one, and no closets nor furniture to hide in. The only thing in the room was the obelisk upon which sat the swirling stone.

He shook his head. He was not touching the stone and yet it swirled; a faint glow flowed from it. He stepped closer, cautiously. No further sound came. He touched it again. The stone was showing the mountains of the Ephel Dúath. His gaze was drawn further east, towards Mount Orodruin. Its mouth spurt smoke, flame and ash. His brow furrowed; he was not controlling the orb; it was controlling him! He tried to pull back and found he could not. Now, it directed his sight east of the mountain towards Barad-dûr! He stilled his breath and clenched his teeth. Pulling his hands slowly back towards his body, he felt the globe stick to his fingers, but he was not of the line of Mardil Voronwë for naught. He fought it and was finally free. Taking a step backward, he laughed. “You will not ensnare me. I know you.”

He took the globe in his hands again and forced his mind to quiet. A sudden hope had filled him. If he could see Boromir and Faramir in the past, what could prevent him from seeing her! A shudder ran through him. The globe responded to his thoughts and, in a moment, he was in Dol Amroth. She stood before him, the wind whipping the hair around her as she stood on her balcony. He swore he could smell the sea breeze and hear her laughter. Choking back tears, he followed her every move. She was young, perhaps twenty-three. None were about her, but she had a letter clenched in her hand and her face was bright with joy. He recognized it. One he had sent; a small locket had fallen from it. She bent to retrieve it, then cried out in joy as she opened it. He had placed a small portrait of himself in it. He blushed now at his temerity in offering such a thing.

He fell in love with her again. Her smile, her raven hair, her slim waist, her delicate skin. He cried as his fingers clutched the globe, trying to reach out and touch her. But she could not be held, nor spoken to, nor kissed. Sobs wracked his body as he watched her grow, exchange vows with him, birth Boromir and then Faramir.

Her illness came upon her; he noted now how slowly and how inexorably it had attacked her. He saw the mountain’s hold upon her; the fear it engendered in her. How could he have been so blind? Why could he not have whisked her from Minas Tirith? He could have made Dol Amroth the capital of Gondor and moved his little family; any price would have been worth her life.

To touch her one more time. His heart ached. He watched her, on the road to Belfalas, watched the cart slow and then stop. Watched Listöwel step from the cart and speak with the guard. Watched the guard blanch, then sob. Watched him get back on his horse and turn towards Minas Tirith. Watched as the carriage turned back.

“Faramir! We have only a month together. It would take almost that to get there and back again.”

Boromir shook his head. He too loved his uncle, but there were so many things to prepare, not only for Faramir’s posting, but also for Boromir’s next trip. “I wish we could, little brother, but it is folly.”

“It is not.” Faramir was vehement, then changed his mind. “I suppose it is. Do you not miss mother’s people?”

“Of course, but she grew up there, Boromir. The people of Dol Amroth live differently than we do. I feel free when I am there. And it has been so long!”

Boromir smiled. “I feel free there as well, Faramir. But I feel disloyal to Gondor when I am there. We are so beset, Faramir. Forgive me for being dour, but it is true. I travel the countryside and see the needs of our people, the needs of our land, and any time taken away from them seems to be an indulgence. I cannot leave now. Mayhap, when summer comes, we can visit then. You will have been settled in Osgiliath and I can make that my southern sweep. Will that suffice, Faramir?”

What could Faramir say or do, it was Boromir asking. He smiled. “Of course. Now, we best return. We are very late.” Their shadows indeed indicated that it was well past the evening mealtime. They hurried.

They had missed supper and knew their father would be put out. Faramir knew he would be more than put out, yet Boromir guffawed when he shared that sentiment. The Chamberlain at the Great Hall said he had not seen Lord Denethor all afternoon. The boys went to his private quarters. The guard there said that Lord Denethor had left shortly after they did and had not returned. Boromir’s brow furrowed and Faramir bit his lower lip. They walked to the first floor of the Tower; the guard there stated that he had not seen the Steward at all this day. Tension began to build as brother looked at brother in dismay.

“Perhaps at the stables? Or in the buttery? The Council meets in two days. Perhaps he has gone to Merethrond to discuss dinner arrangements?”

An hour later, they walked slowly down the corridor into the Great Hall. The Chamberlain hurried forward.

“Does anyone know of Lord Denethor’s whereabouts?” the man asked “I have some important missives for him. We still have not gone over plans for the Council.” The man looked flustered and both boys were not surprised. Usually, the days before a Council meeting, Denethor was furiously scripting the agenda, ordering underlings about, and generally causing an uproar.

“We will find him. Give the missives to me. I will take them to the Steward’s private study. He will read them tonight, I am sure.” Boromir took the papers and strode from the room. Faramir followed.

“I cannot understand this and I am beginning to be concerned. Mayhap father left a missive on his desk.” He took the stairs two at a time, closely followed by Faramir. The guard saluted them and let them in. Boromir walked quickly into Denethor’s study. Searching furiously through the neat stacks, he found naught that helped him in finding the Steward. He swore quietly and sat in the leather chair. Drumming his fingers upon the table, he looked about, helplessly. “I am concerned, little brother. I have not seen his aide, there is no message here, nor with any who should know his whereabouts, and there is no sign of him anywhere. I dread calling out the guard, but I am afraid we should. After the attack just a few short years ago, I would deem this grave indeed.”

“As do I.” Faramir rubbed his face. A look of hope filled him. “Since the aide is not at his post, nor with his company, let us find his home and see if he is there.”

“A good idea. But we will send a guard. In case father returns. It would not do to have him embarrassed by us running through the streets of Minas Tirith shouting his name out like a lost child.”

But there was no thought of embarrassment when the guard returned with Denethor’s aide. “He sent me away. Said he had things that he needed to do. He did not tell me where he was going.” The man’s face bespoke fear and confusion.

Boromir’s face was livid. “How could you leave him alone when seven years ago we almost lost him to an assassin!”

Denethor looked up in surprise. Sunshine crept slowly down the opposite wall. He grimaced in pain as he tried to stand. Never before had he felt the pains from his old wounds. He lifted his tunic; there was no blood, yet the wound felt as though he had just been cut. ‘Cair Andros - that is where I received this one,’ he thought, ‘many long years ago.’ He rubbed his hand across his forehead for a moment. ‘What is happening to me?’ Leaning his head against the wall, he took a few deep breaths, steeled himself and finally stood. The pain lessened. He covered the Palantír and went to his chambers.

“Step inside.” Denethor and Faramir entered the front room, then Denethor led his son into his study. “What do you need?” he asked wearily.

“We were concerned. The Chamberlain said you had not met last night to go over tomorrow’s Council arrangements.”

Faramir had to grasp the carafe with both hands, else it would have fallen. He said naught, but swallowed furiously. Turning to his father, he offered the goblet. He sat then, hoping Denethor would do the same. “Boromir is searching for you. May I tell the guard to send for him?”

“You missed your meeting with the Chamberlain, you did not sleep in your bed, no one has seen you since yesterday morning, and we were supposed to sup together last night. You did not meet us.”

Denethor’s eyes flashed brilliant and cold for a moment; Faramir found himself shivering.

Faramir kept all his senses in check, nodded, stood and filled the goblet. He decided to sway Denethor’s mind from thoughts of Finduilas. “Father, I will leave for Osgiliath in a fortnight. The maps I have been given are out of date. I know you made maps some time ago. May I see yours? May I have them copied so I may take them with me?”

The hairs on the back of Faramir’s neck stood straight up. He did not understand what his father spoke of this day. He stood abruptly and walked to the windows; his mind awhirl. ‘What has happened to him? Why does he speak of mother and then of other things of no consequence? He appears older and sadder. His eyes seem wild.’ He drew a breath and turned back.

Faramir swallowed again. He walked to the bookcase and pulled the leather tubes out. There were at least fourteen. He laid them on Denethor’s desk. His father still sat on the settle, fingering his drink.

Raising his eyes, he took Faramir’s face into his hands. He ran his finger under Faramir’s chin. Tears ran down his face.

“Might I join you? I have not yet broken my fast and your meal seems to have arrived with me.” Boromir shot a look of confusion towards Faramir, but his brother just shrugged.

Denethor’s face brightened. He shook, as if to rid himself of something, then stood and hugged Boromir. “It has been sometime since last we broke our fast together.” He smiled, grabbed both boys by the arm, and marched them into the outer room where their meal waited.

“What was that about, Faramir?” Boromir sat in Faramir’s chair by the fire.

“I do not know. He was strange the whole time I was there alone with him. Once you entered, he seemed to come to his senses.”

Boromir smiled. “Neither do I. At least he promised he was going to bed once we left.”

“He did. Boromir? He has changed. I have been gone for some time, I know, yet, I find him very changed.”

“As do I. His shoulders slump a bit. Never had I thought to see him slump. And his hair is grayer, much grayer than last I remember.”

Boromir stood and walked to Faramir’s desk where his brother was sitting rummaging through papers. “Obey him. Trust him. Give him our loyalty.”

Faramir looked up in consternation. “I will not sever my relations with Mithrandir. Father misunderstands.”

Dismay filled Faramir’s face. “You would. But I deem it foolish, Boromir. Mithrandir is wise and sees beyond Gondor’s needs. We cannot live just for Gondor, Boromir.”

Boromir’s eyes grew cold as steel and his hands clenched at his sides. Faramir stood and walked around the desk, taking Boromir’s arms in his hands and holding him close. “Do not be angry with me, Boromir. If Gondor falls, the world as we know it will fall, but if other lands fall, Boromir, how do we accept that?”

Boromir pulled himself away. “We do not accept it. We fight for Gondor. And when we fight for Gondor, other lands will be saved. Do you not see that?” The anger in Boromir’s face drained. “Faramir. It is by our blood that the lands around us are saved. Do not look to other lands now. The need is too great to look elsewhere. Keep your focus on Gondor, Faramir, else it fall and all we do be in vain.”

“Look.” He pulled out the maps Faramir was looking at. “Look at this. This is Gondor. This is Rohan and Belfalas and even the northern lands of legend. WE stand between them and Mordor. WE are the Citadel that protects them. WE are the blood-givers, the oath takers, the protectors of these other lands. If WE fail, Faramir, all is lost. Concentrate on Gondor and its needs.”

Boromir looked at him in confusion. “Who else comes to our aid? Have you seen an army that I have not, coming to help us? Have you seen warriors spilling through the Great Gate in support of Gondor? Have you seen any but our father striving to prepare Gondor for the battle ahead? No wonder he wanders. He is alone. And sometimes, he thinks his sons consider him less.” Boromir whispered the last words. “Are you prepared, little brother, to cause the fall of our father? The fall of the Steward of Gondor? Do you see a king coming to save us? Mayhap I have missed him in my travels.” Boromir realized his words were bitter, but he felt a knife through him as if Faramir had put it there.

“Hang Mithrandir!” Boromir shouted. “What does a wizard know that father does not?” He bowed his head, put his hands to his face and began to weep.

“Boromir!” Instantly, Faramir was at his side. “What ails thee?” he slipped into his mother’s tongue, unaware.

Boromir looked up in surprise. “I am tired. I am weary of worry. I would ride through the Pelennor and not consider the needs for fortification. I would walk the embrasure and not contemplate the need for further arms for the trebuchets. I would bring all my men home with me. I would sit on the heights of Mindolluin and hope that my brother would not fall off.” He smiled at the last. “Forgive me. I speak out of hand. I know you understand. I... I trust you, Faramir. If you deem your alliance with the wizard of import, then I will respect that. I do not think father ever will. I hope, nay, I pray to the Valar that that friendship does not sever you from father.”

“As do I, Boromir. I do everything in my power to show him my respect, my love and my allegiance. Someday, I hope he will understand that.”

“Come, let us look at these maps and try to decide where you should place your men.”

Boromir stood at the end of the Hall watching his father as he sat on the Steward’s Chair. Many milled about him, lords of Gondor, traders from other lands, even an Easterling or two, all looking for the Steward of Gondor to help them, to give them what they needed. ‘Hanged be what Gondor needs,’ Boromir thought bitterly. Since his disagreement with Faramir, he had walked the halls contemplating his own vision of Gondor. It was not the same as Faramir’s, he now realized that. Faramir loved Gondor, of that Boromir was sure, but his focus was too broad for these times. Gondor and Minas Tirith were where their focus must now lie. He felt more than saw Faramir come up behind him. His brother laid a hand on his shoulder and Boromir turned, trying to shake the anger from him.

Boromir’s eyes filled with tears. “Look at him.” He pointed to their father. “He sits on a plain chair at the bottom of the steps. He has no crown. He has no throne. He has no scepter. Mother,” at this Boromir choked. “Mother had not even a chair to sit beside him. He is bereft of any comfort.” He shook and knew that Faramir felt it.

“Even a man of lesser birth, lesser nobility is called king. Théoden. Even his spouse had a chair at his side, held the title queen.” Again, Boromir choked. “His sons are called princes. How much must a man give before he is deemed worthy enough to be called king?” Boromir’s chin trembled.

His brother whirled on him, batting the hand from his shoulder. “Do not speak to me of what I want!” he hissed. “I want my father king. I care not what happens to me. Nor to you.” He stopped as he saw the pain flit across his brother’s face. Grabbing him in a fierce hug, he cried, “It is not true. I care what happens to you. You are graced enough to be called prince, though I am not.”

“Stop it!” Faramir shouted and people turned to look at the sons of Denethor. Faramir pulled him away from the door and through into one of the inner chambers that lined the entrance hall. “I will not hear you speak such words as those again. You should listen more to our father. You are the one who is worthy here. You are the heir. You are held in high esteem.”

“I am not blind, Faramir. I see you as you are, not as others see you. Nay. Father sees you too. Though you turn towards music and art and scholarly reading, I know you. I know your quick wit and your wisdom. It surpasses mine in a thousand ways. I do not deprecate myself, little brother,” and at this, he smiled, “but I know where my worth lies. You, when I am Steward, will be my advisor. I will make another Captain-General, for I would be lost without your counsel.”

“You will not be rid of me easily, little brother. And remember that - you are the little brother. And when I ask your opinion, I expect you to give it civilly and with respect.” He punched Faramir in the stomach, not enough to hurt, but lightly, teasingly.

Faramir grappled him to the ground. They tussled for many moments. At last, Faramir cried, “I yield!” and Boromir let him go. “I will remember to respect you, Prince Boromir!”

Boromir growled and lunged again, knocking Faramir, who had just regained his feet, to the floor again. A gentle cough stopped his pummeling of his brother’s arm. He looked up, laughing, “What?”

Faramir cried, holding his hand out to their long-time friend, “Help me, Húrin. I am besieged.”

“If he heard you call him that, dear brother, you would be on guard duty for the rest of your life, Captain-General or no!”

Faramir grabbed it and pulled Boromir down. The eldest was quickly turned over and his head pushed into the carpet. “Yield?” Faramir asked with a snicker.

“I would not yield to you if you were the last man in Gondor, nay, in all Middle-earth!” Boromir cried, and with that, he deftly maneuvered Faramir onto his back. Faramir’s eyes widened. Cursing loudly he yielded. “Your strength always surprises me. Do you lift kine in your spare time?”

Boromir laughed and helped his brother up. “Kine, dragons and mûmakil, little brother, so do not think that you will ever supplant me.”

They left the room laughing and entered the Hall, arm around one another’s shoulder as they walked forward.

Boromir and Faramir sauntered towards the Chair, their arms still wrapped around each others’ shoulders; Denethor had to call up every ounce of control, else all would see his joy in these two. Thus would end the career of the Terror of the Tower. Mirth bubbled through him at the thought. He must send these two off again; they were corrupting him!

Boromir flourished a bow; Faramir saluted. “You require our presence?” Boromir asked for them both.

“Tomorrow,” Denethor said with as straight a face as he could muster, “is the Council meeting. Have you discussed your plans for Faramir’s next assignment? I have placed it on the agenda.”

“We have, Father. We still have some maps to go over, but we planned on doing that this evening. Would you care to join us?”

Denethor’s half-smile left him. “I needs must meet with the Chamberlain. For some reason, preparations are not yet finalized for the meeting, nor for the activities, nor for the...”

“Have I not attended a number of these meetings? I know what is needed. So do your people, Father. All in the kitchen are well aware of your wants, as are the chambermaids, the horsemen, the entertainers - all have been well trained by you. Might I please do this for Gondor?”

He leaned back in the Steward’s Chair with his hand upon the arm. The other held the Rod. Denethor gave a quick look to Boromir, who smiled. “Very well. I will meet with the Chamberlain regarding the seating arrangements...”

“Father, I beg your pardon, but the Chamberlain knows the seating arrangements by heart. Let him do it.”

Again, Denethor raised an eyebrow. “What would you have me do, Lord Faramir?”

“Meet with Boromir and me regarding the maps,” Faramir said quietly. “I have great need of your wisdom in this matter. Boromir does not know the region as you do. If anyone were to be missing from this meeting tonight, better it would be Boromir.”

At that, his brother leaned forward. “Little brother,” Boromir whispered loudly, “I deem your insolence...”

“I do not deem it insolence, Lord Boromir.” Denethor stood and the Hall quieted.

“You will both meet with me for the daymeal. We will discuss that - and other matters. Be prepared.” He waved them away. The noise in the Hall immediately picked up. Lords strode forward to place their names on the lists of those who needed to speak with the Steward. Others resumed their little enclaves and spoke of matters urgent to them. Denethor did not notice; he watched as his sons departed the Hall, smiling inwardly as Boromir obviously was giving Faramir a tongue-lashing.

Once his sons had left the Hall, Denethor stood. The Chamberlain rapped his staff upon the cold marble floor and all stopped their talk. “I will see you on the morrow,” Denethor quietly spoke to his attendant. “Faramir will be your contact regarding the Council meeting. I will not be available for the rest of the afternoon. If you have need, turn to Boromir. Have the daymeal served in my quarters at the proper time. And make it substantial. I will not be eating nuncheon. Send for Boromir and Faramir once the meal has arrived.” He turned quickly, before those in the Hall had time to bow, and left through the back passage. He walked to the Tower stairs and climbed. Soon, he reached the room, unlocked the door, and strode purposefully in. ‘This must be done. I must, for Faramir’s sake, risk the eastern view.’

He pulled the cloth off the Palantír and took it forcefully in hand. After sometime, his brow creased, sweat beaded upon his forehead, but he held it firmly. The globe shimmered brightly, the brightest ever that Denethor had seen, but he did not let it daunt him. The ruins of Osgiliath came into view. A storm had just blown through and the streets were covered in puddles, glistening in the cold early spring sun. Dust lay dark and spattered in hallways and ruined buildings, covered from the storm’s whims. He noted that men were slowly coming out from their shelters and his brow furrowed in anger. How dare they hide from a storm? How dare they leave their posts? He hissed and his arms shook with the anger that filled him.

Taking a deep breath, knowing that he must be in total control before he moved any further eastward, he closed his eyes. He heard a sound and it startled him. A whisper and his eyes flew open. ‘These are silent stones; I should hear naught.’ His skin prickled. ‘The Enemy!’ He refused the bait, refused to look further than was his wont.

Slowly, he looked towards the bridge over the Anduin. All was quiet; further along, the Morgul-road was empty. He turned his attention to Emyn Arnen; swooping down closer and closer, he saw naught. Then he turned to South Ithilien and followed the Harad Road to the Crossings of Poros. The garrison there was busy, but only with the normal day-to-day activities of an outpost. He followed the Anduin north again, went past the Harlond and Osgiliath and ended at Cair Andros. Patrols were returning to the garrison there. Denethor knew that it was now close to sun set.

He turned his attention to the secret garrison of Henneth Annûn. There was no activity and Denethor wondered. He kept his eyes upon the area. At last, he was rewarded. A small patrol, about six men it looked like, was making its way north to the hidden cave. Their hands were full. A replenishment patrol, Denethor realized. That gave his heart some ease.

As he paused to wonder if he should continue, a small movement to the north caught his eye. Easterlings! At least a company of them and headed towards the patrol. He shouted, then cursed at the futility of it. What good was this stone if he could do naught but watch? And watch he did; the patrol was decimated within moments. The Easterlings took the provisions and turned north. Denethor looked at the twisted bodies that lay upon the pristine grass of the fields of Ithilien and wept. He would send out a rider, but it would take a full day before the garrison at Henneth Annûn could be warned. By that time, they would know their patrol was late. He rubbed his thumb over the vision of one of the bodies. ‘Just a boy,’ he thought, tears blinding him. ‘Mayhap sixteen at best.’ He forced himself to follow the retreating band. They did not pause, hurrying away from the kill; they had a permanent camp set up in the Nindalf! He would send a rider immediately; since they had not left the area, Henneth Annûn must be warned. He pulled himself away, covered the globe, and ran down the stairs after locking the door behind him.

A knight turned to him as he left the Tower. “Send an errand-rider to me, in my study, immediately. One who is familiar with North Ithilien.” The man bowed and ran off. Denethor walked towards his study, but was stopped by his Chamberlain. The worried furrow of the man’s brow brought Denethor up short. “What is the problem?”

“Faramir has the Lord of Lossarnach seated next to the Lord of Lebennin. They have been disputing their border. I think it best if they are separated, but he insists.”

“If Faramir says to seat them next to each other, then do so,” he said and the cold tone in his voice sent the man scurrying away. Denethor cursed loudly. A guard nearby stepped towards him in alarm, but Denethor waived him away.

He walked to his study and was relieved to find food laid out. He took a cold piece of meat, wrapped it in cheese, and ate it, standing. His aide waited as Denethor quaffed some wine, then sat heavily at his desk. “Send for my sons.” The aide saluted and left. After only a moment, the errand-rider entered. Denethor wrote a missive, folded it, sealed it, and gave it to the man. “To Henneth Annûn as if the very wolves of Morgoth were after you!” The man saluted and left. His aide stepped forward upon Denethor’s motion. “Prepare a company for travel to Cair Andros.”

Denethor sat in stony silence, berating himself for not having looked further yesterday. He would have noted the band coming from the north. Mayhap, there would have been time to warn the patrol. But, nay, he was looking to the south, to her. He shook his head angrily. “Well, Ecthelion, I have failed again, have I not?”

“You have never failed me, Father,” Boromir said gently as he strode into the room. “Nor have you failed Faramir.”

“A large band of Easterlings have set up what looks to be a permanent camp at the Nindalf. They have massacred one of the patrols out of Henneth Annûn. We must send help.”

“I heard not the call of an errand-rider arriving, Father. Who sent the message?” Faramir questioned.

Denethor stared at Faramir, then nodded to Boromir. “You must leave now. I will not send men from here. They and their mounts would be too worn and tired to be effective. Take a company with you, I have already ordered the muster, and go to Amon Dîn. Take men from there; then, go on to Cair Andros and take men from their also. Do not leave these garrisons unmanned though.”

“We will speak but for a moment, then you must be off. Faramir, how are you planning to shore up the Rammas?”

“I intend to build an additional half a fathom on top. Just by the gate itself, Father,” he quickly added as he saw the look of surprise on Denethor’s face. “On either side.”

Denethor sputtered; his wine spilled down his tunic. His aide immediately ran forward and wiped the offending liquid off his Steward’s chest.

“I think that might be excessive,” Denethor managed to say once he was cleaned. “Mayhap a half furlong on each side?”

“Father. There are really only three places that are open for attack. Forannest, the Causeway Forts, and the Harlond. The Rammas is not high enough.”

“I know, Father, but we must. Cair Andros will not hold, nor will Pelargir, if there is a concerted attack. The enemy will breach the Rammas at its weakest spots and those are its weakest spots.”

“Where do I find the funds to accomplish this? Along with manning our army, feeding our people, and sending ships to Valinor?”

Boromir snorted. “Really. The two of you. It is a good plan, Father. If we start slowly, with the part that stretches from the Causeway Forts, then turn to Forannest, then to Harlond, it should take close to five years. But every foot brings us more protection. I think Faramir is right. We should begin immediately. I will endeavor to raise the funds. You have asked me to travel to the fiefdoms to request more men; I will add funds to that request. As soon as I return from Ithilien, it will be done.”

Denethor sat back in his chair. He sipped his wine and watched, appreciatively, as his sons waited for his answer. “If we had a wizard we could trust...”

“He is not my wizard, Father,” Faramir sighed. “I have sent a few errand-riders in different directions looking for him. I expect them back before I leave for Osgiliath.”

“Is it not what we discussed? It is time I spoke with him at length. Never, during your grandsire’s reign, did I speak personally with him. I believe now is the time.”

“Yes. Now, let us look towards Osgiliath itself.” Denethor stood and left the study. His boys followed him as he made his way to his personal quarters. Once there, he passed by the food waiting for them, walked to his desk, and spread the maps before them. “There are too many places where the enemy can land on the river’s western banks. I think we should fill those dock areas with the stone from the ruins. The bridge is ever a source of concern, but it must remain open, until the last possible moment. Patrols should continue into Ithilien. Do you not agree, Boromir?”

“Faramir. Ithilien’s landscape is varied. Your patrols must consist of men who are wise in each of its terrain. Find those who have patrolled on grasslands and send them south. Find those who have patrolled in forests and send them to Emyn Arnen. Then for the mountains...”

“A good plan, Father.” Boromir pointed to the map. “And here, where the Rangers are stationed at Henneth Annûn, more men should be sent there. I have only visited it a few times; it is due for repairs, too, and should be enlarged. The attack that has occurred shows that we must better protect it.

“Father, Faramir.” Boromir stood and turned away. “I would continue this discussion with you, but I leave within the hour.” He stopped his forward stride to the door. “I am sorry, Faramir. I will not be able to finish our plans for Osgiliath. Will you...” He turned to Denethor. “Will Faramir be gone when I return?”

Denethor’s eyes widened at the use of Quenya, but he said nothing. ‘How long,’ he wondered, ‘have my sons spoken to each other this way?’

“I will expect thee to visit my humble garrison from time to time, hánonya.”

His sons embraced, then Boromir walked to Denethor and pulled his father up out of his chair, hugging him fiercely. “I will return in victory.” He smiled. “And then I will take the daymeal that you are now denying me!” He turned and walked with a flourish out of the room.

Faramir smiled. “That is a high compliment from you. We have been told you are the best in the land with reading the old tomes.” Faramir bit his lip in thought. “Mayhap, when life becomes more pleasant, we might read a few of the ancient books together?”

Denethor looked long and hard at his youngest. “There will be no pleasant times for us, my son.”

Faramir shivered. “With Boromir as Captain-General and you as Steward, Father, there will come a time. Have hope. He will not desert you. Nor will I.”

“The Rammas,” Denethor changed the subject abruptly. “We will begin the fortifications immediately. I believe the Causeway Forts should be the first, as you suggested. We have funds enough to begin there. I will call the engineers to me tomorrow, after the Council meeting and set it in motion. I wanted to send a battalion to Osgiliath, but this changes things. I will send a regiment. The engineers will have a division for their work. The Causeway Forts must be completed quickly. I deem it wise to send out at least ten squads everyday in patrol of the areas we discussed. Do not send simple patrols, Faramir. The danger now is too great. I have... Half companies would be best.”

They heard the horn and Denethor blanched. “He is away,” he whispered. He pulled himself together. “Let us eat and then drink to Boromir’s return.”

A/N: Per Karen Wynn Fonstad’s ‘Atlas of Middle-earth,’ the following measurements are followed:

The next day’s Council meeting erupted into a melee of angry hands waving and angrier voices raised against the Steward.

Faramir sat back against the onslaught that assailed his father. He remembered Boromir’s words; his brow furrowed in pain. ‘If father were king, they would not dare to raise their hands nor their voices,’ he thought miserably. But his father sat there as stone and listened.

Finally, nuncheon was announced. All stood as Denethor rose and led them to Merethond. The repast was substantial and hearty, but not overly extravagant. Faramir, knowing that his father desperately needed to raise funds, planned a meal accordingly, for he knew that if the food was royally laid out, the lords would groan louder than they already had. After this morning’s session, he felt vindicated.

His father nodded in approval as they approached the table. Red cheese and white breads lay with sloes and other fruits on plain silver trays. After these were cleared away, smoked salmon from Mithlond and dill tartlets were served. Creamed soups followed. The main course of lamb, from near Dol Amroth, and spinach pie, lay on a bed of oranges. Appropriate wines were served for each course. Dessert consisted of berry tarts smothered with sweet cream. Coffee and teas were served along with the sweets.

Faramir sighed as the lords’ furrowed brows straightened and smiles appeared. They sat back in their chairs with their goblets held in their hands and talked lightly of new lambs and green fields.

Denethor stood. “There is comfort here in this room. I would, with your permission, continue our meeting whilst we finish our meal, instead of returning to the Council chambers.” The nods he received affirmed his decision. He sat and spoke quietly. “The bounty we have before us is great, due to the efforts of all of our people. However, I see days ahead of us that will challenge even Gondor’s bounty.” He paused as he noted the furrowed brows returning. Faramir motioned for the lords’ goblets to be filled with plum wine and Rammas Pinto port. Quickly, the servants moved about, filled the goblets, lit the candles, and stoked the fires at both ends of the hall. The lords knew of their Steward’s fabled foresight and some shivered.

“We are strong and ready. However, when war is upon us, we must still meet the needs of our people. Food must be stored in preparation. If Minas Tirith is besieged, the mountain will give us water, but we must stockpile supplies. Never has Minas Tirith been breached. It will not be.” His voice rang out and he quickly lowered it again. “I propose building larger bins for storage of grains here in the City. I propose expansion of our defenses. The trebuchets must be tripled and projectiles stored near them. We only have one experienced operator. We must train at least two dozen men in how to use them. I would like to create a battalion for manning these towers.”

“I have seen raw recruits misfire and destroy one in a moment’s time by having the load land on the instrument itself.” Húrin spoke up. “Others have fired backwards instead of forwards. And the counter-weight has killed more men than I care to remember. Training is desperately needed.”

“If we put the trebuchets on wheels, that should help stabilize them and prevent tipping,” Faramir offered.

“A good thought,” Húrin smiled approvingly. “I believe the range would be further, with such a mechanism.”

The enthusiasm of Faramir and Húrin diverted minds from thinking of why these were needed. Denethor pulled them back to Gondor’s needs. “We have the Rammas to consider also. Faramir has a proposal to place before you.” He nodded and Faramir, startled, stood.

“There are three weak spots in the Rammas. I propose we raise the height—“

Denethor stood and all quieted. Some rustled in their seats and Denethor stared at them. After only a moment, the room was totally still. “I will endure your interrupting me,” he said quietly. “But I will not countenance your interrupting my son.”

He sat and motioned to Faramir, who stood and began to speak again. Denethor smiled; he saw the slight twitch that meant Faramir was not entirely comfortable with the sudden request to speak, nor with the Council’s reaction. When his son had finished, Denethor gestured and Faramir sat down. The lords waited.

“I do not have to lecture you,” Denethor began, “as to what will happen if Minas Tirith falls. You sit in your castles and halls and beg our protection, yet, when the time comes to ask for assistance, you crawl back into those same castles and halls and hide. I will not allow it.” There was no change in his voice, nor a raised eyebrow, naught to belie the calm in his demeanor, but these lords knew their Steward, knew that the voice contained a menace that none wanted to face. “You will each be visited by Boromir in the coming months. You will voice your concerns to him; he will negotiate a fair share of the burden of the refortifications and also conscript a portion of men. These men will be over and above your usual duty to Gondor.

“If Minas Tirith falls…” A hush fell over the hall as goblets were placed back upon the table and all leaned forward in astonishment. “Húrin will be in charge of the evacuation of the women and children, the old and infirm. You will begin to make the necessary arrangements to house our people. Again, the storage of food and water for such a contingency is critical. I will not have my people starving in some gutter in your lands. I will exact such retribution, even if I be dead, if I find you have neglected this duty.” He chided himself for having leaned forward in his chair as he spoke; he unobtrusively sat back.

“The menace I alluded to earlier, my friends, is not my imagination. You need only look across the Pelennor and see the mountain burning. Reports have come to me, as I said at this morning’s meeting, of increased activity. Boromir himself would have joined us today, but for the fact that he rode out late last night to engage our enemy in the north. Faramir’s Pelargir reports tell of massive shipbuilding by our southern kin. They build not to fish, my lords; they build to attack. You may deem it wise to keep your men close to you, and mayhap that day will come, but it is not now. Therefore, go back to your homes and peruse your resources. When Boromir arrives, he will expect to go over your books and determine your portion. We will not meet again until Loëndë.”

He stood and they all scrambled to stand. Saluting them, he turned and left the hall. Faramir followed.

“They will be talking about this day for many days to come,” Denethor laughed quietly. He sat in front of the fire, holding a goblet of wine in his hand and fingering the stitching of the leather on his settle. “You did well in there. It is best not to shout when they interrupt as they did.”

“Do you not think I know that, Faramir? They only care about their own lands, their own wealth. Sometimes, I think they care not even about their own people. But they will care.”

He took a sip and motioned for Faramir to sit next to him. “We will discuss Osgiliath on the morrow at the ninth hour. Bring the maps here to my study. Do you want to be present when I meet with Húrin to go over the evacuation plans?” He continued when Faramir nodded. “The thought makes my skin crawl, Faramir. I can no longer believe that this is not a possibility. I must have more information.” He yawned. “Go now for I am weary.”

“Nay. If I hear aught, I will send a messenger to you.” He smiled as he saw Faramir’s look of chagrin. “There is no need for the both of us to stay awake, Faramir. Go back to your study, analyze your maps and your options, and then get some rest. Boromir is still traveling.” He put his hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “When the wizard arrives, send news to me.”

Faramir smiled himself, stood and kissed Denethor on the brow, and said, “You will know long before I, when the wizard arrives, Father. I think you feel things in the air. How you know so much, I cannot fathom, but I am grateful. Good night.”

He watched as Faramir left, then laid his head back and sighed bitterly. ‘They are as vultures, waiting for me to fail. I have the Enemy before me and my lords behind me.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Enemies too are they for they care not if Gondor falls, if only they can be safe.’ He put the goblet down and rubbed his face with his hands. After a moment, he stood and walked out of the room and up the steps to the topmost space. It waited for him. A sudden lassitude overwhelmed him. He leaned against the wall. ‘Mayhap, I can take a moment with her?’ He shook his head. ‘I must look northward.’

Boromir was nowhere to be found, as Denethor expected when he took the Palantír in his hands. He had long since given up trying to ‘see’ his sons. The globe would not allow it. But he saw the garrison half empty at Amon Dîn and realized Boromir must have taken the men and was now headed eastward. As he looked at Cair Andros, he noted the garrison lay in sleep. The watches were set, even though another storm seemed to be bearing down upon the island fortress. ‘Is it the Enemy who creates these storms?’ he wondered.

He looked towards the Easterlings encampment and breathed a sigh of relief. They were sprawled out and bedded down for the night. His vision took him southward towards Henneth Annûn. There was marked activity there. The cave opening crawled with men. He wondered why his errand-rider had not returned. ‘I must make inquiries,’ he thought wryly. Clouds covered North Ithilien and he had to concentrate more fully before he noted that the men were laughing and dancing around a fire a little distance from the entrance to the cave. ‘What folly is this? Have they gone mad?’ He drew in a sharp breath. ‘The messenger did not arrive!’ He began to shake as fatigue overcame him. The moon shone bright on this side of the Anduin, and he realized he had stayed longer than he planned. He put the globe back on its pedestal and covered it.

Running down the stairs, he motioned to the guard standing on the next level. “Send a messenger to Faramir and ask him to join me in my study.” The guard nodded and left him and Denethor continued down to his chambers, then turned. ‘Too long! I will go to his rooms myself!’

Boromir and company rode hard and long into the night. None wore their armour, just hauberks of mail. Speed was of the utmost import, if his father was correct, which there could be no doubt in Boromir's mind. The stop at Amon Dîn had lasted only four hours, though the ride in the dark from the Great Gate had taken almost six hours. They left just as pre-dawn touched the sky. He was assured that three companies would ride out and meet him in Cair Andros. There was no time to wait for them. The warriors would travel slower than his own band; he must reach Cair Andros before the day ended.

Traveling towards the Anduin, Boromir plotted and prepared for battle, as did the men about him. By early afternoon, Boromir sat in Captain Hador’s quarters, a cold mug of ale in his hand and his feet propped against the cabin's center pole. The brazier burned bright. In the warmth and peace of the moment, Boromir closed his eyes, spent the next hour contemplating his choices and going over the plans he had made. Already he had had to change them and the thought of it made him growl. His aide, Derufin of Blackroot Vale, stood quietly by, knowing it was best not to disturb him.

‘Six companies, a little more than four hundred men, against at least five hundred.’ He sighed in dismay. When he had arrived in Cair Andros, he discovered Captain Hador had sent three full companies to the west side of the Emyn Muil in search of a reported band of Orcs. Boromir would only be able to take two companies from the island fortress, else he leave it without defense.

'Well,' he thought grimly, 'I have had worse odds.' But he hated fighting Easterlings. Their armour was nigh on impenetrable and not many of the soldiers he would command had experience with this kind of fighting. He had planned on departing at dawn on the morrow. By that time the heavily-armoured troops from Amon Dîn would have arrived and rested. 'That,' he thought gratefully, 'will give me time for a quick training session this afternoon.' His aide, at Boromir's request, went in search of the captain of Cair Andros and, within moments, returned with him.

The man turned and left. Within moments, Captain Hador returned with four men carrying various pieces of the Wild Men’s armour. Boromir shook his head in dismay. “Is this all you have?”

“It is, Captain. We do not usually bother, but some were taken as weregild for friends and families.”

“I understand,” Boromir said wearily. “It will have to serve. Have the men assemble at six bells. Fully armoured, Captain.”

Boromir listened as the brazier crackled. ‘Will Faramir take them – Mablung and Damrod?’ he wondered, Faramir never far from his thoughts. ‘And how goes the Council? Will they accept Father’s plan?’

Faramir heard the racket before the door even opened. His father appeared, faintly wild-eyed, and Faramir jumped from the table, running quickly to his side. “Boromir?”

Denethor shook his head. “He should be in Cair Andros already. It is Henneth-Annûn. They have not received my missive. You,” he held Faramir’s shoulder tightly, “You must go. You cannot hope to reach them in time, but at least you will be able to kill their murderers. Fly to Osgiliath, take a battalion from there with you, and destroy them.” His breath hitched. “I should have sent a battalion instead of a rider.”

Faramir walked him to the settle opposite his desk and reached for the carafe of wine.

“Nay,” Denethor stated flatly. “There is no time, Faramir. Believe me. They will be attacked ere morning comes and they are none the wiser for it.”

“Father. One moment please. They have scouts; they will not be caught unawares. Besides that, Boromir will have launched an attack against the Easterling’s camp well before I even reach the fortress.”

“They are sending…” He stopped. ‘What did I see? Rather, when did I see? Is it tonight? Or was the attack yesterday’s?’ He rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘The stone is trying to take me, trying to confuse me, make me see things and understand them not. I must clear my head.’

Faramir sat opposite him, waiting. At last, as Denethor rubbed his eyes, Faramir spoke. “Father. You said our patrol was attacked and then the Easterlings left the area. You said they have pitched camp on the Wetwang. Are you sure of your information? Mayhap the report you received of a new attack was from yesterday?”

“It must be. I will question the report further, Faramir. But still, go to Henneth-Annûn tonight. Take a battalion with you. If the garrison is safe, then turn northward and help Boromir.”

“I will, Father. Take some rest. It has been a trying few days. As soon as I reach Osgiliath, I will have the signal master light the fire noting my arrival. I will not be able to leave for Henneth-Annûn till morning. It will take that long to muster the battalion, but we will ride fast and hard and make Henneth-Annûn by mid-morning of the next day at the latest. When do you think Boromir will attack the Easterlings?”

“It is as you said, he will attack on the morrow, hopefully at first light. Would that I was with him.”

“Go. Spare not your steed. Take only a small guard with you. When you reach Osgiliath, muster the battalion and fly as fast as the eagles to Henneth-Annûn. They know not what danger is on their doorstep.”

“Aye, Father.” Faramir stood uncertainly. “If the wizard should come…”

Denethor looked in amaze at his son. “I will deal with the wizard, Faramir. Your concern is Henneth-Annûn, is it not?”

His son saluted, picked up his travel bag, and left. Denethor stood as if to follow, then checked himself, and sat once again upon the settle. He looked about Faramir’s study. There were maps still spread upon the desk, a plate of half-finished venison, and a glass of wine. The walls were covered in the tapestries that his mother was so fond of. Bright, colorful ones from Dol Amroth. A crumhorn sat in a chair by the fireplace. Denethor stood and walked towards the fire. He had not noticed before, but, and the sight of it took his breath away, her harp stood next to the chair. His own cheeks blazed. He had not even noticed when it had left her rooms. He ran his finger lightly over the strings. It was tuned. Faramir must have cared for it. He ran from the room.

As Faramir left the Tower, two men stepped up and saluted him. Looking up in surprise, he moved back.

“There is naught to fear, my Lord,” the taller of the men said in Sindarin. “The Captain-General asked us to meet with you.”

Faramir smiled and blushed slightly. ‘So, dear brother, you guard me even when you are not by my side.’ He saluted them back. “May I know your names?”

“I am Damrod and this is Mablung. We are Rangers of Henneth-Annûn, on leave for the past month. We were to return in another fortnight, but the Captain-General issued new orders. I served under the Lord Boromir in Osgiliath many years ago and know the old city well.”

“Then I will gladly accept your service, Damrod. And yours too, Mablung. We leave tonight for Osgiliath. Have you supped yet?”

Faramir smiled broadly in return. “Then we must to the buttery and then to the stables. We travel light, my friends.”

He stopped as his name was called out. Denethor was walking swiftly towards him. He turned to the Rangers. “Go without me. I will meet you in the buttery of the Third Company. Know you where it is?”

He strode back towards Denethor, his face contorted in grief at the coldness of their parting. Denethor stopped and waited. Faramir approached him, slowing his steps the last few paces.

Denethor took a long, deep breath. “I seem to be the fool these last days. More so than even my Council.” He blushed faintly but Faramir saw it and wondered. “You have trained well, Faramir. I know that Boromir is concerned with your appointment as Captain of Osgiliath, but I have every faith in you. Know you that, before you leave here.”

“Thank you, Father.” Faramir stood still, his mind furiously trying to discern Denethor’s meaning.

“I saw your mother’s harp in your room.” He took Faramir’s arm and walked him towards the parapet. “Do you play it?”

Again, concern washed over Faramir. Was his father going back into the confusion of last evening? “I do, Father, when I am home.”

“Nay, Father. It is a fragile instrument. I would not see it damaged in transit.”

“Of course.” They had reached the end of the parapet, the finger pointing towards the black mountains to the east. Denethor looked forward and frowned. “I… all reports regarding you have been stellar, you know. I am pleased. And proud. You do not bear yourself as does Boromir, but you have strength in you, my son. Remember that when you captain Osgiliath. Let none look down at you. Remember you are a son of Númenor.”

As they rode towards Osgiliath, Faramir constantly rehashed statements that his father had made these past days, all the while shaking his head in wonder. Every day, Denethor had been gone from them for at least half the day and Faramir wondered who or what had kept him so busy. He had asked Denethor’s aide, before he left, where his father spent his time, but the aide said each day he was dismissed for a time. He had no idea where Denethor was during those hours. He had been told to leave him, and leave him he did. Faramir had been deeply disturbed. His father’s aide seemed to have no loyalty for him, no concern, no… ‘I will speak with Boromir about this when we return. There must be someone we can replace that man with. I do not like him, nor do I trust him.’

“The password, Captain? Do you have it?” Damrod asked. “We are coming to the Causeway Forts; the sentries will want the password.”

They pulled their horses up as they came to the guardhouse. Two uniformed men strode forward, shields raised, swords pulled and at the ready; a lantern was raised and their faces were studied. One of the guards recognized Faramir. “My Lord Faramir. You have returned from Pelargir?”

“I have and you were to be assigned as Guard of the Citadel. What keeps you here?”

“Beregond, Boromir spoke highly of you and requested you be stationed in Minas Tirith. Does he know you are here instead?”

“Aye, Captain. He was… not happy with my decision, but he understood family concerns and allowed it.”

“Of course he did. When I return, I will see if we can station you both in the City, though it will be a blow to me not to have you at my side.”

“I am. But first, I have an errand for the Steward and must be on my way. The password is ‘trebuchet’ – let us pass.”

Beregond saluted and let the company pass. At a trot, Faramir led them to the garrison of Osgiliath. Guards shouted welcome as they recognized the Steward’s youngest. The acting commander of the garrison, Gelmir, who had just been routed from his bed and was busily pulling his tunic over his head, greeted him warmly; then helped him dismount. “We have been sore-pressed, Captain Faramir. Notice of your orders was received but an hour ago; I had not expected you so soon. Your quarters are being prepared as we speak. Reports and maps are waiting upon your desk.”

“Hold a moment!” Faramir laughed, hand held to stop the torrent of words from his new aide. “It is good to see you again. How many years…? Never the mind. I am glad to have you with me.” Then his brow creased and he spoke quietly. “My orders have been changed as of this night. I need a full battalion on horse. We must travel quickly. I will leave you here to guard the stronghold. We leave in two hours.”

Gelmir smiled. “Of course, my Lord. The men will be mounted and ready. I might offer a thought?”

“The terrain is treacherous in Ithilien. Orcs will still be about. I would suggest you wait until at least an hour before sun’s rise.”

“I understand, Captain, but if you fall and break a leg or are carried off by Orcs, your mission will be unfulfilled.”

Faramir smiled. “I agree. Muster the men at the first hour, fed and ready to ride.”

“At least a week. I would have the men pack lightly though. Haste is vital. Provide them with enough to last four days; we will live off the land after that.” Faramir looked around hesitatingly. “Where are my quarters?”

Gelmir motioned. Once he saw Faramir to his quarters, he left him to begin preparations for the movement of his troops. A small smile filled his face. He had heard good reports of the Steward’s youngest and felt confident in his ability to man the garrison well. ‘It is about time,’ he thought wryly.

Night had closed upon them well before Faramir had even left Minas Tirith. It was well past midnight when he arrived at the garrison of Osgiliath. Damrod followed him into his quarters. Mablung stood outside as guard. Faramir smiled. He now felt he had two nursemaids about him. ‘Well, nothing can be done about that. Gelmir will think I don’t trust him, but if this is Boromir’s wish, then I will not gainsay him.’ Turning to Damrod, he offered a chair.

“I believe it would be best, Captain, if you rested. Time is over for talking. We can plan as we ride in the morning.”

“I only follow orders. Until the Captain-General tells me I can let you out of my sight, then I remain at your side.”

Faramir’s anger rose. “I will not have you standing about whilst I sleep!”

“I will not be standing about, Captain. I will be sitting here, with a poker to keep the fire going, it is still chilly, and with my sword at the ready. You can either accept my presence and sleep, or not. It is your choice.”

Faramir muttered under his breath, quickly undressed, and fell into his bed. He would give Boromir such a talking to when next they met.

Up before dawn, Faramir walked quietly to the stables. The stable hand awakened at the first sound of booted feet on the straw-strewn floor.

“It has, Captain Faramir.” The man led Faramir towards a stall at the end of the stable.

“Both of which this one has,” he spoke quietly as he lovingly rubbed the mare’s nose and ran his hand down the long, sleek neck.

Faramir looked at the horse in surprise. “You have a great name to live up to, Steelsheen.”

“Aye, Captain,” he said to Faramir’s back. “Not unlike his brother in patience, is he little one?”

Damrod disengaged himself from the shadows and smiled at the groomsman. “We ride to battle.”

“He is like his brother, and not.” Damrod quickly slipped into the shadows again and followed Faramir.

After a few moments, he felt an arm about his own, holding them down, and a dirk at his throat. He remained still.

“Then we must make some other arrangements. I will not have you dying unnecessarily following my brother’s commands.” He lowered the dirk and released the man.

Faramir laughed. “Then food it is. I will slip into the buttery and you may do whatever you want.”

They strode quickly forward. “You plan on making Henneth-Annûn by this evening?”

“I do. We must. Already the garrison may be o’er run. Father’s missive told of a great body of men approaching and that was last evening. We cannot delay further.”

“The men are being roused as we speak, Captain. They will be ready before sun’s rise.”

As soon as they were finished breaking the fast, Faramir had them mount. They crossed the bridge; after five hours and seven leagues, and under a storm-ridden sky, they turned onto the Harad Road. They rode long and hard northward. ‘A band this large has naught to fear,’ Faramir hoped. It was dangerous, true, but the quickest way to Henneth-Annûn. With a battalion behind him, they would be safe, but he chafed at the slowness of their journey. If he had taken his men along the Anduin, though a shorter distance, it would have taken at least another six or seven hours. Or if he had disobeyed his father and taken a smaller company, they could make better time. ‘No thought of that!’ He shook his head at the image of his father’s face when he returned and told him that he had taken a company or two instead. His whole being, though, wanted to be headed further north, to the Wetwang, but he had his orders.

Less than an hour before the sun, if they could have seen it, reached her peak, they were attacked. Orcs spilled from the Ephel Dúath before the alarm could be given. Faramir drew his sword and screamed for his men to unsheath theirs. It was done before the words left his mouth. He felt, more than saw, Damrod at his back. Slashing furiously as they came forward, he wheeled his horse around to face the enemy. Damrod’s sword sang, as did his men’s. ‘There must be over a thousand. And in full daylight! How can this be?’

Screams filled the air; steel upon iron clanged, while the soft sound of sword slashing leather cut through the air. Faramir looked about him, exhausted after nigh unto two hours battle, and whitened. His men were falling and quickly. He called for a retreat, back towards the Crossings, and knew they were lost. The men pulled their mounts around and headed south, slashing as they went as Orcs scrambled to pull them off their horses.

When he looked back, he saw his men behind him, hacking with their own swords, trying to keep ahorse. More and more fell, but the Orcs could not keep up with the pace Faramir set. ‘We might yet live.’ Just then, a fire lit his shoulder blade, then another. He fell forward onto Steelsheen’s neck and held on. His sword had fallen from his hand. He heard Damrod’s cry and tried to signal that he was still alive, but the movement cost him and he fell off the horse. Silence and darkness surrounded him.

Well before dawn, they set out. Six companies marching on foot with only their captains horsed. Boromir led them and the men walked proud and defiant behind him. ‘How dare Easterlings cross our border and make camp on the land of Gondor?’ Boromir had rallied them, held them in his sway, and used his words to enflame their hearts. His men followed him without question though they knew they would be close to the gates of Barad-dûr and the Shadow that dwelt within. Their lips were tightened and their hands clung, sweaty, to their spears, but they walked with purpose and fervor. Four hours later, as the sun rose above the Ephel Dúath, it shone upon their pikes and their helmets. Boromir stopped; the company halted. A whispered word followed to Derufin who rode back to Captain Hador. The captain spoke to his captains and the men received their orders. After a short time, the sun no longer gave them away. Helmets, spikes, and spears dulled by layers of mud, no longer carried her light. Boromir moved them forward.

It was almost the third hour; the scouts returned and Boromir called a halt. Derufin set up a table and laid a map upon it. The captains crowded round. Boromir strode through them and looked. His eyebrow raised. “We are close. Closer than I had hoped. The Easterlings are now on the move; their scouts have seen us. We must strike hard and fast. The pace has not been difficult this morning; our men should still be rested. Go amongst them now and remind them of what they learned during their drill yesterday. How to fight and to kill our enemy. Let them refresh themselves and eat, but quickly, then we begin the final march.” He waved them off.

Derufin offered a stool and Boromir gratefully accepted it along with a flagon of warm ale. As he sat, he stared at the map. A plate of cheeses and breads appeared before him. “Thank you, Derufin. Will you ride next to me in the battle?”

Boromir smiled warmly. “Father oft told me how important his aides were to him, how he learned to trust them, how they oft sacrificed themselves for him. I know you would do the same, but, Derufin, your father will have much need of you shortly. You will return to him after this campaign, do you understand?”

“I do, Captain. You will be sent to many lands after this, if I remember your musings the other night. I would go with you. When your duty leads you to my homeland, then I will join my father; then I will leave you.”

Boromir laughed. “Very well, Derufin. It makes me glad to hear that. Now, enough of this. Let us be away. We have much fighting to do and I grow restless.”

The company formed and marched forward. Some began to sing a battle song and Boromir joined them. No need for quiet for at least another hour. It felt good to sing again whilst marching to battle.

Dust rose from the north and Boromir stood in his saddle, covered his brow with his hand, and squinted against the sun. It was almost noon.

Boromir raised his hand and the company halted. Captains Hador and Guilin from Amon Din joined him. The scouts’ breakneck pace told Boromir their foe was close. As they approached, they saluted and cried, “Captain Boromir!” He nodded and they brought their horses next to his. “Your news?”

“The enemy is only a league away, Captain. They should be upon us within the hour.”

“At least five hundred. They have covered wains also. We could not see if they were loaded, but they rode heavy and slow behind the troops.”

“Then we will assume there are men hidden in them,” Boromir said quietly. “Pull to the supply wagon and refresh yourselves; then, join me here.” He turned to his captains. “We turn north. There is a grassy field only a short distance ahead; we will wait and engage them there. Have the men remove the mud from their shields, spears and such and clean them well. Have their armour distributed; then, when we reach the field, have them assemble in three lines with the archers in front. They will stand one-quarter yard from each other. The second and third lines will stand one-quarter yard behind the line in front. The archers will loose their arrows upon my command. Three times they will do this and then they will step back behind the infantry and fire at will. Upon my command, Captains.”

“Have the men wait for my signal before charging. Go now and may the Valar be with us.”

The invocation sounded false. He wondered if the Valar even knew children of Ilúvatar still lived in this forsaken land. He shook his head. ‘I sound like my father.’ The captains had turned and Boromir heard his orders echo down the line. At last, the men were ready. The lines formed as Boromir had instructed and the men marched north towards their enemy. The scouts returned to Boromir’s side. He sent them off again, one to the east and one to the west of the enemy’s position.

Boromir placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and looked down the line approvingly. He was grateful for the sun and for the shine on his men’s armour; it would belie their number. He nodded his head and the three columns moved forward. Derufin rode to Boromir’s left. Hador and Guilin rode behind him. Within a half hour, they were at the field and all took their positions.

Soon, great clouds of dust could be seen. Boromir smiled and fingered the hilt of his sword. The skin on his forearms prickled. His mouth grew dry. ‘Any moment now,’ his heart thumped, ‘any moment now. There! There!’ They were only a hundred yards in front of them; the great dust cloud had hidden them. Time for his archers. He raised his arm and grinned as he saw them, his archers, raise their bows and nock their arrows. He waited another moment. Then he dropped his arm and the arrows flew high and true. He held his breath, not in anticipation of failure, but as always in amazement and exhilaration as he watched the spectacle of arrows in flight. He was such a poor archer that he had given up any serious training long ago. Faramir would have enjoyed this. He missed him. Dearly. Twice more he raised and lowered his arm, and twice more his archers loosed their arrows. Dead Easterlings fell in quick succession. Boromir motioned and the archers stepped behind the third line of warriors.

The lines moved forward; the men heartened by the kill of so many by the archers. Boromir knew a quick kill was needed to sustain the hearts of his men as they marched against a greater number than their own. He saw it in their eyes; hope kindled. The enemy was only fifty yards away now. Boromir unsheathed his sword, raised it high, and shouted the command, “Forward, men of Gondor!” and urged his horse onward.

As the battle raged around him, Boromir grit his teeth and walked further into it. He had lost his horse after the first encounter. Easterlings were everywhere; to his left, his right, before him, some even behind him. He gave it no thought. He knew what needed to be done and he did it. His sword never stopped, never paused. His great arms swung it from left to right and back again. He reveled in the feel as it connected, knowing he was decimating the enemy, knowing his men, as well trained as he was, were doing the same.

Suddenly, a blow caught him from behind and he flew forward, losing the grip on his sword. Unperturbed, for it was only a flesh wound he hoped, he lay still. The Easterling moved in for the kill and Boromir thrust his dirk deep into the man’s left underarm. The black eyes looked back at him in confusion and then the body crushed him. He grunted and pulled the dirk out, pushed the body off him, wiped the dirk clean, and put it back in its sheath. Within a moment, he found his sword and once again attacked any and all who entered within the circle of its great arc.

Not three hours later, the battle was won. What was left of the Easterling army was retreating hastily north towards the Noman-lands. He called for his men to stop. He would let none enter that land without scouts going first. Who knew what lay hidden in those slopes?

Derufin, Hador and Guilin approached. He smiled to see them and raised his hand in greeting. It was covered with blood, he noted. Best get someone to tend it before he bled to death. ‘What kind of a victory is that,’ he pondered, ‘to win the battle and lose one’s life? Nay. ‘Tis not possible. For did we not follow Denethor’s plan?’ He did not feel weak-kneed nor dizzy so he knew the wound was but a token of harm.

Derufin, however, noted it too and ran to his Captain’s side. “Call the healer!” he cried.

“Nay! There are others more badly injured than I, Derufin. It is but a flesh wound. Help me bandage it, then we will see to our men.”

Quickly, Derufin lifted the heavy armour off him, then the tunic and the hauberk. Last to go was his linen under shirt. The wound was not deep, as Boromir had thought, and was easily cleaned. “It does not require stitching.”

“I thought not. Thank you, Derufin. Now, help me get this back on so I may hear the reports of my captains.”

Derufin did as he was asked, then showed Boromir a tent, already quickly set up, for him to meet with his captains. Boromir, once inside, gratefully accepted the goblet of wine and drank it swiftly. Then he sat in the proffered chair. “I need my maps about me.”

“A moment, Captain. I will retrieve them.” Derufin walked out of the tent as Hador and Guilin entered.

“Well, considering the inexperience of our men,” Captain Hador replied. “I had not thought they would do so well against this enemy.”

“They listened well during our training session, else most would now lie dead upon the field,” Boromir said. “The wounded, are they being tended?”

“They are, sir. The healers have commissioned those unharmed to help bring their supplies forward. The field hospice is running smoothly.”

“It is safe, Captain. We found it near the edge of battle. A small cut in its flank, but otherwise, unharmed.”

“We are not for they are no longer a threat. There were not many left standing. I would have them return to their land with tales of the fierceness of the men of Gondor. That should hold back another attack, at least for a time.”

“Look,” Boromir said to his captains and pointed at North Ithilien. “We will turn south. It is close to ten leagues from here to Henneth-Annûn. We will sweep North Ithilien for enemy patrols as we travel; we do not know if others are still about, some may not have returned to their camp. When we reach Henneth-Annûn, we will rest a few days, then you, Captain Hador may return to Cair Andros, and you, Captain Guilin, may return to Amon Din. We leave in the morning. Tell the men to rest well and the cooks to prepare food for tomorrow’s march. We should reach the hidden garrison by late afternoon tomorrow, barring trouble.”

“You, my good right hand, will stay back with two companies and escort them back to Cair Andros. Once they are settled, take those needing the Houses back to Minas Tirith.”

“Nay, go back and take your well needed rest. I will return within a fortnight. We will then begin planning for Denethor’s next mission.”

His aide stifled his concern, Boromir noted, and he smiled. “Captains, will you join me for dinner in an hour’s time?”

Guilin and Hador nodded, knowing their Captain-General was dismissing them. They saluted and left. Derufin followed behind them.

He stood stiff and tall and Boromir smiled. “You need not be so formal. Sit on my cot and listen to me.”

Boromir sighed. “I know you wish to continue with me. I assure you, I will be safe. I need someone who will listen to the wounded and the healers. Not many of my captains know to take the time to listen. You will. Do you understand my need?”

“I do, Captain. Forgive my annoyance. It is an honour to serve under you. I learn much. Very much,” the man’s voice dropped. “My father expects me to lead our people when he is gone. I would learn all I can before that time.”

“Your father is still young, Derufin. You have many years with him. I would have you go with Faramir, if truth be told, for his need of archers is greater than my need of a traveling companion. But it is time you returned to your homeland. I am happy with your performance of your duties. When I need you to lead our men, you do well. I have been able to trust you utterly. I now trust you to take care of my wounded and return to Minas Tirith, prepare for our travels, and wait for me.”

“When you return from dinner, your bed will be made, your armour polished, and your sword sharpened. I go now to the hospice to tell the healers your command.”

After his aide left him, Boromir lay on his cot, cradling his head in his left arm, while his right covered his eyes. A sigh escaped him. ‘Would that I was with Faramir now at Osgiliath, with the campfires lit, and the men singing and dancing.’

Denethor watched and waited. ‘Nothing.’ He swore quietly. ‘Nothing from this Valar-forsaken stone!’ He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. It was near noon; he was beyond tired. He had not left the Tower room since Faramir left for Osgiliath; he had not eaten since then either. ‘Boromir’s attack should be over by now,’ he thought worriedly. ‘And Faramir? Where is Faramir?’ He should have reached Osgiliath himself by now. He opened his eyes again and took three deep breaths. ‘If I cannot see my sons, then I will look towards the Emyn Muil. I should see the Wild Men in their retreat.’ But there was no retreat and Denethor’s heart stopped. ‘Did I see wrongly? Were there more of the foe than you showed me?’ he asked angrily. The stone still showed an open, empty plain.

He let go the globe and walked to the north-facing window. ‘To have Elven sight now,’ he thought disconsolately. He swallowed hard and stared, cursing his eyes for not revealing what he so urgently needed to see, cursing the Palantír for its refusal to allow him the one sight he so desperately craved, the sight of his sons! Leaning against the sill, he looked towards Henneth-Annûn, but there was no movement that he could see. He laughed sadly. ‘Not even an Elf could see that far.’

He walked back to the Palantír and fiercely grabbed it, holding it tightly, his frustration, fear and exhaustion coalescing into deep anger. He wanted to scream at it, to throw it against the wall, but he shuddered and did the only thing that he could do – look into it. He forced his eyes to the east, to Barad-dûr. Perhaps there would be some sign of his Enemy’s plans.

Arms shook, as his eyes grew wide. ‘So, you have found me,’ he cringed. ‘Finally, we see each other, eye-to-eye.’ A part of him wanted to snigger at the absurdity of it, but he was, in actuality, looking at an eye, disembodied, fiery, and yet as cold as the coldest heights of Mindolluin. He gasped and held the stone tighter, fighting the sense of being dragged into the very depths of the globe, into the very depths of that eye.

It wanted his name! He laughed outright. “You know me,” he murmured aloud. “You know me well and have fought me since I was a child. Do you think that I will now succumb? Think again, Abhorred One.” The eye faded. Denethor blinked, twice, and sobbed, then let the stone go. “I have won,” he whispered aloud. “I have beaten him. He knows he cannot subdue me to his will.” He shivered and shook for many moments. At last, he left the Tower and walked slowly down the stairs. ‘It cannot be that uncomplicated.’

Damrod pulled his horse up next to his fallen captain, jumped off, and ran to Faramir’s side. He smiled in relief as Faramir’s eyes opened.

“I seem to have fallen off my horse. Do not tell Father,” Faramir whispered. Then a cough shook him and a faint trickle of blood ran from his mouth.

Damrod clenched his teeth to prevent Faramir’s noting how badly his aide thought him wounded. “All will be well. And your father will hear naught of this from my lips. But we must ride on, Captain. The Orcs do not leave us in peace.”

Mablung was at his side before Faramir could respond. “Mount, Damrod!” the Ranger cried. “I will pass Faramir to you.”

Mablung nodded and watched. Faramir took his friend’s arm and smiled. “Do what you must.” As Damrod gripped the shaft, Faramir grimaced, tight shutting his eyes.

Within moments, Damrod was on his horse. Mablung passed the once again unconscious Faramir to his waiting arms. Damrod noted with grim satisfaction that he now was surrounded by warriors; the column had stopped and regrouped to protect their captain. As soon as Damrod held Faramir securely, he shouted to the men to follow, then rode forward with Mablung at his side.

The Orcs had continued following and harrying them; now they were close enough once again for their arrows to reach the Gondorian warriors. Some archers turned back, held their ground, and launched a deadly onslaught. The Orcs, surprised at the fury of the attack, stopped. After another round, the archers rejoined the column. An hour later, they reached the Crossroads and turned west. Damrod shouted for a rider to go ahead towards Osgiliath and sound the alarm.

Half of what was left of the battalion rode before them; the other half followed. Damrod signaled to Mablung. “He is grievous wounded. I fear a lung has been pierced. Where is the healer?”

“Dead. Almost at the beginning. A good man. Dismounted and helped one of the wounded and got his throat cut.”

“There were two in the wagon at the back of the column, but the way the Orcs attacked, spilling down from all sides of the hills…” He did not continue.

“We have Ithilien itself. The land will help us. Have scouts sent out behind us, try to discover what the Enemy is doing, then send other scouts to the north and south, and forward also. I will not be surprised again. Have four in each party – one is to return with a report every quarter hour.”

Mablung saluted and left. Damrod caught Faramir as the man started to slide off their horse. As Damrod pulled his hand away, he gasped. It was covered with blood. ‘We must stop, and soon, else we will lose him.’

A quarter hour later, the first of the scouts appeared. None of the enemy were seen anywhere. The scouts surmised that the Orcs that attacked them must have headed back into the Ephel Dúath. Damrod called a halt as Mablung pulled up his own horse and quickly dismounted. Damrod passed Faramir down to him. Other men cleared a sight and laid blankets down. Mablung gently placed the fallen warrior on the make-shift bed.

The two Rangers quickly, but gently, relieved Faramir of his armour, tunic and mail shirt. Then, slowly, Damrod cut the linen shirt from him. Turning Faramir slightly to the side, he traced the wounds with his finger. “This one is not deep. I will cut the arrow and clean the wound, but this one, this is the one that looks to have pierced the lung.”

Damrod shook his head. “I would not, but I must. The extent of the damage must be known. If the lung collapses, all will be lost.”

“It does not look deep; mayhap it has only nicked it?” Mablung asked hopefully.

“That may well be, but I dare not chance it.” He swore quietly. “There is not much I can do.”

“Let me go back to the wagons. Mayhap, I will find some medicaments not destroyed. And bandages and cleaning solutions.”

By this time, the second wave of scouts entered the camp. Once again, there was no movement to report on any front.

“We have some time, it seems. I will cut the arrow out. But first, I will need some herbs from the land to clean the wound. You know the look of them, Mablung. Take a sortie and bring them to me.”

‘Dare we a fire? We must. Clean, hot water is needed. By the Valar, I hope there is no poison.’

A captain came to him, reporting that more scouts had returned. They had found the remains of a patrol of Rangers just west of the Harad Road. “Since the Orcs seem to have fled, may we send men to retrieve the bodies of our own dead?”

“They are Orc food now,” Damrod said quietly. “If any were left alive, they are now dead or prisoners. I hope they obeyed their Captain-General and slit their own throats. Better to die by one’s own hand than to be fodder for Orcs.”

The man shuddered and began to walk away. Damrod stopped him. “Have a fire lit and boil water as quickly as possible. Then cool it and bring it to me.”

‘I should have learned these men’s names ere we left Osgiliath, but I suppose there was no time. Would that Captain Amlach were with us, he would know where the best herbs are.’

Mablung returned in a short time and immediately went to the fire. He threw the herbs he had collected into a pot and swirled them about – within moments, all knew he had found Valerian root, for the smell was pungent.

He brought the pot to Damrod. “There is foxtail here. I had not thought to find it so easily. The wounds bleed?”

Damrod tore off a piece of his shirt and dipped it in the mixture. Squeezing the cloth, the drops fell onto the wounds. After a moment, he unsheathed his knife, took a deep breath, and sliced next to the first arrow. As blood flowed, he quickly dug until the arrow itself was easily pulled out. Blessedly, Faramir did not wake. Mablung stepped forward, rinsed the wound with more mistletan, and laid a poultice on it. Damrod smelt the yarrow, foxtail and honey. “This will surely help stop the bleeding,” he said. “Good work, Mablung!”

“I must.” He lowered his head. “I must.” He leaned over Faramir’s back and once again dripped the mistltan mixture upon the wound. “Hope, Mablung, hope it is only in the muscle.” Mablung nodded. Damrod repeated what he had done on the first arrow, and after a few moments, sighed heavily. “The lung has not been punctured. Look! The arrow is out.” Tears fell as Damrod once again cleaned the wound and laid another healing poultice on it.

Mablung nodded his thanks, took the cup, and handed it to Damrod. Faramir had begun to stir just moments before. Damrod lifted the cup to his captain’s mouth and let a few drops fall. The tea slid off his mouth. None was swallowed.

“Captain. You are weary. Let me hold him and try further. Rest for a moment or two.” Mablung gently took Faramir from his friend.

Damrod collapsed on the ground and the soldier who had brought the tea quickly swooped down and held him. “He only sleeps,” he said with surprise.

Húrin smiled. “My Lord Denethor, I am enjoying myself immeasurably. It is good to be here in the City. Long has it been since I’ve slept on a bed as comfortable as the one in my new quarters.”

Húrin looked across the goblet of wine he held in his hand; a slight shiver ran down his arms. Denethor’s facial expression had not changed, but Húrin felt a certain contempt issuing from his Steward. “Cousin,” he said quietly, “you know that it is not. Since we are in your private chambers, and you have shared the daymeal with me, I had thought the banter would be light. Thus my response. Forgive my misstep.”

Denethor stood and walked to the window overlooking the Court of the Fountain. “Light no longer comes to Gondor, Warden. It left a long time ago. Banter is no longer appropriate; not whilst the Enemy lies yonder.”

Chills ran through Húrin. “I stand corrected, my Lord Steward. My duties are beyond what I had thought, when first you approached me with your offer. Warden of the Keys. I had not known nor realized the scope of this position.”

Again, Húrin shivered. “I have known that that is so, but never has the Warden been given that duty. Always, we have our Steward.”

“Always is no longer valid.” He turned upon his Warden, his face aflame, and Húrin leaned back on the settle just a bit. “You captained Osgiliath for many a year. You know the dangers; you know the strength of the Enemy. Would you think that we are in an age like unto any before us?”

“Nay, my Lord Steward,” Húrin managed to say with some force. “You are of Númenor and in good health. Your sons are both strong and wise. I have commanded Boromir; he is close to indestructible. As for Faramir, you keep him from the more dangerous outposts; he is safe.”

Húrin’s face went white. “Osgiliath is not as well protected as it was when I was captain. Do you think it wise to send him there?”

Denethor’s back stiffened and Húrin wondered if he would live through this night.

“I am returning the garrison to a full regiment. Faramir has been ordered to use his captains and his men well. He will not leave the stronghold.”

Húrin bit his tongue to keep from speaking. He was surprised the Steward trusted Faramir not to lead sorties from the garrison. He dared not voice that opinion. “A regiment is a wise choice.”

Húrin again sat back, forcefully, in the settle. “My Lord Steward, I speak only confirmation of your decision. Long have you known me; it is not my way to agree with you for ego’s sake nor for position. You have already given me a higher position than anyone, except Boromir, as your Warden of the Keys.”

Denethor walked to the settle and sat. “You were my captain a very long time ago. I heeded your words then. Have you lost your wisdom, your sharp tongue? Will you keep me honorable?”

Húrin had to blink in surprise and wonder. “You will always be honorable, my Lord Steward. I am more than honoured that you consider me worthy to be Warden of the Keys. I will do everything in my power to prove you right in this appointment.”

“As I said, you are next in line after my sons. This state of affairs cannot, however, be allowed for long. Therefore, we must speak of Boromir and his bride.”

“One must be found, and quickly. He is still young and I would give him more time, but he must have an heir. I have poured over the family lineage from Emyn Arnen and there is no one I consider suitable. Are there any you know of?”

Húrin was still trying to come to terms with the idea of looking for a bride for Boromir. “There are the daughters of Lord Turambar. He is a direct descendant of the line of Húrin, but his daughters are sheltered. Neither would do honor to the position of wife of the heir.”

“Ah yes. Lindorië is beautiful, as her name suggests, but she is weak-minded. She would crumble at the first altercation between ladies of the Court. If ever a Court is convened again.”

“There is… Nay! The problem, my Lord Steward, is that most of the women of Gondor have not been raised in court. They know naught of the intrigues nor the duties of the consort of the heir.”

“Aye. That is a thought. Adrahil was more lenient with women…” He blushed and quickly shut his mouth.

“Women have more freedom in Dol Amroth than those in Minas Tirith, my Lord. It is our custom. It is a good custom but hampers our present need.”

Denethor turned towards his cousin. “I appreciate your candor. It seems a foolish custom now, does it not? Finduilas,” another deep breath, “was raised in the courts of her father. Aye. A bride from Belfalas would be appropriate. Not of course from Imrahil’s house, but a cousin.”

“There is Míriel, daughter of Galador, a fourth cousin of Imrahil, and Lalaith, daughter of Inziladûn, third cousin of Imrahil. I have heard both are bright, outgoing, and yet obsequious. Boromir could not do better with either woman.”

“Indeed? Míriel. Jewel Lady. Is she? And Lalaith. Laughter. Hm. Is she flighty? Do you know them?”

“I do not, but it is easy enough to invite them, both of them, for the feast of Loëndë.”

“Too late. We must do this quickly. Boromir must make his choice soon so that arrangements may be made. I want him wed by next summer.”

Húrin looked up in surprise. “Then invite them to the feast of Tuilérë?” He continued when Denethor nodded his agreement. “We will have to work quickly. I will use all my resources to research these women, arrange for their arrival in Minas Tirith, and begin preparations for the agreement.”

“Now, Cousin, we may speak of Faramir and Osgiliath. Think you he is ready for such an assignment? Boromir does not.” Denethor poured them both more wine.

Húrin finally sat back comfortably in the settle, on surer ground now. “Boromir is afraid for his brother. It is a small failing of his.” He paused for a moment, noting Denethor did not smile. “It is wise that you have never stationed them together. I am afraid Boromir would take an arrow in his back to save his brother. Though that is not wrong, he needs to focus on his entire company.”

“As for Faramir, at one time he would not venture forth without asking his brother’s opinion – Nay! Permission. Has he come into his own?”

“Faramir still asks Boromir’s opinion and mine – but I have noted he does not always follow the advice given.”

“That is good. It makes my heart more at ease with his appointment to Osgiliath. He needs to think for himself, make his own decisions.”

Húrin thought it best not to reply. After a few moments, he asked, “Why have you decided to send him to Osgiliath?”

“I lose captains as a child loses toys! I need someone strong in Osgiliath. The reports of Faramir’s activities and success in Pelargir forced the decision.”

“He will go to the fiefdoms and procure men and funds for this year’s campaign.”

“He does. Though I would have him here as counselor. That, Cousin, is now your position.”

After Húrin had been dismissed, Denethor left his rooms and went to the long stairs that led to the uppermost part of the Tower. He opened the door and looked in. He paused; his heart was not ready for this. Yet, Boromir was in battle and he must try to see the outcome. He stepped into the room, lifted the cover, and took the globe into his hands. Immediately, colors sprang forth and a misty shadow swirled about inside the Palantír. He bent his will to it; after a moment, he found himself looking upon the Wetwang. Here and there were signs of a great battle, but he could see no men, no bodies, no indication of which way the battle went. At last, he looked further northeast. “Ah!” he cried aloud. The Easterlings were scurrying back towards their homeland. “Boromir has won the victory! He is on his way home. I will prepare a feast. How long before he arrives? Another four days perhaps. I knew he would not fail me. Beloved son.”

He scoured the path to Cair Andros and then to Amon Dîn, but there was no sign of his son and his army. He turned his eyes towards Osgiliath. ‘Mayhap, I will see something of Faramir.’ The outpost was nearly empty and he wondered. His eyes scanned the road from Osgiliath to the Crossroads, but again, there was naught to see. Now he turned northward and followed the Harad Road. Gasping, he clutched the Palantír tightly. Bodies were strewn upon the road, Orcs and men - men of Gondor! He paled. ‘Where is Faramir?’ But there was nothing. No sign of his youngest.

For a moment, the Palantír grew warm in his hands; he grasped it even more tightly. A mist shrouded his vision. He was in the White Tower and a bed lay upon the chamber floor. Upon the bed lay a young warrior thrashing about in fever. Denethor walked forward in fear. Slowly, he knelt by the soldier. He grabbed the side of the bed as the fever-ridden body turned towards him. “Faramir! Faramir, my son!” At the sound of his voice, the body on the bed became rigid and ceased all movement. Denethor screamed and fell backwards, dropping the globe. He clutched at his eyes and screamed for an eternity.

“He does. We must return to Osgiliath as quickly as possible.” He led Damrod forward as he spoke.

“It is already done. I have checked Faramir’s bandages and they are dry. He is ready.”

“Thank you,” Damrod said as he quickly downed some water from Mablung’s proffered skin. By this time, they had reached Faramir. Damrod bent over his captain and removed the bandages. He shuddered at the look of them and heard Mablung take in a breath. “Definitely poison. Do I dare take him to Osgiliath or should we go directly to Minas Tirith?”

“He will not last the ride to Minas Tirith. Stop the night in Osgiliath, let the healers there look at him, and then take him to the City.”

“We must take time to prepare another two poultices. I cannot take him this way.”

Damrod looked at Faramir. The poison was working its way into his system; the man was beginning to thrash about. “The ride will be at least five hours. I cannot leave the wound that long. We must start another fire, make the poultices; then, we can leave.”

Mablung turned and started barking orders. Within moments, the fire was lit and the herbs prepared. Mablung walked back with the poultices.

After securing them to the wounds and then covering them, Damrod knelt back on his heels. “This should help, at least for a time. Come, I am ready. Lift him to me.” He mounted his horse and held out his arms.

It was well into the night before they saw the torches of eastern Osgiliath. Damrod sighed. Faramir’s breathing had become ragged and it was all the Ranger could do to hold him in the saddle.

“We can camp on this side of the bridge, if needs be?” Mablung asked quietly.

“Nay! I must change the bandages again. He must be in the healer’s barracks, not in the open.”

They rode on and eventually crossed the bridge. Guards shouted welcome and grabbed the horses’ reins, leading them across the main courtyard and towards the captain’s quarters. Gelmir strode out of his own quarters and ran to Damrod’s side. “Captain Faramir?”

“Aye. Wounded, but not fatally, unless we cannot remove the poison from his body.”

Another soldier stepped forward. “There are cots waiting for your wounded. Give him to me and I will take him.”

“It is poison,” Damrod said as he lowered Faramir’s body into the outstretched arms. “And it is Denethor’s son that you attend.”

Wide-eyed, Dirhavel nodded and walked slowly towards his own quarters, shouting orders to the men who had accompanied him.

“I will need a report; I must send an errand-rider to the Lord Steward,” Gelmir said as he led Damrod to his quarters. Mablung had followed the healer.

“I would not. He knows nothing of what has happened. I would keep it that way until I bring his son back to him, whole.”

“Well I know it! Even further reason to return to Minas Tirith as quickly as possible.”

“I have. It is best to move before he even knows of it. His eye is long, aye, but his retribution, if I do not return his son quickly, would be terrible.”

“At least stay the night. I will not send a rider, though I think I risk my own neck.”

“I will. As for reports, get them from your other captains. Mablung and I must rest whilst we can for tomorrow we ride as hard as we are able to Minas Tirith.” He saluted, turned and left the room, smirking at the look of shock on the captain’s face.

They strode quickly across the encampment and into the healer’s barracks. Looking quickly about, they did not see their quarry. Damrod grabbed an attendant’s arm as he passed by. “Where have they taken Lord Faramir?”

Seeing the look in the warrior’s eyes, the attendant moved Damrod’s hand from his own arm and took the Ranger by his arm. “I will take you.”

It only took but a moment to be escorted into the quarters, once he received the welcome. Damrod strode forward and knelt at the side of the bed where Faramir lay. Mablung stood behind him.

“Ah, that explains it,” the healer said and rose. Damrod followed. “The mistletan cleaned much of the poison, yet some remains. He must needs rest for at least a fortnight.”

“You cannot,” Dirhavel spun around and held Damrod’s arms. “He needs rest.”

“He needs to be in the Houses of Healing. I dare not leave him here, else my life be forfeit.”

“I told you – this is Denethor’s son. What if something untoward happens here, what if the poison is slow working, what if he dies in Osgiliath? We ride for Minas Tirith at first light!”

“He will not die, but he will be worse the wear for a long ride such as that.”

“Then let him rest for the morning. I should be able to get some food and teas into him. Leave at noon, please.”

Mablung whispered in Damrod’s ear. “We will do as you ask. Have you an extra cot?”

“I do not leave his side,” Damrod said between clenched teeth. “If there is no cot, I will sleep on the floor.”

Morning came and it seemed to Damrod that Faramir thrashed even more, that the brow was warmer to the touch than last night. He turned as the healer entered the room. “He grows feverish.”

“It is not to be expected in the son of Denethor when in the care of a healer!” he shouted. The Ranger stilled himself, held his hands clenched at his side to keep from hitting the man’s smug face.

“We will. As soon as I speak with your captain. Mablung,” he bellowed, and his friend quickly entered the room. “Stay with Captain Faramir and do not let this man touch him!”

Mablung’s eyes widened, but he saluted and nodded. The healer strode from the room and slammed the door after him.

“He is an incompetent. I chafe at leaving our wounded here in his charge, but we must be off, and quickly, Mablung. I am going to Gelmir. When I return, I will bring food and teas and some poultices, two for now and two for the road.”

“Thank you.” He was near to tears, so he turned and left the room more hurriedly than was his wont.

Gelmir gasped as his door was flung open and the wild-eyed Ranger stepped through it. “What is the matter?”

“Then that is the problem. I will have him recalled, when I return to the City, and have someone better suited for Osgiliath’s needs sent. As for now, I will be taking Captain Faramir with me as soon as I procure supplies. Do you have any reports you need taken to the Lord Steward?”

“Nay. I am sorry about the healer. I have only been here three months myself. Nay. There is no excuse. What supplies do you need? I will get them myself.”

“We need food to break the fast; then, we will need some packed for the journey. We will ride slowly; it will probably take all day. Also, I will need a packhorse. I want the supplies put on them instead of on our horses. I will carry Captain Faramir with me. It should be safer. He thrashes from the fever and I would hold him. I am going to the hospice to make some poultices and teas. Have the food for breakfast taken to the healer’s quarters. Mablung is there with Captain Faramir.”

“I will see to it. And to your horses and the packhorse. How many men will you take with you?”

“Only a company. We have naught to fear on the journey, but I deem it wise to have at least some sort of escort for Denethor’s son. This will be our farewell.”

Damrod saluted and ran to the hospice. The healer, Dirhavel, was off to his left as he entered, but he barely noted the man and walked towards the apothecary’s stand. He rummaged through the assorted herbs and found what he needed. He took a bowl, put them into it, and began to crush them. Then, he poured boiling water over them. Giving the mixture only a moment to cool, he poured the water off. The farmacist watched in fascination. Then Damrod took a ladle of honey from a huge jar nearby and poured it over the crushed herbs.

He looked around and saw strips of bandages on another table. He took his mixture, divided it, and placed it into the center of four swaths; then, he folded them into themselves. Damrod turned to the fireplace and found the tea that his nose had told him simmered by the fire. Looking about in frustration, he saw a wineskin lying about. He dumped the contents out as men yelled, then filled it with the tea. He took the skin and the four poultices and quickly left the room. Again, a smile flitted across his face. He was certainly going to leave a lot of chatter behind him!

Within moments, he was back in Dirhavel’s quarters. Mablung held his finger to his lips. “He rests.”

“He must and then he must drink this. Faramir,” he knelt by the man on the bed. “You must wake and eat. We have a long journey ahead of us. Faramir?”

Faramir stirred on the cot and the eyes opened; Damrod sighed in relief. “My Lord,” he paused, “Captain, you must eat before we leave. I have some porridge here. And then some tea for the journey?”

Faramir’s eyes were glazed but he nodded in understanding. Damrod helped spoon the meal into Faramir’s mouth. A half an hour passed as Faramir stopped many times in pain and exhaustion. At last, he finished to Damrod’s satisfaction. Damrod held the cup of tea to his captain’s mouth and Faramir grimaced at the smell. “It is Valerian tea and the only thing that will help on the journey. You must drink it.”

Faramir nodded and opened his mouth. When he was finished, Damrod lifted him, as if he was a child, walked through the door and into the garrison’s courtyard. Mablung took Faramir, waited until Damrod mounted, then passed his captain up into the warrior’s waiting arms. Mounting himself, Mablung sighed and motioned for the company to move forward.

A/N: According to Tolkien, the Rangers of Henneth-Annûn spoke Sindarin. To use italics for the entire speech of the Rangers for the rest of this tale, I deem too confusing and difficult for my readers. Therefore, I leave the first few lines in italics to make my readers aware that the speech is Sindarin, but will refrain from now on (for Henneth-Annûn only.)

Denethor sat in silence. He held his goblet tightly, willing his sorrow and anger to flow out of him and into the cup. Slowly, his anger ebbed; his sorrow still cut him as a knife. At last, he took a deep breath, flung the cup into the fire, and watched the results. The smoke, sputtering embers, and hiss of evaporating wine eased him.

‘My anger should be burnt away, for it will do me no good. Now, to think with composure. Faramir is not dead, cannot be dead. I will think on that no more. But the stone does not lie? It is the future it shows me. Well, I will change that future; he will not die. What must I do? First, attend to the Council. Does the Council believe me soft? They would not have insulted my son so, if there were respect. When did I lose their respect? Did I ever have it? Do I reap the scorn Ecthelion sowed? I must regain their respect. Nay! I will gain their fear. They will not thwart me. There must be changes. We will repair the Rammas. We will add men to Osgiliath. We will take their coin and their sons and save Gondor.’ He paused for a moment, shuddered, and thought, ‘and Faramir.’

He felt the anger begin to rise again. ‘Húrin! Flippant at the sacrifice of my sons!’ Another deep breath and he willed himself calm. ‘There is no excuse for my Warden. Though long has he served Gondor, yet he disparages me and mine. Does he think fate is kind? Does he truly believe my sons are indestructible? Would that they were! They are not, as I am not. The Warden must take his duties seriously, else I must find another. Nay! I misjudge him.’

He stood and walked to the fireplace. ‘I do not misjudge him! His eyes shine with contentment. Now that he is away from the battlefield, he thinks he can rest. I must help him see that the battle is here! Against the Council and those who would let Gondor sit, protected only by the blood of my sons. I will not allow it!’

He leaned his arm against the mantel, lowering his head till he felt the warmth of the fire on his face. ‘If there was some way to burn Sauron in the flames of Orodruin.’ He sighed. A tear fell. ‘But rather, it will be Minas Tirith that burns. Have not I seen it with my very eyes?’ A strangled sob escaped. ‘And Faramir – brought from Osgiliath with the black breath upon him. Laying at my feet, dead. How to thwart this?’ He fell to his knees in agony, clutching his arms, as a heart-breaking wail echoed through the room. Sorrow filled him; his heart burned as with a blade in it.

He heard the door open; he was too helpless to do anything but rock back and forth. The guard was at his side in an instant, wildly slapping at Denethor’s robe. Vaguely, the Steward realized his robe had brushed against the fire’s embers and ignited. He allowed the guard to strip him of the robe and lead him to the settle. He sat back, exhausted.

Húrin’s voice pulled him from the darkness. “My Lord Steward,” the man said in obvious distress, “the guard rang the Warden’s bell. Tell me what you need.” He motioned for wine; the guard brought it. Taking the cup from his hand, he waved the soldier away, but the man would not leave. Húrin ignored him and lifted the cup to Denethor’s lips; after a moment, the Steward took a sip. The guard took the cup. Húrin strode to Denethor’s bedchamber and returned with a new robe, gently helping Denethor into it. After a few more moments, he sat next to his Steward. “My Lord, forgive me. I was impudent.”

Denethor did not respond, just continued to stare into the fire. The soldier offered the cup, but Denethor shook his head. Húrin raised an eyebrow when he saw a goblet slowly melting in the furious flames. The soldier stepped back and waited.

When Denethor did not continue, Húrin said, “Yes, my Lord. All Gondor knows of your foresight. Tell me, my Lord, what you have seen that I may understand and better serve you.”

Denethor blinked once, twice, three times. His jaw tightened. “Do they think I make requests to fill my own fancies? Do they think I want their sons killed? Do they think I would bleed their treasuries, and mine, dry, to satisfy some fleeting need for power? Do they not know me by now?”

“Would as many of their men now live if I kept Boromir at home, safe in the Citadel? He is the greatest warrior Gondor has seen in an age. It is by his valor and battle-sense that we are not e’en now o’ertaken. Yet, I would keep him at my side, here.” He patted the settle. “Know they not that every time I send him forth, my very being quails at the thought that he may not return.”

Denethor took a shuddering breath. “And Faramir, e’en now I send my youngest, the most frail, to command the most dangerous outpost in all the land. He serves by the very lands that would devour us, under the very breath of the Nameless One. And yet, they moan and wail and go off and mock me.”

“They mock me – and my sons.” Denethor grabbed his Warden’s shoulder and held it tight. Húrin did not flinch, even as the nails dug into his shoulder.

“Obey me,” Denethor whispered. “Trust that I see what others cannot. I will spill my own blood, before I see Gondor fall.”

Denethor rested most of the day; then, he called for Húrin to join him for the daymeal. After they finished, he found himself pacing, waiting for the Warden to continue his thoughts on the evacuation.

“The people will want to hide or bury their valuables. We must take that into consideration, my Lord. Even if given not the time to do so, they will risk their lives to save their treasures.”

Denethor stopped his pacing. Húrin spoke truly. “They will believe they can return, once the battle is o’er. Blind fools. If the Enemy succeeds, as I fear he must, then there will be no City to return to. They will be forced to hide in the mountains, else they will all perish.”

“Is that where you wish me to send them, my Lord, once the evacuation begins?” He shivered at the thought. To be sitting here, in Denethor’s study with a fire burning brightly and their stomachs full after a sumptuous dinner, discussing the overthrow of Minas Tirith seemed incongruous.

“Nay. Not to Mindolluin. We will send them off to Lamedon, Belfalas, and Anfalas. ‘Tis best to be as far from Minas Tirith as possible. Though we know not how much time they will have, our refugees,” Denethor choked on the word, “but they must not be near the City. The Enemy will have free reign o’er the rest of Gondor and will, after his initial gloating, burn the City and kill all who are still alive within her walls. Then, he will turn towards the fiefdoms. I do not think he will consider taking hostages, nor slaves. His purpose is to rid himself of those he has hated since the days of Húrin the Tall, when Men first loved Elves and followed them blindly.”

Denethor looked at the man in amaze. “Doest thou think that my sons and I wilt be allowed to live, if by some chance we art not killed in the battle?”

Húrin paused as Denethor spoke in Sindarin. The horror of the evacuation weighed heavier upon the Steward than Húrin had first thought. He answered in like manner, “Thy men will protect thee, my Lord, until the bitter end. Thou mayest indeed escape into the mountains. Thou knowest well the hidden places in Mindolluin.”

“Doest thou think I wouldst leave Minas Tirith?” His breath caught; he could scarce breathe, so harsh was the thought, so pain-filled. “I wilt die here, in the flames of my City. My sons wilt already be dead, either on the Pelennor or on some other Valar-forsaken field, their blood spilled for those who would run with no thought for Gondor.”

Denethor stood as one already dead; the memory of the sight of Faramir, dead on a pallet, engulfed him.

Húrin waited. Never had he seen his lord this troubled. He took a step forward and rested a hand upon Denethor’s arm. The Steward did not move. After many moments, the Warden walked to the fireplace and stirred the logs, hoping the noise would wake Denethor. Naught happened. Tears filled his eyes. They were doomed, then. If Denethor himself could not bear to look at their fate, then how could any stand? He walked to the window and looked out upon the Pelennor, noting the lights in the dark from the homesteads. He squared his shoulders and turned back to Denethor.

“My Lord. Minas Tirith will not fall, though all the hordes of the Enemy come against her. Look! The Pelennor. See! Your people have yet to be driven from their homes. They are strong and valiant. They look to you, my Lord, and rightly so. Your wisdom and strength give us all courage. We will not fail. As we take courage from you, my Lord, take courage from your people. They love you and will follow you to the ends of Middle-earth. But it need not be that way. Many times has the Enemy tried, since you became Steward, and every time, every time, my Lord, you have devised strategies to thwart him. We will plan this evacuation, for it is wise to be prepared for the worst, but it will not come to pass, my Lord.”

Denethor’s eyes finally focused upon his Warden. “We will fight to the end, Húrin, my sons and me. We will die fighting, e’en after all hope is gone.”

“My Lord, you are not alone. Gondor is not alone. We have friends and fiefdoms.”

“We have fiefdoms and their lords constantly dispute my plans. But in the end, they will know that I have seen rightly. As for friends, I do not know.”

Unbidden came the sight he had of Théoden in the Palantír, withered and old beyond his years – a dotard. ‘We will not have Rohan to help us, if Théoden remains under the thrall of that worm.’ He shook his head. ‘Mayhap Théodred will answer our call, when the time comes. I do not see Théoden living many more years. How he has changed. What has caused this? Thengel did not waste away as Théoden does. Is he being poisoned as Arciryas believed Indis was?’

Turning towards Húrin, the Steward placed his hand upon his Warden’s shoulder. “We must discuss how to feed the men who stay behind.” Húrin sat at Denethor’s command. They filled the long night with talk of new silos built and extra crops planted; of appointed stations for each House to gather when the order to leave the City was given; of carts being apportioned to the lame and infirm, the women and children.

“There will be no men to drive the wagons, Húrin.” Denethor said after a long silence. “They will be here in the City defending her. So now we must teach the women and the young ones to drive the carts.”

Húrin put up a hand. “My Lord Steward, ‘tis very late. Let us to bed for a few hours sleep. We both must needs be fresh else our plans be waylaid by fatigue.”

Denethor looked up in surprise. The moon was filling the sky. He called to his guard. When the man entered, Denethor waved him forward. “Has there been no news of Boromir?”

“Naught my Lord. As I reported this morning, word was received that Captain Faramir was on the Harad Road, heading towards Henneth-Annûn.”

Denethor, barely able to rise his anger so awful, turned to the guard. “There should have been further word by now. Was no rider sent to Osgiliath?”

“But none have come. Would you wait to send another rider,” he turned once again upon the guard, his fury as palpable as waves of heat, “if Orcs were at the Great Gate?”

“Denethor, you did order that we not be disturbed. Leave him, my Lord.” Húrin motioned and the guard fled the room.

“You o’erstep your bounds,” Denethor whispered after the guard had left them.

“You are distraught, my Lord, and tired. I will send errand-riders north and to Osgiliath. As soon as they return, I will bring their reports to you. Please, my Lord Steward, rest now?”

“Do it then,” and Denethor flung the bedchamber’s doors open and left the Warden alone with his thoughts.

Pounding awakened him, in the middle of the night. He flew to the Houses upon word that Faramir had been brought back from Osgiliath, wounded and poisoned.

Denethor sat on the bed; he held Faramir’s hand, watched as the boy thrashed about, and remembered the times, after Finduilas passed, when the man as a child was sick… His breath caught as he pondered the fact that Faramir was, indeed, a man. When had it happened? While away at Pelargir, no doubt. How many years now since he had gone to that garrison? He knew Faramir had been home many times during his most recent tour of duty, but Denethor barely remembered those visits. He cursed himself roundly, but silently. Finduilas would have had him strung from the nearest gibbet. Nay. What she thought mattered no longer; he cursed himself for his own neglect, his thoughtlessness. If it had been Boromir come home to visit… His cheeks flamed red in shame.

He should be wondering how the battalion was caught so unawares? Where the patrols were? How Faramir had ever let himself be so soundly beaten? But his eyes could not leave the face of his son, his body spread out upon the bed, arms flung akimbo in the throes of the fever. He had learned to steel himself after the first bout of sickness had taken the lad, just a month after his mother… ‘By the Orcs and Dragons of Morgoth,’ his mind shouted, ‘I should not have been left alone to tend them! I had no experience. I… had only love. And love does naught to stay a fever nor mend a broken bone.’

The Warden stopped in now and again to clean the wounds, offer some sips of tea to the still half conscious man, and speak a word of comfort to Denethor. “Remember, when he awakes, to call me.”

Denethor sat through it all. At last, his body weakened and his eyes closed. Damrod’s snores roused him. Night was close to falling. Denethor had spent the day here. He sighed heavily. The Ranger had deep circles under his eyes as he dozed, sprawled out upon a chair in a corner of the room. He had obviously not slept in sometime. Denethor had been furious when the man had refused to leave Faramir’s side. The Ranger had carried his captain from his horse and directly into the Houses, letting none touch the Steward’s son. Denethor reached the front door just as Damrod did. He tried to take the boy, but the man had looked at him with glazed eyes, and refused to allow it. Denethor, recognizing the fatigue of battle upon the Ranger, decided it best, for Faramir, to let the man take him into the Houses. He chided himself for not asking for a report from Damrod then. ‘Well, now is as good a time as any.’ But the tired soldier slept on and Denethor had not the heart to wake him.

Faramir’s movements slowed and suddenly stilled. Denethor looked up in fright, but smiled when a pair of sea-gray eyes looked back at him in confusion. “Be still, Faramir. You have been wounded, my son; the arrows were poisoned. The healers have taken good care of you and now you recover.”

The look in his son’s eyes almost broke Denethor, but he steeled himself. Perhaps, as Boromir thought, the boy was not ready for such a command as Osgiliath. “I have not yet availed myself of the numbers. You were my first concern,” he hedged. “You are going to need some time to recover, Faramir. The wounds on your back will prevent you from effectively wielding a sword, at least for some months, and a bow is out of the question. I cannot afford such a captain for Osgiliath.”

“Nay. It is the way of life at times. I myself have… Well, never the mind.” A look of hurt flashed swiftly across Faramir’s face and Denethor started. “I did not say I cannot afford you, Faramir. I cannot afford a wounded man as captain. And I cannot afford Osgiliath captain-less.” He squeezed his son’s hand to take the sting from his words.

“I was going to send Boromir to the fiefdoms to request more men and coin, especially for your plans to raise the Rammas. Now, I think it would be best if I sent you. Since the Council was not o’erjoyed by your proposal, it is only fitting that you should suffer the repercussions when you go to their own lands.” He placed a comforting hand on Faramir’s arm.

“That he is; however, your time in Pelargir has honed your diplomatic skills. I know there are many cultures that pass through that port; you have handled yourself well with them. I believe this training will help you succeed. And,” he looked long and hard at his youngest, “Gondor’s needs are great. You know them. I deem that enough to goad you to success in this endeavor.”

He heard a loud harrumph behind him and turned to see the Master Healer glaring at him. “I will speak with you further on this, Faramir. I leave you now to your rest.” He bent to kiss his son on the forehead, but thought better of it. Instead, he bowed, then turned and left the room. The healer followed close behind. Damrod had awakened at the sounds of concern that the healer had made and quickly followed behind Denethor.

After some moments, Damrod walked back through the door. “Captain,” the man fell to one knee. “Forgive me. I lost your back.”

“We lost more than my back, Damrod. I thank you though; it is by your efforts that I lie here – alive. How long have I been here?”

Even as he spoke, one of the healer’s assistants brought in food and drink. He sat at the side of Faramir’s bed and proceeded to push a spoon filled with broth towards him.

“There are herbs in it to give you strength,” the assistant said quietly. “The Master Healer requires you finish it all.”

“Here!” Damrod interrupted. “Let me feed Captain Faramir. You may return to your duties.”

“If you insist,” the man said, perturbed. “The Master Healer will hold you responsible. Do not eat it yourself!”

Damrod’s look of shock sent Faramir into gales of laughter, which caused him to hiss in pain.

“Do not!” Faramir said through clenched teeth. “It is not the wounds; it is the laughter. Now, leave me be. I promise I will drink all the broth and the tea.”

“I am perfectly capable of feeding myself,” Faramir grumbled after the man left.

Damrod nodded and sat, waiting silently for Faramir to continue. Silence filled the small room as Faramir struggled to eat without spilling. Damrod bit his lip to keep from saying anything.

It took quite some time for Faramir to finish the soup. At last, he lay back upon the plumped pillows and held the cup of tea in his hand. The smell was noxious; his stomach roiled at the thought of drinking it, but drink it he must.

“Where were the scouts?” Faramir asked quietly, his eyes fixed upon the cup.

“A new captain misunderstood the reports he received. He was counseled to return and tell the column to halt while the patrol investigated a feeling of unease one of our best scouts had. The captain took the message as an all clear and let the column proceed. The patrol leader was correct, as we now know. Orcs were in hiding.”

“Damrod, the Steward refuses to tell me. I must rely upon you. How many men did we lose?”

“At least half the battalion. I brought you straight here, so I know not the total figure. Your wounds were not severe, but the poison set in quickly – fever and chills. I had to bring you, my Lord, else I feared you would succumb.”

“They are not, Captain. Lord Denethor himself is riding to Osgiliath. He told me when he left you.”

At that, Faramir flung the bedclothes off and attempted to stand. Damrod tried to force him back, but Faramir swore a particularly foul Sindarin word or two about the Ranger’s mother and Damrod stepped back.

“My clothes!” he ordered and Damrod left, returning a few moments later. Faramir put on his leggings and stood, pulling them up about him. He swayed, bit his lip, and sat back down. Damrod knelt and helped him with his boots.

Faramir turned as the Master Healer came through the door, bellowing for the guards.

“By order of the Steward, you are not to leave here!” Denethor’s own guard appeared at the door, swords drawn.

Faramir sat back upon the bed. “Damrod,” he cried, “You must go to Osgiliath with him!”

“I am safe and in good hands. I promise you, I will not leave these Houses until you return.”

Damrod saluted, turned and left. Faramir sagged back against the pillows and wept.

Denethor heard the hail whilst only halfway to the Great Gate. It was Damrod. He pulled up on his horse and waited. “Is aught wrong with Faramir?”

“Nay, my Lord Steward,” Damrod saluted as he stopped his own horse. “He bids me accompany you.”

“If it is your will to captain the men of Osgiliath, then Faramir commands I accompany you.”

“With Captain Guilin at Amon Dîn; I believe Pelargir with Captain Faramir before that.”

“Ah, yes. Since Faramir was ready to leave his sick bed, he has no confidence in the man?”

“When Mablung brought me nuncheon today, he said Captain Derufin arrived from Cair Andros only a few hours ago.”

“He is, my Lord, and well-respected by the Captain-General. You could send him to Osgiliath?”

Denethor turned his horse and rode slowly up the road to the Citadel. ‘Where is Boromir and why is his aide returned without him?’

He dismounted at the Sixth Level and gave the reins to a groom as his guards milled about, waiting for further orders. He dismissed them. Walking swiftly towards the Hall, he stopped and looked northward. ‘Where is Boromir?’ he thought again. His feet turned towards the Tower. ‘I can take but a moment and look for him. Nay! I must take care of Osgiliath first.’ He strode briskly into the Hall instead.

As he sat on the Chair, the Chamberlain came forth. “You have a visitor, my Lord Steward.”

“I have not time now to see anyone but a Ranger named Damrod and Captain Boromir’s aide, Derufin.”

“Imrahil!” Denethor was on his feet and striding towards the doors as the prince entered. Warmly hugging him, he turned him towards the vestibule. “Tell Damrod to bring Derufin to my study,” he called over his shoulder to his Chamberlain. “And bring some wine and food!”

Imrahil smiled. “So you have forgiven me the fact that I did not support you at the Council meeting?”

“Of course. You understand Gondor’s needs; Dol Amroth’s needs are as dire. You have sent the men you can; your funds are marked for the building of ships. Continue that and I will be glad. Why did you stay in Minas Tirith? I thought you left after the Council meeting?”

“Of course. I must meet with two of my men; they should be along presently. Then, I hope we might speak of the cousins. After you have seen Faramir, perhaps you would join me for the daymeal?”

He turned and discovered Damrod and Mablung waiting for him. His guard opened the door to his study. Entering, he bid them follow. The Chamberlain came before the door even closed and brought servants with food and wine. It was laid upon the desk. Denethor thanked them and waived their dismissal. He sat down and bid his visitors sit.

“Thank you for coming. Derufin, I understand you just arrived in Minas Tirith? Where is Boromir and why have you come without him?”

Derufin told of the battle and Boromir’s orders. Denethor relaxed and sat back in his seat. “So all is well with the Captain-General?”

“I have other business that I must send you on. I am sorry. You will not be returning home just yet. I am placing Boromir in charge of Osgiliath. Faramir’s wounds will prevent him from serving in that capacity. He will be sent on the foray to the fiefdoms instead.”

Denethor waived towards the food. “Please, eat as we talk, for we have not much time.”

Derufin lifted an eyebrow, but Damrod filled his plate. Derufin followed his example and began to eat.

After the two had cleared their plates and were beginning to fill them again, Denethor spoke. “I am sending you to Osgiliath, Captain Derufin, to command the garrison until Boromir returns.”

“I know that. However, you will now captain it; Damrod and Mablung will accompany you.”

“Only because there was no one else to send. I cannot leave now. You have Derufin. I must stay!”

Denethor’s brow furrowed. “I will send Mablung with you, Captain Derufin. Damrod has an oath,” he said dryly.

“Well, then, Derufin, it is up to you to hold Osgiliath ‘till Boromir returns.”

“Boromir has a large troop with him. Damrod said many of the Orcs were killed in the ambush and most have fled back to the mountains. I deem my son will not be taken unawares.”

“By your leave, my Lord Steward, I will go now. I would like to reach the garrison before nightfall.”

Slowly, he sat down at his desk once more, held his head in his hands, and wept bitterly.

When the guard announced Prince Imrahil an hour later, Denethor waived the man away. “Give him my regrets; tell him I will see him on the morrow.”

Nigh unto the third hour, Denethor found himself in his study, looking over his full calendar. He had not met with his Council for their weekly meeting; he had not met with his Chamberlain; he had not met with his Warden. He had, however, visited his son, broke the fast with him, and then left him to rest.

Faramir finished the last of his tea and put the cup down. “I know, Father. And thank you.”

Denethor’s heart pulled at him, cajoled him to stay as he watched the fever-ridden eyes of his son try to hold his own. “Would you prefer I stay?”

“Father. I know your duties. You have been at my side two nights and a day already. When you are with me, I force myself to stay awake. Mayhap a full day’s rest would be best.”

Denethor smiled. “Always the wise one? Yes. It is true. And I put aside my own duties to sit with you. I will away from you until the daymeal. Would you wait for me? Share yours with me?”

Faramir did not answer. Denethor watched the poison-ravaged face rest. He bent over, kissed his son’s brow, and walked from the room.

“He sleeps now. Keep him well, I will not return till this evening. If aught occurs… Or if he needs me. Send for me. Immediately.”

Denethor sighed and watched Damrod enter his son’s room. Then, he turned and walked towards the Tower. Imrahil would be waiting; already, he was an hour behind on his meetings. His Chamberlain would be waiting, probably tapping his foot in frustration.

Imrahil indeed waited for him. Denethor blushed in shame. The guard had refused to let him into Denethor’s study, so the prince had waited at the door.

“Forgive me!” Denethor rushed forward and embraced his wife’s brother. “Come. Have you broken your fast yet?”

“None of that. We are in my private quarters. Brother you would call me at best or else Denethor.”

“Come. Come. Sit here.” Denethor pulled the Warden’s cord and his aide’s cord. Within moments, his aide stepped through the door. “Have tea brought and sweet rolls. And some wine from my cellar. Have the Chamberlain pick the wine.”

Imrahil laughed quietly. “I need naught. ‘Tis good to be with you again and not in the Council chambers.”

“I am tired of those chambers myself. Too many days I spend there and naught to show for it but a blistered backside.”

“I did. Steward’s prerogative. Now, how fares Dol Amroth? I know the report you gave to the Council, but give to me your full report. Your sons training – how goes it? Are they quick to learn? Is their Sindarin flawless yet? Have you started their Quenya lessons? Have they made their first voyages?”

Laughing again, Imrahil held up his hand. “They have done all that and more, Denethor. They are grown men. They send their love to their favorite uncle.”

Denethor looked puzzled. “Grown?” A light came into his eyes again and Imrahil shivered. “Of course. And Lothíriel? Has any asked for her hand? She is now all of nineteen years, is she not?”

“Nay. We wait until my Warden arrives. This will only be a preliminary meeting, Imrahil. Boromir must be part of this.”

A moment later, Húrin was announced. Once he was seated with a glass of wine in one hand and a raisin’d cake in the other, Denethor spoke. “Húrin has told me that you have two cousins. One named Míriel and the other Lalaith. You know Gondor’s need. Which would you prefer as your nephew’s wife?”

“Direct and to the point, I see.” Imrahil frowned, deep in thought. “Lalaith is as sunny as her name warrants, but I fear she would…” His brow furrowed.

“She would succumb, as did your sister, to the desolation that Minas Tirith has now become?” Denethor’s voice was low, but his pain pierced the room.

“We do not discuss Faramir,” Denethor said with a heavy sigh. “What of Míriel?”

“I like the woman: strong, unafraid, knows Haradric even. She would be a boon to him, when peace comes to Gondor.”

Húrin looked up in surprise at the Prince of Dol Amroth and waited for Denethor’s sharp rebuke. It never came.

Denethor snorted. “I seem to remember him.” A frown crossed his eyes. “He is small. Is he truly of Númenórean descent? How strong is it?”

“His line is as pure as mine, though why his stature is so small, I know not. She does not take after him, nor have any of his children. She is as tall as Lothíriel; her hair is black and long, her limbs are straight, her mind is quick.”

Boromir chafed at the delay. He wanted to be near the secret stronghold by nuncheon, but the weather had conspired against him. He swore softly as his horse picked carefully through the rocks of the riverbed they were crossing. Rain began to fall; the river was close to raging. He looked about him and noted that his men were taking as much time as he was to cross. He bit his lip, trying to contain his impatience so that he did not kill himself, his horse, or his men.

He had had a strong sense of urgency about their return to Minas Tirith. Almost, he had changed their course to head to the City, but common sense won out and he kept the men heading towards Henneth-Annûn. Not oft did such feelings assail him; he seemed impervious to the foresight of his father and his brother, but now and again, it weighed upon him. How Denethor and Faramir ever stood such assault, he could not fathom.

Sitting upon his horse on the east bank, he waited, eyes straining southward towards the secret garrison. For almost a full day now, they had ridden hard through deep cloying forests. Boromir shook his head. ‘Why ever Faramir is enamored of this land, I do not know. It is too dark and dense for me. Give me the plains and hills of the Pelennor, Lossarnach and Lebennin. I need speed, not this interminable trot that we must hold to.’

“Captain,” Arthad interrupted his thoughts. “The men have all crossed. It is almost dark. Shall I give the order to make camp?”

“Of course.” His aide, Derufin’s replacement, turned and motioned; the reformed column urged their horses forward.

The supply wagons slowly crossed the second rain-swollen river in their journey, tilting and hitching against the rocks. He heard a cry as a wagon tipped precariously to the side. He rode forward, grasped the seat, and swung himself into it. Taking the reins from the startled driver, Boromir urged the horses forward, clucking and encouraging them. The wagon righted itself in a moment and soon they were across. He whistled and his mount rode up next to the wagon. “You did well, up to a point. Next time, be more patient with them. Horses frighten easily.”

Boromir nodded and jumped upon his horse. Impatience exploded within him. He pulled the reins to the side and nudged the horse forward, towards the south. Another wagon tipped and then righted itself. He was pushing them too hard. He motioned and Arthad joined him. “You spoke well. We must camp for the night. Give the command and set out the pickets.”

Arthad saluted and left him. Within moments, the camp was fully assembled, his tent up. Boromir smiled. The fire was already started and a pot of water began to simmer. A soldier stepped forward and offered to take his reins. Boromir nodded as fatigue settled over him. He dismounted and passed the reins to the man, thanking him before entering his tent. Arthad waited. Boromir sat and started to take off his boots. Arthad stopped him, kneeling in front of him, and removed them.

“Faramir has been heavy upon my heart this day, though he is safe in the Citadel with father. I know not why my heart misspeaks me.”

“You drive yourself and the men hard, Captain. It is only fatigue. Rest now. I will call you when the meal is ready.”

Boromir sprawled upon the cot, his mind too tired to even respond. Within moments, he was asleep.

He woke shivering and found Arthad standing over him. A shudder ran through him. “Has there been any news from Henneth-Annûn?” he asked as he swung his feet over the side of the cot. Arthad quickly helped him with his boots. “Or from Faramir or the Steward?”

“None, Captain. Only the one we received in Cair Andros; none since,” the man said with sympathy. “You still worry about Faramir?”

“I had a dream or a nightmare or a suspicion, naught I can quite recall, but a sense of doom lays about my heart. Is the daymeal ready?”

“Then let us go and get this interminable night over with,” he muttered darkly.

Waking well before dawn, Boromir found and roused Arthad. “Raise the camp and let us be on our way. I will brook no further delay.” He turned back to his own tent, did his morning ablution and dressed. He went to the mess tent to break his fast and found no one about. He swore quietly. After a moment, the cook ran in with a cup of tea in one hand and biscuits in another. “My Lord, I will bring the rest of your meal in a moment.”

Hador and Guilin joined him before he finished his tea. “We leave early, then?” Guilin asked. Boromir nodded. “Will we be able to see the path?”

“I know the path by heart. Send out the scouts as soon as they have broken their fast. I want to be on the road before dawn.”

Guilin nodded and left the tent. After a few moments, he returned with forty men. “I deemed it proper to send out four patrols?”

The cooks were busily running back and forth with great trays of biscuits, cheeses, fruit, bowls of porridge, and hot pots of tea.

“Good,” Boromir said quietly. “Tell the men to eat, then be away as quickly as they may. We will take the Harad Road from now on; we should reach it within the hour. Two patrols will work the foothills while another two will ride the west side of the road. Send reports to me every hour.” The men nodded, finished their meal, and left.

“We are going to Henneth-Annûn,” Boromir confided to his captains. “Not many know of the secret stronghold. I will go forth with Arthad and hear their captain’s report. You, Hador and Guilin, will continue the march towards Osgiliath. I am hoping that there are no more Easterlings about, that all were with the main body that attacked us. Since we have seen no others, I believe they are all gone. But Orcs may be about; be careful. I am surprised at the level of activity we are seeing. Long has it been since those of the east came forth in such force. Once I have ascertained all is well with our troops at Henneth-Annûn, I will continue on to Osgiliath and meet you on the road.”

Arthad entered; Boromir gestured to him to be seated. After he had been served, Boromir’s aide said, “The men are ready; it should only take another half hour at the most before we can pull out.”

“Good. Then we will away.” He nodded and Guilin and Hador left them. His brow furrowed for a moment. “Have we received any missives?”

“Nay,” Arthad answered. “Though none know we have taken the road to Ithilien.”

Boromir blushed. Denethor had not told him how to return, nor even when; he knew that his father had intended for him to return the way he had come. But Boromir needed to assure himself of Faramir’s safety; a sense told him Faramir had gone to Osgiliath. Mablung and Damrod were with him, of that he was certain, but his heart had been heavy since the night’s disquieting dreams.

“It is a full day and a night since we left the battle sight. My riders will not yet have reached Minas Tirith with their reports. Father will not expect a report for another three days, at least. I had expected to receive something from him before we left the Nindalf, some news of happenings in Gondor.”

Arthad held the tent flap back and watched as Boromir, valiant Captain-General of Gondor, was laid low by concern for his brother.

They marched for an hour and soon reached the river that ran to the fortress. Boromir called a halt at the pool. He called Arthad to his side. “We will leave within the hour, you and I, and go to Henneth-Annûn. Glad I am that we have found none of the enemy about. Call Captains Guilin and Hador to me.”

“I will leave you now,” he said once the captains reported to him, “Continue on, but again, with care. Keep your patrols out and demand constant reports. If you stop, set out pickets. My heart bodes ill for us all.” They saluted and left him as Arthad returned, leading Boromir’s horse.

“Five hours at the least. Its guards will meet us within moments after we leave here.”

He mounted and they rode off. As Boromir had surmised, Rangers quickly met and escorted them. There was no speech between them; the Rangers led and Boromir and Arthad followed. Glad was Arthad that they were thus escorted, Boromir noted, as he looked towards his right and saw the deep gorge next to them. Any who did not know the way would risk falling into it and find a quick death.

Once they entered the cave, Captain Amlach greeted them warmly. Calling for wine and seats to be prepared, he motioned to Boromir to sit and nodded, smiling, to Arthad. “It is good to see you both. I am a little nonplussed though. Why have you come? I received no notice, no missive in regards to a visit from our Captain-General.” He was all smiles.

Boromir, however, stood rigid. “Did you not lose a patrol less than four days ago?”

Amlach paled. “We did lose a patrol. How came you by this knowledge? Our errand-rider could not have reached Minas Tirith and you have reached here in such a short time.”

That was enough for Amlach. “As I said, we did lose a hunting patrol. But naught else untoward has happened since. Why are you here?”

“None arrived,” Amlach blanched at the news. “None of our patrols nor scouts have seen any further sign of the enemy. In fact, all has been quiet.”

“I cannot understand that. Easterlings camped upon the Nindalf. You have seen nor heard naught?”

“Nay, Captain.” Amlach motioned for food to be brought. “Please, eat and rest. On the morrow, I will send out more patrols-“

“Now, Captain. Send patrols out now – but send them southward. We came from the north and there is no sign of the enemy there.”

Amlach watched as his Captain-General paced in the confines of their cave. “‘Where does your mind wander?”

Boromir looked up and the eyes that met Amlach’s were filled with pain and sorrow. “I know not. My heart is heavy.” He looked out upon the waters of the falls, but it gave him no comfort.

“There is tea made. Mayhap the sharing of your load would help ease your mind.”

“Speech may ease the mind enough for it to grasp the reason for the unease.” Amlach motioned to his quarters behind the curtain. “Join me?”

Boromir left the falls begrudgingly and followed the captain. He smiled at Arthad, who, he noted, slept not. “Go, lie down and rest for we leave shortly; we will probably ride the night.” Arthad nodded.

Upon entering Amlach’s recess, he sat on the captain’s cot and took the proffered cup. “I know not what it is,” Boromir began with no preamble. “Nay. I know what it is, rather who it is, but I know not why. Faramir is in Minas Tirith. If aught is wrong with him, then Minas Tirith itself is not safe.” He chuckled grimly. “If aught is wrong with Minas Tirith then I should be away this moment.”

“As I said,” Amlach apologized, “There have been no missives from the City. If aught were wrong, would not a rider have been sent forth?”

Boromir frowned. “A rider was sent. I do not understand how he has yet to arrive.” Prickles of fear ran down his arms. “The rider was waylaid. That is the only explanation. How far south do your patrols go?”

“To Emyn Arnen. But not this week. This week, the patrols only go to the Crossroads. We also have patrols towards Cair Andros and the Cormallen. One of these would have brought back news if Minas Tirith was besieged.”

“Those from Cormallen. I expect the others in another day. If, as you think, the errand-rider has been waylaid, then my southern patrols are also in danger.”

“I deem that unwise, Amlach. I have brought a strong force with me from a battle in the Nindalf. They continue along the Harad. If there is foul play, as I suspect, a greater force will be needed. If you wish, you may accompany me.”

“Then do it.” Boromir stood and walked towards the falls. The crashing cascade of them gave his heart a moment’s rest while all about him chaos reigned. The garrison came alive, the alarm being given. Boromir walked closer to the edge. ‘How fares my brother and why am I so troubled?’ He grimaced as a sharp pain filled his heart. At it, he turned and fled back into the cave. “Now!” he shouted wildly, “We must be away now!” and ran to the stairwell. Quickly climbing up the fortress’ steps, he found his horse saddled and ready at the cave’s entrance. He mounted and held tightly to the reins. His horse sensed her master’s tension and skittered about. Boromir welcomed the distraction; if he dwelt too long on why his heart hurt, he would lose his mind.

Amlach came through the entrance and joined him. Within moments, Arthad was at his side, along with a dozen Rangers. “Send Rangers with Arthad with speed to greet my men,” Boromir said quietly. “Then they will be ready when we arrive and we need not tarry.”

Amlach nodded and sent the men off after Boromir quickly whispered a command to his aide. “They are to be ready to quicken the pace when I come, do you understand, Arthad? I want all haste. The wagons will be left behind with a small guard. I want naught to hamper a quick march.”

After the small group left them, Boromir let Amlach take the lead; the warriors rode east.

The shout caused all in the party to look towards the rider coming down the path in a fury of dust and thrumming hooves.

Boromir held his hand up and the Rangers stopped. The rider approached. Boromir noted the man spoke with no thought of saluting him. ‘The news must be bad indeed,’ he thought as fear prickled behind his neck. “Speak.”

“There has been a battle ahead. Orcs from the Ephel Dúath, I think. There are… They attacked a large body of men from Gondor, my Lord. Many dead lie strewn about the road. It would seem the battle went ill for our warriors. None live.”

“The bodies are cold and carrion have had their way with them. At least two days, mayhap more.”

Boromir called to Amlach. “We ride in haste; now. Tell your men. Do not spare the horses!”

Amlach nodded and signaled. The Rangers understood as Boromir urged his horse forward. Within an hour, they had reached his soldiers. Arthad rode up to him and saluted. “I sent the rider as soon as we received the news from your scouts, Captain. It is another two days march at least, with the army.”

Boromir shook his head. “We take fresh horses, you and I, Hador and Amlach and his Rangers. Guilin,” he shouted and the captain rode to his side. “Bring the men behind us; I will not wait for them. I must see for myself.”

“It will be past the mid night hour when you arrive at the ambush sight, Captain. You cannot ride at night. Orcs - ”

Too many men would give them away; too few could mean their doom. Using horses was, perhaps, foolish, but they would reach the battle scene quicker, and could bid a hasty retreat, if need be. Traveling at night – he may as well ask his men to kill themselves.

Boromir settled for a half company, and all volunteers. Arthad rode next to him; many aides had Boromir over the years, but this one, he thought wryly, had already proved the best. He wondered if the man could read his thoughts or, mayhap, have some foresight. His aide was, by the look of him, pure Númenórean. Amlach and Hador rode behind him, he noted, and he was glad. Amlach had an easy confidence about him that Boromir appreciated.

“My best are already out.” At that moment, a Ranger on foot stepped from the trees. “Captain, it is a stone’s throw from here. Perhaps you wish to dismount? Our patrols show no enemy about. We have lit torches.”

Boromir dismounted and strode forward. Immediately, he had to cover his mouth and nose. The stench was putrid. He clenched his teeth and moved forward and right into the middle of the road. The dead, and there were many, lay scattered about. Some, he noted, had not the time to unsheathe their swords. Tears filled his eyes. ‘No warning!’

Arthad nodded and moved quickly forward, taking ten men with him. Boromir continued to walk through the carnage. Now and again, a familiar face lay before him. He would curse quietly and walk on. Amlach stayed at his side.

As soon as the Ranger saw his Captain-General crossing the bridge into Osgiliath, Mablung ran across the courtyard to greet him. Boromir shook as Mablung told him of Faramir’s condition. He needed to be in Minas Tirith right now, needed to be at the Houses, for fear gripped him and would not let him breathe, nor think, nor live sanely until he knew Faramir was alive and healing. The sense of doom that had been with him for days now overwhelmed him.

Mablung took his arm as he stumbled. “My Lord! The wounds were not deep. The healers have the medicine to make the poison less potent. Faramir will be well. Here is the captain’s quarters.” He led Boromir in, making sure he sat. Arthad followed closely behind.

Boromir clenched his hands about the sides of the table. He steadied himself. “Send the Captain of Osgiliath here to me. Then, tell the other captains to be ready for my summons. Damrod is with him?”

Mablung nodded, knowing Boromir was once again focused on his brother. “Damrod saved him; put aside his own safety and rescued him. Then he tended the wounds, once we were able to stop. Others counseled him to stay in Osgiliath and let the garrison’s healer care for Lord Faramir, but he would not listen.”

“As soon as I am finished here, I will follow them. Have my horse ready, Mablung.”

The soldier nodded, but no more than five minutes later, he returned, bearing a tray laden with food and drink. Boromir scowled, then broke into a smile. “Best I eat, else I fall off my horse on the way home.”

Boromir burst into laughter. “No doubt my brother.” His face fell. “Did you see him, Mablung? Were you with him?”

“Tell me all. I have not had the time to hear any of it ‘cept that he was wounded.” He offered a stool.

“You should have all been killed,” Boromir whispered upon completion of the tale.

“Yes, Captain. Faramir kept his head and wheeled us about before he was struck. If we had not been riding, and that was Faramir’s idea too, we would all have been cut down.”

“Our captain is with the healers. He watches over the wounded.” Mablung thought it wise not to mention the changes that Denethor had ordered. At least not for the moment.

Boromir lowered his gaze and wolfed down some of his meal. “I cannot remember the last time I ate. He does well, this captain of yours. Give me another moment and I will join him.”

Mablung stood, but Boromir took his arm and pulled him back onto the stool. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Just as I thought. There is enough stew for the three of us.” He found forks in the captain’s drawer and pulled them out, wiping them on his breeches. “Here.” He motioned for Arthad to join them.

Another few moments passed and Boromir stood up. “Go and find some rest. I will not need you for at least another two hours. You also, Arthad.” His men saluted and turned to leave. “Do not forget my horse.”

The healers’ barracks were on the other side of the garrison. As Boromir walked towards them, he was greeted with exclamations of concern for Faramir. His eyes grew moist; however, he merely smiled, nodded in acknowledgement and continued on his way.

The Captain of Osgiliath was leaning over a cot, pulling the covers over a warrior’s head. Boromir stood back and waited a moment, hushing the aide who wished to announce him.

“My Lord Boromir!” Derufin stood, saw him and exclaimed. “What do you need?”

“I should have known you would be with the wounded. Most of these men are new to the garrison, are they not?”

“They were. But I have found that one day here is like a thousand elsewhere. Time is known to be short; we became friends immediately.”

“But I have seen you and know of your courage. Will you serve Gondor in the Citadel?”

“Of course, we will let you heal first, in the comfort of your home. Come to the Tower Guard when you feel well enough to begin your duties there.”

“I did not know Gondor would use those thus wounded,” Derufin said as they left the confines of the building.

Boromir took a deep breath and turned towards him. “Gone are the days when Gondor could afford to let the injured retire. Besides, I deem it cruel to throw a man away because he has lost a limb. Do you not?”

“He will do what he can. Did you not see his eyes? That man is a warrior; he will continue to be one, though his duties be light. I am using your quarters, Derufin; please come as soon as you have washed up. I need to hear your report. Likewise, the reports of those under you; Denethor will expect it. I want to be away by the ninth hour.”

Derufin left him and walked back into the garrison’s hospice. Boromir, his heart still torn, walked through the courtyard, into the captain’s quarters. ‘I must be away soon.’

Brother hugged brother. Then, Boromir gently seated Faramir on the side of the bed and turned to Damrod. “I will expect a full report from you, once we reach Osgiliath.”

“Nay, Faramir. Father has given me this night to spend with you; then I ride out. Damrod, now that he has completed his assignment, though not as well as I had hoped, will come with me. Now, I hear foolish tales of you wanting to run off in your under garments and save Osgiliath?”

“Permission to speak?” Boromir nodded and Damrod continued. “May I stay with Captain Faramir? The Lord Steward is sending him on a sortie to Gondor’s fiefdoms. I would go with him.”

The look of devotion in the warrior’s eyes surprised him, but, upon further reflection, Boromir understood. Faramir bore himself well, responded well to the soldiers of Gondor, and quickly earned their respect. That is why he had excelled at Pelargir. “Very well. If Faramir agrees.”

Damrod saluted and left. Boromir knelt and pulled off Faramir’s boots, then helped pull off his breeches. He repositioned the sleeping gown and laid Faramir back on the bed. “The fever is still in your eyes, brother. Do not try to get up again without the healer’s permission.”

“Is that an order, Captain-General?” Faramir’s eyes closed. “I could not let Father go to Osgiliath.”

“I understand and agree. But there are others we could have sent. I cannot lose you, little brother; I have told you that before.”

Faramir nodded and Boromir noted the sheen of sweat upon his brother’s brow. “Tell me what happened, Faramir. I was nigh unto mad with fear when I saw the ambush sight.”

“Why are you here?” Faramir suddenly realized that Boromir had been sent to the Nindalf.

“The battle was swift. Once over, I decided it best to come to Minas Tirith through Ithilien, see if there were other Easterling patrols still about. Now, tell me what happened.”

Faramir squirmed. “Mistakes,” he berated himself openly. “Scouts’ reports misunderstood, green troops, and a foolish captain who should have known better!”

“I do and not.” A heavy sigh accompanied the pained words. “I did not know the men, and sent the wrong one. One who had not experience in the field. I am as much a fool as he was. The rats of Osgiliath have more sense than I do.”

Faramir opened his eyes. “I lost half my men at least, Boromir. I sent out patrols, but the message I received back was that all was clear.”

“It is not that easy,” Faramir whispered. “I sent my men to their death.”

“I think not, Faramir. I spoke with Mablung and Damrod. They, too, accepted the report.”

Boromir smiled. “I trust you, Faramir. I do not trust father. His mood, as of late, has been fey and I do not understand him. I believe he would send the both of us into the very fires of Orodruin, if need be. In fact, I know he would do that. So I use deceit to keep you safe. Forgive me.”

“I will not have you die for naught, Faramir. I do not care what father thinks. When the time comes, when the need is greatest, we will both be in the forefront of battle. But until that day comes, Faramir, I will protect you.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “As I always have.”

“It is not disdain; it is reluctance to use you when another, seemingly more qualified, can be sent.”

Faramir’s distress was too much for Boromir to endure. “I praise your wisdom, your battle tactics, your book learning to him. I only hide your skill in battle. Do not hate me, brother.”

“I am tired. I would sleep now.” Faramir lay back on the bed and turned on his side, away from Boromir.

Boromir knelt at the side of the bed and pulled Faramir to him. “I warned father not to send you to Osgiliath and look what happened. You were almost killed. Tell me I was wrong, Faramir! Tell me I should let you die!” He choked and sobs racked him.

Faramir closed his eyes and returned the embrace. “Your love means more to me than father’s disdain, Boromir.”

When Faramir finally slept, Boromir left the room. Damrod stepped forward. “Stay with him. I will return; I must meet with father over my new orders.”

“I will, my Lord. And thank you, my Lord, for letting me accompany Faramir.”

“I know, my Lord. And I will make it up. Naught shall touch him again, whilst I live.”

“Good.” Boromir sighed. “If he asks for me, tell him I will return shortly.”

Damrod saluted and Boromir walked heavily down the hall to the gardens of the Houses. He sat for a moment and looked eastward. The mountain flamed and rumbled, though not that it could be felt in the City. ‘You will kill us all, someday, will you not?’ At length, he stood and walked up the level to the Seventh Gate, through the tunnel and onto the parapet as he was ordered. Denethor waited for him by the escarpment.

“I have. I wondered why so many attacks all at once. Even the area around the Poros was attacked, though by lesser numbers. He seeks to destroy us. I fear the time nears.”

“Nay,” and Denethor smiled. “You will meet her during the feasting of the seasons of Tuilérë. I meet with Imrahil in one hour. I would have you join us.”

“Father,” Boromir said, exasperation strong in his voice, “I leave her up to you. I have said you are wiser-- Uncle Imrahil is still here?”

“He is and it is one of his cousins, your cousins, that we will discuss. I would have you with me.”

“Father, I have not slept since I cannot remember when. Might we put this off till the morrow? Before I leave for Osgiliath?”

“Go and sleep. I will see you at the third hour in my quarters. I will have food to break your fast. Be there promptly, Boromir.”

“I have not been out of the City in a very long time; I finally had an excuse.” Denethor smiled.

“Nay. But do not tell Faramir. He thinks the better of me because of it. I was going to the Ranger’s barracks on the First Level. I have a captain I thought might be of good use in Osgiliath. I also wanted to ride my horse, clear my head, and be away from the Hall for another few moments.”

“Thank you, Father. It would not have been wise.” Boromir accepted the warm hug but had hardly the strength to return it.

“You need your rest,” Denethor said quietly. “I will see you on the morrow.”

“He probably sleeps. The Warden keeps him well medicated. Every time Faramir breathes, it catches his lungs. The pain is not easy. I will go to him in your stead. Go now and sleep and see me on the morrow.”

He walked Boromir to the Tower and left him by the doors to the Great Hall. Looking up towards the uppermost window, he pondered his next move. ‘To Faramir,’ he thought. ‘Time is too short.’ The lights were going out in the Citadel as he walked into the tunnel and then to the Houses. Faramir slept fitfully. He sat by the bed and waited.

Startled, Denethor looked quizzically at his son. Sleep still filled the boy’s eyes but fear widened them. ‘From whence comes this question?’ He remembered, a very long time ago, telling the tale to Thorongil. ‘What have you been about, my son?’ he thought furtively. ‘I was suspicious of your brother, when I saw Thorongil walking in the Emyn Muil; is it you I should be wary of? Have you met with the man? I know he walks near our borders.’ The remembrance of that caused Denethor much concern. ‘I have forgotten Thorongil and his mission. By now, he is probably gone from my sight.’ A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘Nay. Not many may hide from my sight.’

“Are there other secrets you hide from me?” Denethor asked and Faramir started.

Faramir’s eyes squinted as he tried to discern what his father was implying, but his head began to swim and he sighed heavily. “I know not of what you speak.”

“Never the mind. Have some more of the healer’s tea. It will help the pain.” Once Faramir drank and lay back down on the bed, Denethor asked, “Why do you ask of Númenor?”

“A foolish wonder, I suppose.” Faramir closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find the heart to tell his father. “I have had a dream of the land of Westernesse that foundered and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. Is that what it was like or are we fated for such an event again? The dream does not bring me peace, Father; in fact, it terrorizes me.”

“It was a wave that took our homeland from us. As for what you have seen, mayhap it is Westernesse and not some untoward prophecy for Gondor. I know not if it was the Valar or some power even greater that caused the sea to swallow our land. Tales say Lord Ulmo roiled the seas so that the boats of Elendil rocked precariously. If that Vala was there, who can say the others had not a hand in it! For all their power - the wave killed those left on the island, the women and children - but not our Enemy. Somehow, Sauron escaped. And now, the bane of the Valar would engulf Gondor and I think all of Middle-earth. How can we combat him if they failed?”

Faramir shuddered from fear, sickness and the poison still in his body. His head reeled from the drugged tea. “I do not think he will triumph, Father.”

“The Last Alliance could not defeat him – they slowed his malice, but he has grown mightier since.”

Faramir swallowed hard, then pushed onward. “Father, Mithrandir believes there is a weapon that may destroy him.”

Denethor stood so quickly in the little room that the chair flew back with a crash. The guard threw the door open in alarm, but Denethor waved him back to his post. “When did he tell you this?” Denethor fought to keep his anger hid.

“Many years ago, Father. He had been in the archives studying some scrolls, with your permission. He did not seem to know what the weapon was.”

“If he answers your summons before I leave, Father, might I spend some time with him? Mayhap, with the two of us looking, we might find some clue.”

“I must leave you now,” Denethor said coldly. “If you need anything further, ask the Warden.” He turned and opened the door.

“I have not.” Denethor moved through the doorway, but paused a moment when he heard Faramir begin to speak again.

He did not answer; he found he could not answer. He stepped into the hall and closed the door after him. Waves of nausea struck him and he scarce had time to make the gardens before retching miserably. Fear swept over him. ‘Is the wave Faramir saw water, or is it the Enemy’s hoards?’

Imrahil was waiting in his study, as was Boromir. Húrin arrived a few moments later. “We have much to discuss this morning,” Denethor began peremptorily. “Imrahil, there are two of our cousins, removed enough from Boromir to be considered as a spouse for him. What think you of them?”

Since they had discussed just this yesterday, Imrahil began confidently. “Míriel, daughter of Galador and my fourth cousin, would make the perfect mate for you, nephew. She is young, but not as young as your mother when she wed your father; she is lean, but not frail; she is wise, but not proud; she is gentle, but not one to be o’errun. There are others, but I deem her the wisest choice.”

“You have, but many long years ago; she was just one of the many children that ran through my father’s halls.”

Boromir took a deep breath, then turned to Denethor. “Have you set a date for our announcement?”

“The southern beacons were lit yesterday, Boromir, and an errand-rider was sent to fetch her,” Denethor said firmly.

“Then I will leave for Osgiliath directly after my visit with Faramir. I will return the day before Tuilérë. When will she arrive?”

“If all goes well, she should arrive by the eighth of April; the formal betrothal will take place on the tenth.”

“She does not have to like it,” Denethor said briskly. “We have learned from our mistakes, Boromir. She will be sent home for extended periods every year. That should help.”

“Boromir!” Imrahil stood, his face red. “I will not have you speak of your intended in that manner.”

Boromir’s face had reddened also. “I speak only the truth – for the girl and for myself.”

Denethor stood and moved towards the window. “It is not the best of circumstances for either of you, Boromir; however, it is near to the custom of our ancestors on Númenor. I would that you could spend some time with her, before next year’s Loëndë. That is the day I have ordered for your wedding.”

“Then it shall be done. She shall be staying in Minas Tirith once she arrives?”

“She will stay for a fortnight. You will come and tend to her during that time. Properly chaperoned, of course. Then, we will send her back until this year’s Loëndë. She will return for that feasting time, and you will return for another fortnight.”

“Very well, Father. Might I be excused now? I would spend as much time with Faramir as possible before I leave.”

“Boromir, he was in pain when I left him. I do not know if the medicaments have addled his mind or what, but he spoke of a dream. Perhaps you can help him understand it.”

“I know so little compared to Faramir and you, Father. Did you speak with him about it?”

Boromir nodded his head in understanding. “I will return the day before Tuilérë, Father. You will receive the normal garrison reports weekly.”

Boromir saluted Imrahil, who pulled him close in a hard hug. “You will like her,” he whispered.

Húrin saluted. Denethor walked Boromir to the door, walked through it into the hall, and held his son close. “I am proud of you, my son. Proud of all you do, but most proud of this.”

Boromir sighed. “Thank you, Father. I will do as you ask, as always. Whilst I am gone and Faramir recovers, visit him, please?”

Boromir smiled and hugged his father. “That is all I can ask. Fare thee well, Adar.”

“Nay,” Faramir’s eyes, watery and feverish, looked up at him in dismay. “He does not understand anything I say.” Tears spilled. “Forgive me. This wretched tea and the poppy they give me for the pain makes me weak.”

“You never have to ask my forgiveness, Faramir. I have been in the same spot as you. I understand.”

“Father does not misconstrue your words, jumps up at every little thing you say, nor turns as if to stone by just a word…”

“Confound it, Boromir. You know it does.” Faramir fell back against his pillows, totally exhausted.

Boromir held up his hands in mock surrender. “Then let us speak of other things before I must leave you.”

“I am sorry. I have not much time there before I must return for… I return for Tuilérë. If you are still here, then we may spend time together then. Will that do?”

“If it must. Why do you return? A Council meeting? There is none scheduled till Loëndë.”

“You are addled, dearest Faramir. But I deem it is the medicaments. I… I am to be betrothed. The announcement will be made at Tuilérë.”

Faramir gasped, then closed his eyes. Boromir waited. “I am sorry, Boromir. I know you had other plans,” he finally said. “Who is she?”

“I do, but only vaguely, and many years ago. I dare not even tell you about her, for as much as we have changed, she has changed.”

Faramir laughed, then choked in pain. After a moment, he recovered. “She was none of those things. In fact, if I recall, she was a pretty little thing. Not shy though. I think she is a favorite of Amrothos.”

“I have no need nor want for a wife!” Boromir exploded. “I cannot place my mind, my thoughts, my self on anything but the war. It only grows worse.”

“Of course. But I had not meant to make this sacrifice, not now, not in this way.”

“Do you remember the room father made for mother – the Sea room? I always cried when we left it. Do you remember that?”

“Do you know it is no longer there? That father has obliterated it? Even boarded the door leading into it?”

“In that room, Faramir, mother would stroke my hair and tell me stories of maidens and the men who watched over them. She told me I would one day be such a man. I have oft thought of that, Faramir, what kind of a man I would be for the woman given to me to protect. I cannot protect her, Faramir. I cannot protect even you.”

Faramir watched as his brother’s shoulders sagged. “You do protect me, Boromir. You sent Mablung and Damrod,” he whispered.

“I protect no one,” and the desolation in Boromir’s voice cut through to the very core of his little brother. “I protect no one.”

Boromir raised his head. “I know you will, little brother, I know you will. I must be off now. I will visit at Tuilérë.” He hugged Faramir long and hard and left him.

Denethor stood on the parapet, resting his hands on the wall that encircled the Citadel. Imrahil stood by his side.

Denethor sighed and turned towards his wife’s brother. “It will probably be only months after Gondor’s fall that Dol Amroth will be besieged. I do not think the Enemy will divide its forces and send armies against both cities at the same time. However, if you cannot send help when the final attack comes, I will understand.”

“Unless we are attacked at the same time, my Swan Knights will be here. Do you doubt me?”

“Then why the furrowed brow? We have been at peace these many years, my brother.”

“If not for Indis’ intervention, your father and I might have come to blows.”

“I am glad you interred her in the House of the Stewards. It is where she belongs.”

“That she was.” Imrahil remembered Indis’ death and asked, “How fares Théoden King?”

Denethor looked at him for a moment, then turned away. “I have sent missives, but they have not been answered. I suppose I should be grateful they are not returned, unopened.”

“He does, but I would not put him in a position of such jeopardy, ask him to take a role that is not his to take. I will continue to write to Théoden.”

“There is an oath, Denethor; he must honor it.” Imrahil squinted, not speaking until he was sure, but nay. It was naught. He turned towards Denethor. “Forlong of Lossarnach will send troops, probably even come himself. So will Dúinhir and Golasgil. The Lords of the Council will send men, when the time comes.”

“They are remarkably reluctant to send them now, as their fiefdom treaties stipulate. I hesitate to rely upon them when the real battle begins.”

“But that is why you are sending Faramir. He will persuade them. There is more than a touch of you in the lad. The lords fear you; he can use that to his advantage.”

“He will not. I have watched him in the Council meetings. He prefers to appear lordly, tries to sway them using their honor to urge them in their deeds. Yet, I know they have no honor. They care only…” He smiled ruefully and faced Imrahil. “I seem to be as a dog, chewing on the same old bone. I will speak no more of my Council’s ways. I consider sending Faramir with you and Míriel when you return to Dol Amroth. What think you of that?”

“It is a good plan; it should help Míriel feel more a part of the family. Faramir and I will keep her occupied, expound the virtues of Boromir and Minas Tirith.”

Denethor leaned more wearily upon the parapet’s wall. “Yes. He will start his progress in the fiefdoms near Dol Amroth and work his way north and east.”

“I am. I suppose it is the sitting with Faramir. It is hard to watch one’s son in pain. Though,” he continued quickly, “he is healing well.”

“I was with him this afternoon. The fever seems to have lifted. He is more coherent.”

“I had some other business I was about this afternoon,” he bristled at what he considered the implied accusation in Imrahil’s statement. “I am glad you were with Faramir.”

“What is this dream? He spoke of it to me but I do not understand why he dreams it now.”

“It is just that – a dream. It has no significance for us. It was in the past. Faramir, even on his sick bed, still has books brought to him. He reads too much. He should be resting. There!” Denethor straightened. “A lone rider, two-thirds of the way across the Pelennor. It is Boromir!” he cried as the Horn blew.

Imrahil smiled. “He truly enjoys winding that horn. He will have the whole City awake.”

He turned and walked quickly towards the Great Hall. Imrahil’s smile grew as he followed.

“Father.” He hugged Denethor warmly, then turned and hugged his uncle. “It is good to see you, though I should not be happy with you.”

“And why is that?” Imrahil chuckled. “It is not my fault that your father deems you old enough to be wed.”

“Not until the eighth of April, at the earliest. Are you anxious to meet her?”

“Just anxious,” Denethor interrupted and laughed. “Come, Boromir. Let us go to my study. You would have need of drink after that long dusty ride. The rains seem to have failed us so far this spring.”

“It is always raining in Ithilien, Father.” And his brow furrowed as he spoke the words.

They walked quietly down the long hall, into the passageway, and to Denethor’s study. The Chamberlain ran quickly to Denethor, saying all was ready. Denethor nodded, thanked the man, and asked him to send Húrin to him.

The fire was lit and plates filled with fruits, cheeses and breads were on the sideboard to the left of Denethor’s desk. The desk itself held a carafe of wine with four glasses set about it.

After he had poured the wine, he sat in front of the fire and motioned for Boromir and Imrahil to join him.

“You are anxious, I see, Boromir, but not about the coming announcement. What disturbs you?”

Denethor’s eyes widened. “There are many reports I do not share with you.”

“These reports impact me and the men under me. Though I am stationed at Osgiliath, as Captain-General, I should have these reports sent to me.”

“The reports from Cair Andros!” Boromir stood, frustration eeking from him. “There have been further attacks and I know naught of them!”

“Father.” Boromir sat again. “Forgive me. But what is the use of me being Captain-General of all the armies of Gondor if I have no knowledge of what happens to my armies?”

“I agree.” Denethor sat for a few moments in silence. During that time, Húrin arrived, poured himself a glass of wine, and noted that all was not well in the room. He took a chair away from the three and waited.

“I cannot keep you here, which would be optimal. I need a strong captain for Osgiliath. I also need a strong captain at Cair Andros and one at Pelargir and one at… You know what I need, Boromir.”

“Hador is a strong captain, as is Guilin. Derufin would make a fine captain for Osgiliath, though I would that he could return to his father. Amlach, at Henneth-Annûn, has my respect. Pelargir is well tended.”

“The attacks seem to be focused on the north, Boromir. Though there was the one attack in Ithilien and the small one near Pelargir, I think it was a testing, no more. You have fought two major battles near the Nindalf just this past month. I believe the Easterlings are not ready to concede defeat. And Hador reports that Orcs are still entering Gondor in large numbers by the mouths of the Entwash and in Anórien.”

“Then I will leave Osgiliath in Derufin’s hands and go to Amon Dîn. I will use it as my base; I will not take the captaincy from Guilin. A battalion?”

“It would seem to me at least that, perhaps even a regiment, but where we will procure the men, I do not know. The fields of Anórien are paramount in keeping Minas Tirith fed. I have ordered larger crops sown.”

“Yes.” Denethor cursed loudly. “Not enough soldiers, not enough farmers.” He bit his lip. He was exhausted. The time with the Palantír today had been extremely tiring. Yet, he had learned so much.

“I have already designated the gathering points and which families go where. I have started the list of who will be in charge of each post. As for building the granaries, I have contacted the various guilds. We meet in two days.”

“Good. Imrahil, we must have more ships. I need to have the coast protected, when the surge comes. They may think Belfalas and the other fiefdoms weak when the battle begins and be tempted to launch small attacks to strike your forces.”

“We will be ready. Yet, that will not prevent me from sending troops here. I have already promised.”

“Father? May we put this marriage aside for the moment? There is no time to even begin a courtship.”

“Time will be made,” Denethor said firmly. “If we save our City, if we save Gondor, we must have an heir. Someone must sit on the Steward’s Chair. And I prefer it be one from the long unbroken line of Mardil, of the House of Húrin. In that line there is strength.”

“Faramir will ride with Míriel when she returns to Dol Amroth, Boromir,” Imrahil said quietly. “He will help her become accustomed to the ways of Minas Tirith and the court. She is a sharp woman; it will not take her long.”

“If that is your will, Father, I will not speak of it again. When may I leave for Amon Dîn?”

“The announcement will be tomorrow. She will arrive on the eighth and I will perform the betrothal ceremony on the tenth. You may leave on the eleventh.”

Boromir shook his head in frustration. “Then let me return to Osgiliath after tomorrow’s announcement. I would spend some time with Derufin. I know you wanted the wharfs and the docks blocked. The work has not been started on that yet. Also, I would speak with him…. Well, there are other needs.”

“I wanted you to stay here until Míriel arrives, but I deem it more important that you take care of those other matters. It will only strengthen Osgiliath. There were bunkers along the road once one passed the bridge. Are they still there? Are they being used?”

“They will be, Father. Part of my plan to shore up the defenses. I will return on the seventh?”

“Yes. I will send the daily reports to you. Thank you, Boromir.” He stood and hugged him. “Go now and rest. I will see you on the morrow.”

Húrin stood and bowed as Imrahil walked his nephew to the door. “It is a hard time for us all, Boromir,” Imrahil said quietly. “Yet, Míriel is up to the challenge. Do not be concerned for her.”

“He is a great man, Denethor.” Imrahil took his seat again. “I look forward to working more closely with him.”

“We have other concerns at the moment. I am considering putting an outpost by the Ethir. I know the land there is swampy, but I deem it important to have an outpost closer to Harondor. I will need another captain.”

“Then send him with two companies, if you can spare them. I will send two companies of Gondor’s Knights.”

“Nay, my Lord Steward. I will send four companies. It would be best if we did not mix our men.” His face turned red.

“It is better for men to fight as a unit, Denethor. I deem it best that they all come from Belfalas.”

“I will send a missive on the morrow. Are there any specific orders you wish conveyed?”

“Nay. Elphir has commanded before. It is only an outpost. Will he feel slighted?”

“He will not. And I will not keep him there long. Once the outpost is established, I will have Elphir appoint another captain. Will that suffice?”

“It does. I am concerned. You speak of not having my men serve along yours? Is there a particular reason? Given that we will all be upon the same battlefield against the Enemy in the days ahead, does not it seem worthwhile to have our men serve together now?”

“The Knights of Gondor have a tendency to look down upon those of Dol Amroth.” He quickly held up a hand to stay Denethor’s response. “The same is true for the Swan Knights. I know not when this discord arose, but it has. I am working to ameliorate this rift.”

“It is only recent. There seem to be rumors of ill will amongst the men. I know not where it comes from.”

“Are not lies and rumors what caused Númenor’s fall?” Denethor’s brow furrowed. “Húrin, send for Boromir.”

“Yes, my Lord Steward.” The Warden walked to the door and summoned the guard who saluted and left.

“This is grievous news you bring, Imrahil. I should have been notified immediately. Who noted it?”

“Elphir. He was on patrol and ran into one of your patrols. The exchange was heated. Elphir returned to Dol Amroth with his report. This happened in the first month of this year.”

“We cannot survive if we fight amongst ourselves. This must be stopped. It seems to be the southern forces; I have heard naught from our northern army. Nor have any reports come of such incidents from Rohan. Yet, as you know, my communications with Rohan are non-existent. I will send Boromir to Éomer. Faramir will not go to the fiefdoms, though the need is great; he will go to the garrisons in the south, speak with their commanders, and quell this rebellion. For that is what I deem it: rebellion.”

“Then I deem it unwise to keep our men apart at the new outpost. Dividing our men only furthers the lies. Elphir is a strong captain; he will be able to thwart this behavior and help the men accept and respect each other. This cannot be allowed to continue.”

Denethor looked up in surprise. “Nay, I do not seem to have the stomach for it tonight.”

Imrahil walked to the sideboard, picked up a plate, and put a small portion of lighter cheeses and soft breads on it. He cut up some melons and added them to the plate. “Here,” he said firmly, “The wine only fills you; it does naught to hearten you. I deem tonight’s work will be long. You must eat something.”

“Have you eaten, my son?” As Boromir shook his head, Denethor offered the plate Imrahil had prepared. “Here; sit and eat. We have more to discuss.”

Imrahil laughed, stood, and took the plate from Boromir. “This is your father’s. I will fix you your own plate.” And he gave Denethor a stern look and handed the plate back to the Steward.

Boromir smiled and sat. “Not eating again, Father? You look like a scarecrow. I would wager you cannot even lift your sword.”

“I can not only lift it, I can teach a young whelp to respect his father.” But Denethor’s eyes twinkled such as Boromir had not seen in a long while.

“Father,” Boromir put his hand on Denethor’s leg, “In truth, you look tired. Are you well? Forgive me for not asking before.”

“So you have been visiting Faramir! Thank you. I only made it to my rooms to change before I was ordered back here.” Boromir turned and accepted the plate Imrahil offered. “Thank you, Uncle. Naught has happened to Míriel’s entourage, I hope?”

“Uncle. I would never, for any reason, wish ill on anyone. You should know that.”

“He was teasing, Boromir. Let us get to the problem at hand. Boromir, have you heard of dissension among the ranks? Not inside the ranks, but between those, say from Lamedon, or Lossarnach or Belfalas?”

“Not among my men. But I did note a few altercations this past week in Osgiliath. I put it down to the horror of the recent attack and men’s nerves stretched too thin.”

Denethor quickly explained what Imrahil had told him. “Were the altercations based on something such as this?”

Boromir sat back and cursed roundly. “Son of Smaug’s offspring! That is exactly what it was about. The fools! They fall prey to whispers! I will go back and strangle them all!”

“Nay, Boromir. The problem is larger than one or two garrisons. I am not sending you back to Osgiliath. I will send a missive to Derufin to root out this evil and deal quickly and harshly with those who would spread it. But for you, I am sending you to Éomer. As one of Théoden’s Marshal’s, he will know if the perfidy spreads. He must know of Gondor’s need for Rohan’s loyalty. Remind him of the oath Théoden and I renewed when his uncle was crowned king.”

“Would it not be better to go directly to Meduseld and speak with Théoden himself?”

“If would, if terms were better between us. Go to Éomer with an order for horses. That way, we spare Éomer from any retribution for speaking without his uncle’s approval.”

“Then I will leave in the morning.” Boromir turned to Imrahil. “Uncle, what steps are you taking?”

“I had not realized the scope of the problem. I will send errand-riders to my captains. This rebellion, as your father names it, must be stopped.”

At last, Boromir spoke. “I believe I should stay and keep vigil by your bedside instead of Faramir’s, Father. You look terrible. Please take care of yourself while I am away. I am not ready to be Steward yet.”

They told Boromir of the plans for the outpost at the Ethir, which he praised highly; and the plans for the evacuation of Minas Tirith. Boromir applauded Húrin’s efforts thus far. The night closed about them.

Finally, Boromir stood and stretched. “Thank you for the meal, Uncle,” he smiled. “I go to Faramir now and then to my bed.”

Denethor stood and quickly, Imrahil and Húrin did the same. “Good night to you as well, Húrin, Imrahil. I must listen to my son and take me off to bed, else he chastise me on the morrow.”

Both men laughed; Imrahil hugged Denethor and left. Denethor put his hand on Húrin’s shoulder. “You have done well, Warden. Accept my thanks.”

Húrin blushed, nodded and left the room. Denethor walked slowly to his quarters in the Tower.

“Faramir?” Boromir peaked through the half-opened door. Silence. “Orc dung,” he swore quietly.

Boromir smiled widely and entered the room. “I was afraid you were asleep. In fact, you should be asleep and the Warden of the Houses will have my head for keeping you up.”

“I waited. I heard your Horn and I waited. Though I admit I fell asleep until I heard your footsteps. You walk like a mûmak!”

“If that is so, I will remember that when I am wed and must needs quietly enter our bedchamber in the wee hours of the morning.”

“I can hardly sleep here another night. And the meals are awful. I think the Warden puts medicaments even in the food! I need to be away from here.” Faramir’s eyes suddenly lit up. “You could help me to my rooms?”

“The wine Uncle Imrahil brought for you. His house wine. I saw four bottles in father’s study. I will take two. They are definitely for you – to help you in your recovery.”

“Ah! I had not thought of that.” Boromir’s shoulders slumped at the mention; he noted Faramir’s concern, but could do naught about it.

“You are right though; it is probably for me. Help me out of here, Boromir.”

Slyly, his brother smiled. “Guard,” Boromir called through the open door. The man stepped into the room. Boromir looked at the soldier in surprise. “You are called Ragnor, are you not?” The man blushed and nodded. “We fought a mûmak together in Emyn Arnen?” The man’s blush deepened as he nodded again. “Congratulations! I did not remember you had been promoted to the Steward’s personal guard.”

“Thank you, Captain-General. It was because of your commendation after the battle.”

Boromir waved his hand in embarrassment. “It was well deserved! Ragnor, Captain Faramir is being moved to my quarters. Find his clothing and bring it here.” The man saluted and left.

“Because my bed is better, because they will look for you in your rooms and drag you back here, and because I said so. Is that not enough?”

“Wise as an owl,” Faramir chortled. “Thank you!” he said with passion. “Now, help me get this nightshirt off. I still cannot move the wretched arm up too high.”

Boromir stopped and looked at Faramir. “Are you truly well enough to leave here?”

“I am. The fever has been gone since before nuncheon; my stomach only roils when I see what they bring for me to drink; and I will go mad if I spend another night here. Are those reasons enough?”

Pulling off the shirt, Boromir sighed. “There will be no reasons enough once father hears of this. We will be in as much trouble as when we poured the water from your bedchamber’s window upon our friends and hit Adadhron instead.”

“Here,” Boromir took the clothing from the returned guard. “Let us get these on and leave here before someone hears the racket your making.” Quickly, Faramir was dressed. The guard followed them as they walked quietly through the Houses. The torches had been extinguished and only tapers lit the corridors. At last, they were outside.

“You have not moved from that bed in close to a fortnight. Of course you are tired. Let me help you.” He put an arm under Faramir’s right side and started to walk towards the tunnel.

“The way is longer than I remember,” Faramir whispered as they came out onto the Seventh Level.

“Halt!” The gate’s guard flushed when he saw Boromir. “Forgive me, sir. I did not realize it was you.”

“You stop everyone and anyone who passes through this gate. Even the Steward,” Boromir said firmly. “And you ask for the password. Do you understand?”

“What?” The man looked thoroughly flustered. “Oh! The password, sir. I must have the password.”

By this time, Boromir could feel that Faramir’s weight was increasing. The walk was too far. “Ragnor, give Faramir your hand also.”

The guard did as he was ordered and the walk was quicker as Faramir was almost carried to the Tower. Within moments, they were at Boromir’s quarters. “Stay outside the door and let none pass, Ragnor. And thank you for your help.”

The guard pushed the door open and Boromir led Faramir in. He sat him on one of the chairs in the antechamber and quickly walked to his bedchambers. He stoked the fire, turned down the bed, and went to get Faramir. After he had him settled, he offered him some wine. “This should take the edge off the pain, Faramir. I do not think I should have allowed you this freedom; not because of the Warden, but I deem you sicker and weaker than I had thought.” He shook his head in consternation.

“Never the mind. I had forgotten how comfortable your bed is. Thank you, Boromir.” And he slipped into sleep.

Boromir covered him, then walked to a chair, moved it next to the bed, and sat upon it, resting his feet on the bed near Faramir’s feet. He sighed as sadness engulfed him. First, father and now Faramir. Neither of them taking care of themselves. In a moment, he was asleep.

‘Pounding on the door. Always, there is pounding on the door. How am I to sleep with this every night!’

“My Lord Steward,” he heard Húrin’s voice crying as the Warden banged on his bedchamber’s door; he called for him to enter. “Well?”

“My Lord Steward. Faramir is missing. He is no longer in the Houses, his guard has disappeared, and we have searched his quarters. He is nowhere to be found. Before I rouse the entire Citadel, I thought it best to report to you.”

“It is. Go to Boromir’s rooms. I believe you will find him there. If not, return to me.”

‘And I will kill him in the morning,’ Denethor thought as he turned over in his bed.

The morning came and Denethor decided he would not kill Boromir this day. He looked upon his eldest with love. “When you decided to remove Faramir from his sick bed, it would have helped if you had notified someone, anyone. Did you not think they would miss him?”

Boromir smiled as he finished the last of the sausages. “You knew where he could be found.”

“That is not the same. You tell me I must rest, and when I do, they come pounding on my door because of some of your antics!”

“I am sorry, Father. I will instruct Húrin to stay away from your quarters during the night.”

“That will work quite well when we are attacked on our borders. By morning, all of Gondor could be lost.”

Denethor’s mouth dropped. He took a long deep breath and Boromir held up his hands in mock surrender. “I am sorry, Father, truly I am. I am looking forward to meeting Míriel. And Faramir was asleep when I left. The fever left him yesterday. He is very weak.”

“Then he will not be expected at today’s ceremony. Boromir, I want you in your best uniform, with all your accoutrements. This is a very important day.”

“Very well, Father. I best be gone then. It will take some time to prepare myself. Five layers of clothing, you know!”

Denethor sat in silence, his brow furrowed. He raised his head at the knock on the door. Calling ‘enter,’ he sat back in his chair and schooled his face to calm.

“Imrahil. You look splendid. A true prince of the realm. I am glad you are here. I would have you stand in for your cousin on this day.”

Denethor held himself still. His hands trembled slightly. “You would ask this?”

“I would. It is a great honor for me to have a close kin betrothed to my nephew. Father would have been glad. And honored.”

“The House of the Swans are and have always been true friends of Minas Tirith.”

Denethor took a deep breath. He had found not thinking of her kept the tears away. He bit his lip and took another breath. “She would have been. And Boromir, her heart would sing to see him grown as he has.”

“Yes.” Denethor shook his head to prevent the tears from forming. “I must begin to dress. Come with me into my dressing room.”

Denethor stood behind a screen and removed his nightshirt and his hauberk, hastily donning clean under garments. He stepped in front of the screen and held up a hand. “The silk shirt first and the leggings,” he laughed, as Imrahil held out his tunic.

“Of course. The shirt, then the leggings, then the underrobe, then the tunic, then the mantle.”

Denethor stopped the litany. “Now that I have the shirt and leggings on, I put on the undertunic, then the hauberk and the surcoat, then the mantle.”

A half hour later, Denethor was clad in his Steward’s clothing, soft boots upon his feet. He strapped his belt on, then hitched his scabbard to it. Finally, Imrahil offered him his sword. He placed it in the scabbard and walked to his study. Fiddling in the drawer for a moment, he pulled out the Steward’s Ring. “Now, I am ready. Let us be off.”

They walked slowly down the stairs and into the Great Hall. It was already filled. The Chamberlain held up his hand and stopped them. He stepped forward and tapped his staff loudly on the marble floor. As the echoes faded, he spoke, “My lords and ladies. The Twenty-sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor, son of Ecthelion of the House of Húrin, Lord Denethor.”

The Hall grew quiet as Denethor walked forward. Imrahil lagged behind a step, but Denethor would not allow it, and waited until Imrahil came even with him. They began to walk together towards the Chair. The Chamberlain followed behind holding the Rod of the Steward’s office. Denethor sat and motioned for Imrahil to stand on his right. The Chamberlain bowed and offered the White Rod; Denethor accepted it.

As the invited people of Gondor moved forward, Denethor waited. Within moments, the crowd parted and murmurs of approval could be heard. Boromir, dressed in a surcoat of dark blue, embroidered with the White Tree, with gold stars hemming it, and a cloak of deepest blue leather trimmed in sable, black leggings and polished boots, his sword at his side and the Horn of Gondor slung carefully across his back, walked forward. As he approached the Chair, he smiled broadly at Imrahil, then bowed to his father.

“People of Gondor. I come before you today as your Steward, but more importantly, as father to Boromir.” He motioned and Imrahil stepped forward and stood next to Boromir. “My people, Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, brings suit to us in the name of his cousin, Míriel, daughter of Galador, of the House of Imrazôr. We have accepted such suit on behalf of our son, Boromir. Let it be known that on the tenth day of April, the betrothal ceremony will take place here in the Great Hall of the City of Minas Tirith of the great realm of Gondor.”

Murmurs of appreciation rose. Heads nodded and women sighed. Some gentle sobs were heard and dainty handkerchiefs were evident. Denethor sat.

Imrahil bowed to Denethor and offered the contract. The dowry would be presented at the betrothal itself. Denethor took it and handed it to his Chamberlain. Imrahil turned to Boromir and embraced him. The people cheered.

Boromir looked at him in astonishment and Denethor hid his smile. Not oft could he surprise his son. This day was turning out much better than he could have hoped. “I now confer upon Boromir, as High Warden of the White Tower, Captain-General of the Armies, Prince of the City that Elendil founded, Captain of the White Tower, and Lord of Gondor, the highest military decoration that I may bestow for extraordinary heroism in battle, not once but twice near the Nindalf. There, he and his men met the enemy who proved more numerous and fierce than our reports had told; there did he do much damage and thwarted the Enemy’s plan to conquer Gondor; there did he bring his warriors through in triumph. There was never a consideration that he would not personally lead his troops into battle. He did not sit upon his mount on a hillock o’erlooking battle and watch as his men encountered the Enemy. Nay! He led them, rode his horse before them, and gave them such courage to overcome superior forces. Come forward, Boromir, valiant Son of Gondor.”

“Nay! Stand, Captain, and receive this collar of silver as token of our gratitude and the gratitude of your people.” Boromir turned; Denethor put the collar around his neck, lifted Boromir’s hair, and fastened it in the back. A single white stone, the purest white opal from the mines of South Harad, shone in its setting on the collar. “Your name and the names of the battles have been engraved on the back. Wear this in pride and with the profound thanks of all of Gondor.”

The crowd erupted into a roar of approval. Boromir blushed as Denethor embraced him. “I am most proud of you, my son,” he whispered.

Denethor turned him towards the people and the swell of acclamation rose. Denethor let them reward Boromir with their cries. After many moments, the Chamberlain motioned and the crowd slowly quieted.

“We have another honor to confer today. Would Damrod of Ithilien step forward?”

There was a commotion towards the front of the Hall near the doors and the crowd slowly parted. The Ranger strode forward; a look of total confusion covered his face. When he reached the step, he bowed low.

“Damrod of Ithilien, your captain, Faramir of Gondor, has recommended you for the Soldier’s Medal for distinguished service to Gondor and for acts of heroism in the face of terrible odds. During the ambush in Ithilien, you saw your captain felled by arrows, and, though the Enemy continued its attack, you put your own life in jeopardy to save his life. For meritorious service to Gondor and its people, I hereby award you the Soldier’s Medal.”

Damrod stepped up and Denethor pinned the ribbon’d badge embossed with the White Tree upon the Ranger’s tunic. Then, he embraced the man. As Damrod stepped down onto the main floor, Boromir strode forward and embraced the man also. “Thank you again,” he whispered. “Thank you!”

The Chamberlain struck the floor again and announced that refreshments would be served in Merethrond. Denethor and Imrahil walked through the open doors, followed closely by Boromir and Damrod. The crowd quickly dissipated; excitement filled the air. Boromir was forced to stand in a receiving line at the front of the hall. He had already eaten and did not much care that the food was quickly disappearing. His main thought had been regret that Faramir had not been present. He wondered if his brother was awake yet and if Ragnor had remembered to send for food so that Faramir could break his fast in comfort in Boromir’s bed. He looked over and smiled at Damrod who seemed as a fish out of water, receiving congratulations and hearty slaps on his shoulders.

“‘Twill be over quickly. The lords and ladies are in shock. I am surprised father was able to keep the betrothal a secret. By the looks on some of their faces, they had hopes for a different future for me.” He laughed quietly and Damrod, smarting from another well-wisher’s blow, laughed with him.

“I wish Captain Faramir had been here,” the Ranger moaned. “He it is that should have received an award. We all would have been dead, if not for him.”

Boromir frowned. “Awards are flighty. Sometimes given when least deserved, and sometimes, like in your instance, Damrod, when they are well-deserved.”

Soon, the congratulators slowly thinned. “Come,” Boromir took Damrod by the shoulder, “at least there are some sweet buns left.”

They walked to the tables and began filling their plates. Denethor and Imrahil joined them. “So, did I surprise you?” Denethor asked needlessly.

“You did. I am grateful, Father. I will wear it with pride. My only wish is that Faramir could have stood by my side.”

Denethor’s brow furrowed. “I did not want the people to remember the ignominy of that attack.”

“Ignominy or no, Father, Faramir should have… It is good that Damrod received the badge. Well deserved.”

“Indeed it was.” Denethor let Boromir’s statement lay. He knew what his son wanted to say, what the regiment wanted to say, and what Damrod in particular wanted to say, but the defeat was catastrophic whether or not Faramir saved more men than thought possible.

“Shall we visit him together?” Boromir asked. “And you too, Damrod. He would want to see your badge.” Damrod again blushed and Boromir found he liked the man more and more.

Imrahil came with them and thus it was that four lords and one Ranger of Gondor walked in just as Faramir was stepping from his bath. He found the towel laid out for him and quickly wrapped it around his torso. “I did not expect visitors.” His face, still quite ashen, betrayed his discomfiture by a most rosy blush.

“We brought food, Faramir.” Boromir didn’t even notice his brother’s state of attire. “Sweet buns and honey.”

Boromir pulled on the cord and a servant entered immediately. “Wine from the Steward’s cellars, please.”

Faramir, with Boromir’s help, quickly dressed and ran his fingers through his hair. Boromir led him to a chair in the study. Denethor and Imrahil sat on the settle and Boromir sat on the floor in front of Faramir’s chair. Damrod sat on the window’s sill.

Silence followed as all finally took a moment for a bite to eat, washed down by a few fine bottles of good wine, though not the Dorwinion vintage.

At last, Boromir leaned back against his brother’s chair. “We have been quite busy today, Faramir.”

“I did. And it went quite well, though the sound of major sniffing and snuffling and handkerchiefs flowing from maidens who had hoped to gain the Steward’s heir’s hand… It was a sad sight, was it not, my Lord Denethor?”

Denethor smiled. “I have many apologies to make to certain lords. Some had already purchased gowns for their daughters.”

Faramir began to laugh and Boromir joined him. “Would that I was there,” he said with enthusiasm.

“I missed you, brother,” Boromir said with all seriousness. “Father decorated me with the collar of silver!” he said, his voice hushed in awe. “Would you see it?”

“Oh! Boromir! Well-deserved.” Boromir had unclasped the collar and handed it to Faramir, who looked at it as if at the finest mithril in all the land. “It is beautiful.” He swallowed, trying to stem the tears. “Well-deserved.”

Boromir stood, pulled Faramir up, and hugged him. “Thank you! I wanted so much for you to be there. To share my joy!”

“Damrod also has received an award,” Boromir stepped back and made Damrod stand. “Look! The Soldier’s Medal.”

“Father!” Faramir turned to Denethor. “Thank you. I had not heard if my petition was granted or not.” He turned towards Damrod. “Well-deserved, Damrod. I am forever grateful to you.”

Imrahil spoke for them all. “I cannot tell you how much your deed has meant to the House of Húrin and of the House of Imrazôr.”

Silence filled the room as these stalwart men considered the action of one that saved one so dear to them all.

At last, the time came for Boromir to leave. “Damrod, will you help Faramir to his own rooms? And Father, please take no action against Ragnor in the displacement of the Warden’s patient. He only followed orders.”

“You still need to be punished for what you put both my Warden of the Houses and my Warden of the Keys through. I doubt they will willingly care for any from our house again.” Denethor’s face broke into a smile. “So that means you must take extra care of yourself whilst in Rohan these next few days.”

Boromir grinned. “I will, Father.” He handled the collar. “And thank you again. I am too filled with joy to speak further.” He hugged Denethor, Imrahil and then Faramir. Before he left the room, he saluted Damrod. “Take care of him. Remember your oath.”

Damrod began to protest, but Boromir was out the door before a word left the Ranger’s mouth.

Faramir grimaced in mock horror. “Does this mean you are still my nursemaid?”

“Now,” Denethor said, “it is time Imrahil and I met with Húrin. The Warden still has to draw up the papers for the betrothal.”

Imrahil took Faramir in his arms and hugged him. “It is good to see you up and about.”

“There.” Imrahil signed the last piece of parchment and set the quill down. He sat back and breathed a sigh of contentment. “It is well and good. Everything done that needs must be done. Now, when the betrothal takes place, there will be no legal matters to cause delay.”

“Thank you, brother. Húrin,” Denethor turned to his Warden, “Take these papers and put them in a safe place. You will bring them out and hand them over to the Chamberlain the day of the betrothal.”

“Yes, my Lord Steward. Now, do you have a moment to go over these final plans for the feasting tonight?”

“I leave the feast in your hands, Húrin.” The Warden looked at him in surprise, but nodded his assent. “I have something of great import that I must needs be about.” He dismissed his cousin and turned to Imrahil. “I will see you on the morrow to discuss those boats.”

“Stay a moment, brother,” Imrahil moved to the settle and sat, motioning for Denethor to join him. He handed him a goblet of wine, but Denethor declined. “Boromir suggested you take some care of yourself. I would not be a good uncle if I did not watch over you whilst he is away.”

Denethor chuckled. He sat back and took the proffered cup. Closing his eyes, he felt his body sink slowly into the deep leather. It soothed him somehow. He gulped. “There really is no time for this,” he lamented.

“Nay. Stay but a moment. Gondor will not fall at this precise moment.” Imrahil relaxed himself. They had been so very busy these past weeks. The weeks to come would prove as stress-filled. Any moment snatched for respite had to be grabbed and held tightly. He heard a noise and looked towards Denethor. A tear ran down the Steward’s cheek. One lone tear.

“I am tired. Will you visit Faramir this noontime? I will be busy for most of the afternoon and would not see him alone so soon after his wounding.”

Imrahil nodded. He suddenly and deeply missed Finduilas. He remembered sitting in this very settle, with Denethor on his right and Finduilas sitting next to the Steward, holding his hand and smiling gently. His heart ached for his friend.

“You dwell on the past, Imrahil,” Denethor said quietly. It pained him to see Imrahil start at his words. Sometimes, his gift for seeing others’ thoughts was painful. He stood and left his study.

‘I am leaving a little too quickly, but I must see northward. I should have done this last evening, when I heard of the treachery. Húrin will be put out, but the people do not need me to carouse.’ He took the steps two at a time, despite the heavy hauberk. He had worn it so long now that its weight was hardly noticed.

When he reached the uppermost room, he paused and looked through the Tower’s window. The Pelennor sprawled before him, its spring green not quite as vibrant as it should be. Denethor remembered Boromir’s comment concerning the rain in Ithilien. He knew his son wondered if the One they do not name was responsible. As far as Denethor was concerned, anything was possible, the rains that flooded Ithilien and the drought that assailed the Pelennor. Both could be the work of the occupant of Barad-dûr. ‘Is there aught I can do about this? Nay. But I can fight his evil whispers; I can save my warriors.’

Stepping through the door, he walked slowly towards the plinth, gathering his thoughts and energies. He took the cloth from the stone and placed his hands on it, one on either side. Soon, swirls lit up the inner recesses of the Palantír and Denethor drew in a sharp breath. As it had done this past year, the smooth ball whispered to him, but he concentrated on where he wanted to look and not on the stone’s desires. The Entwash spread before him. He could see the fingers of the Mouths spread out from the east and flow towards the west and the Mering. Somewhere along that route was Éomer. He would find him for Boromir and send an errand-rider with specific directions.

What he found instead was a patrol being decimated by a large band of Orcs; the banner was that of Cair Andros. ‘The fools,’ Denethor thought, ‘Why are they in that area. Does not our treaty with Rohan state that is Rohirric territory? Had I not sent warnings to leave that area for the Rohirrim?’

This was the third such attack in less than a fortnight. Boromir had been correct; Denethor had kept these reports to himself. ‘That fool of a captain, Hador, is sacrificing his men for naught! They cannot hope to stop these raids without help.’ He turned away, no longer wishing to watch the slaughter. Besides which, there was naught he could do. Looking further north, he found no signs of Rohirrim. Turning his eyes westward, he traveled for many miles until he spied clouds of dust directly north of the Mering. ‘A large contingent of men, perhaps even an éored,’ he thought. At last, after many moments of increased focus, he saw the banner. ‘Éomer’s!’ The band was heading southward, obviously for the garrison at the Mering. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

‘It will take Boromir a week to reach there, a few days to discuss and resolve this issue and any other problems, and then another week to return. He has eighteen days before his betrothal; I fear my timing is wretched.’ He bowed his head in bitterness and that is when he felt it, a cold, dark fury reaching out to him, out from the Palantír.

He tried to pull himself away, but found his hands tightened to the stone. His vision was taken from fair, clean, bright Rohan and across the Anduin to the Ephel Dúath. His sight diminished as the walls of the Tower room seemed to enfold upon him. The air became stifling. He was pulled towards a valley that led eastward. Immediately, he knew where he was being drawn – Minas Ithil no longer, but Minas Morgul. He had not been close to that dark fortress since he was a boy. In fact, he had never actually seen the walls and tower. Tales told of a once beautiful place, wreathed in the hallow of the hills, moonlight streaming from it, moonlight, in fact, welling up through the marble walls. He shuddered. Marble such as Minas Tirith was built of. Was this really Minas Morgul he was seeing or was it the future and what Minas Tirith was destined to become?

A voice came, soft and gentle, filling his head and causing his knees to buckle. He gripped the globe tighter, refusing to be cowed. Cocking his head sideways, he listened, sure he would not succumb. Had he not met the Nameless One himself in this very orb and survived! The voice was not the same, so he relaxed a bit, enough to let down a small portion of his defenses, enough to let in the Witch-king. His eyes widened as he saw before him a being, black-robed and black masked.

“You know me well, Denethor,” the mocking voice sneered. “I am the Lord of Morgul, the Black Captain, and you will do well to hear me. All is lost. You wait for a king. I have one, Eärnur by name. Perhaps you remember him. He came to me and still lives by my power. So the king you wait for,” the sneer deepened, “has been here all along. Shall I return him to you?”

Denethor shivered. It was not true. Mayhap the voice was not even real. Mayhap it was his own fear that sounded in his heart. Quelling his fear, he listened on.

A roiling laugh filled the Tower room, growing and building, echoing off the walls and cascading down upon Denethor, filling him with a terror the likes of which he had never felt before. His knees buckled again, but he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and stood once again, firm. He was the Steward of Gondor, a son of Númenor, an heir of the Faithful, of the House of Húrin. He would not succumb. He swallowed, his throat so tight it hurt. The taste of blood in his mouth wakened him, strengthened him; he pulled back a little way from the globe and sighed. “Be gone, spawn of Morgoth. I will not listen to your lies.”

The orb glowed and mists flowed through it. Denethor stared at the mists, as they seemed to cover his very hands. He did not loose his grip. ‘Faramir! Boromir!’ He saw again Faramir on the cot, deadly white and still. He saw Boromir, lying in a strange craft, his arms folded, much as he had been that dreadful day Finduilas and he thought they had lost him in the little creek by the walls of Minas Tirith. But now, Boromir was full-grown and his face was still. Denethor groaned and fell; the Palantír dropped with a resounding thud that reverberated in his ears; it rolled from his hands to hit with a loud thump against the wall where it finally stopped. Quiet filled the chamber.

Denethor’s chin shook as tears welled and spilled. He sobbed; his throat so tight he thought he would die. ‘Boromir, my beloved, what have I done?’ His son could not be dead, his child, his own! Gasping for breath, he leaned against the cold marble wall and willed himself to be strong. His hands grasped the mail shirt and the feel of the cold hauberk steadied him. ‘It is the future,’ he told himself grimly. ‘Just as the sight of Faramir dead on the cot was the future, so is this. He is not dead. And he will not die, nor will Faramir. I will… What?’ What could he do? The warriors of Gondor died on a daily basis, sometimes a hundredfold in one-day’s time. That Boromir and Faramir, and even himself, would die defending Gondor he had known since they were born. Yet, always, hope had covered his heart. He strove to discover how he could save them, but he knew he could not. He could not save Finduilas, nor Indis. Great sobs racked his body until he fell asleep on the cold, hard, marble floor with the Palantir across from him, swirling in malevolence. A hard laugh echoed off the walls and was gone.

Boromir sat in Guilin’s chair and waited for the captain to return. He had been angered by the order, Boromir felt the heat of the captain’s anger, and he had tried to assuage the captain’s fears. He would only take two companies with him, the garrison could afford two companies, and it was for only a short time, a little over a fortnight. If he understood the reports that Guilin had shown him, though, the captain had every right to be angry. The garrison could ill afford the loss of two companies with the level and strength of attacks that had assailed the fort at Amon Dîn. Silently, Boromir cursed his father for not being more forthright in communicating the scope of attacks to the northern border of Gondor.

It was imperative that he find Éomer, and quickly. First, because of the rumors of discord and division, mayhap even treason, but mostly, because of the need for strengthened guards along Rohan’s northern borders. If Gondor was being attacked, so must Rohan. He would wait the night here, gather the best warriors from the garrison, wait for the promised missive from Denethor, and then ride to Rohan.

Guilin stepped through the door, his boots heavy on the floor as if the captain filled his steps with the anger that flooded him. “I found the books you asked for. These are my finest riders.” He pointed to a column of names. “They will be ready at first light. I assume you will leave at first light?” A hint of mockery was in the strong voice.

Boromir leaned forward and took the book in his hands. “Sit, Captain. I would speak with you a moment. Have you wine or ale?”

Guilin walked to the sideboard and poured two mugs of ale, then sat in a chair in front of his desk. He handed the ale to Boromir. “Two companies, you say?”

“Enough of that for the moment. How was your trip back from Osgiliath? Did you sight any of the enemy?”

“We did not,” Guilin sighed. “All was quiet. I had hoped it meant a quiet spring, but I fear now we will be under attack until the next snows.” The captain bit his lip.

“I believe the same. That is why I must take your men, for this short span of time, and give the alarm to Rohan. If they take care of their northern borders, the burden will be lessened for you. Do you not see that?”

“Of course I see it,” Guilin’s tone was dangerously close to insubordination. “Still, if we are attacked, with one hundred forty men missing from our ranks, and with the losses we incurred at the Nindalf, I see not how we will survive.”

“You will. They have not dared to attack this garrison. You are too close to Minas Tirith.”

“That does not stop them from there constant raids upon Eastern Osgiliath,” the captain interrupted.

Boromir snorted. “Osgiliath is vulnerable. Amon Dîn, I tell you, is not. Not yet. However, if we do not receive help from the Rohirrim, that day that you fear may come. I cannot do this without your men, Guilin.”

Guilin rubbed his hands over his forehead. “I understand, Captain-General. It will be as you wish. I will hold the garrison for your return. Now, I will muster those on the list so that you might meet them.”

Boromir nodded. The captain left the small room and Boromir took a great, gulping breath as he leaned back. His eyes widened and he jumped from his chair. Running to the door, he opened it and called loudly, “Captain Guilin!” The man was halfway across the compound; he turned and looked. Boromir motioned and the man came towards him. Boromir returned to the chair and waited. When Guilin entered, he motioned for him to sit. The captain did so, puzzlement plainly writ across his face.

“Yes. They come across the border now and then to trade for supplies. The garrison at the Mering Stream is quite some ways from the furthest eastern reaches of their border. A troop came through here a week ago.”

“Brash, Captain-General. I wanted to take their captain and spit in his face.”

Boromir sat back in surprise at the vehemence in the man’s voice. “How did you treat them?”

“With diffidence. Giving them the respect of one ally to another.” Guilin looked at him, questions spilling from his eyes. “Was I to do other than that?”

“Nay. And I am glad, profoundly glad, that you kept your temper. Have you reason for their demeanor?”

“I do not. For the last year… Nay, since the beginning of this year, their bearing has been changed. Has some event caused this?”

“Yes,” Boromir whispered, but kept his thoughts to himself. “You did well, Captain Guilin. Now, please bring the men to me. Mayhap Éomer and I can change this behavior on the part of the Rohirrim. Do not, and this is an order from the Steward himself, do not treat them other than as trusted allies.”

Boromir swore. “By every Vala known, the Enemy tears us asunder. And we go willingly, as lambs to the slaughter!” He downed the warm ale and closed his eyes, preparing for the next part of his journey.

A/N: There is one line of description in FOTR where Tolkien mentions a collar of silver that Boromir wore. It has always intrigued me. It couldn't have been something that Finduilas wore... too large... so I finally decided, since he wore the thing for 110 days on a very difficult journey, that it had special significance. I hope you like the idea of it being an award for valour. Seems only fitting. "He was cloaked and booted as if for a journey on horseback; and indeed though his garments were rich, and his cloak was lined with fur, they were stained with long travel. He had a collar of silver in which a single white stone was set; his locks were shorn about his shoulders. On a baldric he wore a great horn tipped with silver that now was laid upon his knees. He gazed at Frodo and Bilbo with sudden wonder." Book 2, Ch 2, The Council of Elrond, FotR, LotR.

Denethor opened his eyes, straining to see about him, to find where he was. His mind reeled, the pain so fierce, he knew not if he would survive. Closing them did naught but make the pain sharper. He gritted his teeth to quell the throbbing, but that motion only sent him over the edge and he screamed. Blood filled his mouth, the scream silenced by the biting of the soft inner skin. Slowly, inexorably, the pain lessened, the throbbing dulled to a quiet roar, the wound quickly closed. His lips shook as he tightened them. His fingers trembled as he frantically pulled his cloak tighter about him. The marble had turned to ice, his body burnt by its freezing tendrils.

An hour passed, maybe more. He did not believe he survived the onslaught of such agony, but he had, and a grim smile flitted briefly across his face. He was still alive; he was still sane; he was still in control; he was still his own lord. The smile grew into a hideous grin and he screamed his defiance. ‘You will never have me! You will never have my sons!’ His head fell back against the wall; his body swayed and fell to the side. A low, deep moan swelled from his gut and passed his lips ere darkness once again took him.

The guard, two flights down, ran up the stairs as the cries echoed through the stairwell and out into the night. Desperately, he tugged at the handle but it would not turn. He heard the moan and grew frantic. He crashed his shoulder against the door, but it was built to keep out an enemy; it would not budge. He called again and again, “My Lord Denethor! Steward! Open the door! My Lord?” But there was no answer. Only one thing to do. He ran down to the very bottom of the Tower, shouting as he exited for the Warden of the Keys. The cry went up in the High Court. At last, Húrin was found and brought to him. Soldiers crowded around them, straining to hear what had caused such bedlam.

“What? What has occurred that I have been brought from my bed this late at night? Are we under attack? Where is Lord Denethor?” The Warden’s words, in the terror that filled the Steward’s stronghold, cut through the desperation of the guard.

“The Steward, Lord Denethor, is locked in the Tower room; he is hurt or ill. Something has attacked him. I know not what.” The warrior’s eyes were wild with grief and fear. “I heard his screams. Never, even in battle, have I heard such screams. Do you have the key?” He clutched the Warden’s cloak and tried to steady himself.

“I have no key for that room. Bring a timber and men. We will open it by force.”

The guard gave a short, choked laugh. “Nothing will open that door but the key. All is lost. Our Lord is dead.”

The wind swirled across the Citadel, the moon’s light darkened by a black, scudding cloudbank. All who saw it shivered; some cried out in fear as they heard the guard’s last words.

Imrahil, running from his chambers in the guest hall, shouted above the furor, “The Steward lives! We will rescue him. Be still while we go to him.” He dragged the guard with him as he ran towards the Tower. “Bring the men and the timber. We will do what we can.” He motioned and Húrin joined him.

Six men followed the Prince of Dol Amroth; Húrin brought up the rear, fingering the keys upon his belt in helpless frustration. Imrahil heard him muttering to himself, but could not make out the words. He turned his attention from him and ran up the Tower stairs, two at a time.

“Why do I not have a key for that room? When this is over,” the Warden vowed, “I will have a key made, whether the Steward wills it or no!”

They reached the topmost room. No light shown under the door, only silence greeted them. Imrahil motioned for quiet. Gently, he knocked on the door. “Denethor? It is your brother. Please open the door.” He leaned his ear against the door, but heard nothing. Knocking loudly, he called again. “Denethor! It is Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth. Open the door!”

There was no response. The guard moaned as Húrin took the keys and held them to the lock hole. Imrahil nodded in approval. The Warden tried each key, but attempt after attempt failed. At last, Denethor’s cousin looked at the Prince in despair. “None fit,” he whispered. “It is as I feared.”

Imrahil shook his head. “Bring the timber.” The warriors brought it forward. In the close confines of the winding stairwell, it was hopeless. They could not even manage enough room for the men to stand never mind have room to wield a piece of wood. The timber itself was too long; there was no room to position it. If they had a shorter piece, he thought, it would probably break in the onslaught against the heavy oak door. Imrahil stood, undecided. One last desperate attempt was needed. “A fire! Bring hot coals, oil, kindling, and small pieces of wood. We will burn the door down!”

The guards ran back down the stairs as Húrin’s eyes filled. “How did you think upon that?” Imrahil saw the hope in the Warden’s eyes and wished he had as much in his heart. These doors were heavy and thick. It would take hours to burn through.

Imrahil nodded, his own eyes blurred by tears. Only moments later, the guards returned with a pail full of red, hot coals. Kindling was placed on the floor along with bits of old parchment. Then they soaked the mixture in the oil and the coals were poured over all of it. Swiftly it caught; the soldiers carefully laid the pieces of wood, one by one, upon the flames. The red tendrils rose, engulfing the door more quickly than any had expected. They stepped back to escape the deadly heat. It would be but mere minutes, Imrahil realized, before the door went fully up in flames. There was hope!

By the time Boromir finished inspecting the men he would take with him, night had descended. He dismissed them, then walked slowly back towards the garrison’s office. Wearily, he pushed open the door and was greeted by the warmth of a blazing fire. He walked to it and took his gloves off. The cold of what was turning into a bitter spring had crept through the leather and into his fingers, making them stiff and sore. He flexed them and heard a slight cough. Turning, he found Captain Guilin looking at him. “Aye?”

“Then, as you will continue to deal with the Rohirrim in your capacity as captain of Amon Dîn, I think it only fitting that you set foot upon their land. It is in the touch of the land that one knows her people and the Rohirrim love Calenardhon. How could they not, was it not once Gondor’s soil?” He laughed at the joke of it.

Guilin swallowed dryly. “But, who will you leave in charge of the garrison? It is a dangerous time, my Lord.”

“The best would be Baranor, my aide. He has been here since before my time. The men trust him.”

“Not well, but I have served with his sons. Both of them are considered friends. They are now stationed at Osgiliath. Bring him to me.”

The captain nodded and left. Within moments, a huge man entered the room. His shoulders were broad and his hair black and straight and long; arms, covered in mail, showed scars running from the hands on up. The soldier’s crooked smile mirrored both of his sons’ crooked smiles. Boromir grinned. The man saluted and waited.

“It is good to see you again, Baranor. I cannot even remember the last time you visited our home. Please, sit,” Boromir offered him a chair at the captain’s table. “Captain Guilin, your hospitality has been outstanding, but I fear I worked through the daymeal. Is any food left?”

“Of course,” Boromir noted the man’s look of chagrin. “Forgive me, Captain-General. I should have noted it. There will be food in but a moment’s time.”

“Have enough brought for both Baranor and you also.” He sat at the table with the old warrior and smiled. “You have been in my family’s service for a very long time. Father told me you were a comfort to him when his friend, Amdir, died.”

“It is long since I have been stationed in the City. I deem, if not disfavoured, then forgotten.”

Boromir’s eyes watered. “If all I know of Amdir is true, his loss was beyond sorrow to my father. Mayhap he recalls the grief when you are near.”

“Two days after your sweet mother passed,” Baranor reminded him. “Aye. I have thought that the reason for my banishment.”

“If you deem it banishment, I will go to father immediately and have you recalled.”

“I am overly dramatic. If my Lord Steward needs me away from him, then I am glad to be of such service.”

“Nay. It is not right. Long have you fought for Gondor; now is the time to return to her City and savour your reward.” He beamed as the soldier bowed his head. “I have seen your sons. I spent time with them just a few short weeks ago in Osgiliath. Beregond guards the Causeway Forts and Iorlas the bridge. They are good men and true. You have much to be proud of.” The old warrior’s huge grin delighted Boromir. “They are also quite good at Kings and Stewards. I have lost to them a time or two. But now, I have a task for you. Will you stay here and command Amon Dîn until your captain returns? It should be less than a fortnight.”

“Then it is settled.” He stood and helped move maps and books and such off the table as Guilin and some aides brought in trays of food.

They sat and talked for most of the night, for Boromir was not concerned. The road to the Mering was straight and well kept. It would be an easy ride. Baranor regaled him with tales of his father and Boromir learned much that night, much that furthered his respect and love for the Steward, his father.

If there was ever a time Faramir needed his strength, it was now, and now it failed him. He had gone to the stables, it had been too long, and began grooming his mare, but within a very short time, he found himself weaker than a babe. The groomsman had had to come and help him to his rooms. A great fire was lit, the servants turned down the bed, and a warmer was used to take the chill from the covers.

Now, he lay on his bed contemplating his future. The shoulder was beyond sore. True, there had been poison in the arrows, but he thought he would have been further along in healing. He fell into a deep sleep, aided by the healing tea left him. The despicable groomsman, once he had seen him on his bed, had sent for a healer. He didn’t want his father to know he was still so weak, yet the healer would certainly report this relapse. ‘There is so much to do before I journey south. I need to go to Osgiliath, at least to start what Boromir has planned for its defense.’ But sleep came and quickly; blessed drugged sleep that kept all outside noise from the Steward’s youngest son.

The conflagration at the door quickly died as the greedy flames ate through the old oak. Imrahil jumped through the last of the fire and ran to Denethor’s side, but upon the Prince’s gentle touch, the Steward opened his eyes, pushed him away and crawled towards the other end of the room. Imrahil sat back in utter astonishment. After a moment, he ran after him. Denethor was wrapping his cloak around an object; Imrahil could not make out what it was. In a moment, Denethor leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath.

“You are not, brother,” Imrahil said gently. “We will take you to your room. Húrin,” he motioned to the Warden, “Let us help him stand.”

The healer made to examine Denethor, but Imrahil stopped him with a shake of his head. “Leave him till we reach his chambers. He is gruff now and will not agree to such help.”

Denethor growled and shoved him. Imrahil raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘So much strength still here!’ The Steward made to stand, but his legs refused. Imrahil took one arm and Húrin the other. Denethor, the Prince noted, had decided to allow their help. They started toward the door. Denethor stopped and looked at the burnt entrance. “This must be replaced immediately.” His voice still rang clear.

“Aye, my Lord Steward, it will be replaced immediately,” one of the guards said. The healer who had come with them said naught and followed them down the stairs. One of the guards ran ahead to call for servants to prepare Denethor’s chambers.

Once they reached the Steward’s private quarters, Húrin sent the guards, but one, away. The healer took his place at Denethor’s side and together, Imrahil and he walked the weakened man to his bed. By this time, the Steward’s own chamberlain had arrived and quickly took over. Denethor refused his bed; he pushed himself away from the men and walked to his wardrobe. He rummaged around inside for a moment, then closed and locked the door. Only then did he return to Imrahil. The healer gently sat Denethor on the bed and his chamberlain began to undress him.

“We will be in your out chambers. When you are ready to speak, send for us.” Imrahil saluted and left with Húrin close behind.

The two men walked to Denethor’s private study, leaving the healer behind to fight with the Steward over his care. Húrin sat heavily in the settle before the fire while Imrahil stood at the window, looking out upon the Pelennor. Slowly, he turned, his face drawn and white.

“He… I have never seen him like this. His face has aged ten years. His hair is more white than black. I cannot understand this. What evil lurks in that room? What has he been doing?” Tears streamed down the young Prince’s face. “It is unbearable to see him thus.”

“Aye. There was horror in that room.” The Warden looked up and grimaced. “The common people say the Lord Steward wrestles with the Enemy in that room. Is that possible?”

“Anything is possible,” Imrahil spat in his anger and frustration. “He has great powers; that he can use them so far from Barad-dûr I find hard to believe, but my eyes do not deceive me with the change that has come over Denethor. He looks to have faced death.”

Imrahil entered Denethor’s bedchambers and waited. The healer had gone, as well as Denethor’s manservant. The Steward did not open his eyes, so Imrahil crossed the room, moved a chair from near the fireplace, placed it next to the bed, and sat. He waited, for he knew that, though the Steward seemed to sleep, he had been the one who called him here. It was almost the mid night hour. ‘A very long day,’ Imrahil thought grimly.

The Prince of Dol Amroth almost wept as he saw the devastation upon his friend’s face. Pain, grief, fear… Was fear there also? He was surprised. When he had been a young soldier and served under Denethor, he thought he would never see fear upon the great warrior’s face, but now, it was definitely fear. “What have you seen, brother?” he asked quietly.

“Death,” the voice was strong and the eyes that quickly opened were clear. “I have seen it all my long life, but never in this fashion.” Denethor’s head tilted slightly. “I thought mayhap I was accustomed to it, but I am not.”

Imrahil leaned closer, resting his hand upon Denethor’s arm. “We have both seen much death.”

“Not like this, Imrahil. I,” he shuddered. “None other is to know this, especially my sons, do I make myself clear?” He continued upon Imrahil’s acceptance of the command. “I saw Boromir dead in a boat on the Anduin and Faramir dead on a cot in the Tower.” The Steward’s mouth was held in a tight, straight line. No emotion was in his words nor in his mien.

Imrahil clutched Denethor’s arm tightly. “It is a lie,” he hissed. “Like unto the lies he told in Númenor and before that. It is lies like those that turned the Elves from Valinor. Listen not to him, Denethor. I will support you in all you need to do to protect them. I swear on the grave of my sister, my father and my mother!”

“As do I, but it will be for naught.” He waived his arm as Imrahil attempted to protest.

“Nay. I know it is lies, but the images, the sounds, the feel…” He shuddered. “Lies or no, it is possible, Imrahil, and we must do everything in our power to stay such horror.” He paused for another moment. “None know this either, my brother, and none ever will, but I have seen the Pelennor covered with the armies of the Nameless One. Their war machines were many; they drove before them Mûmakil and other beasts; Uruk-hai led the battle, too numerous to count. Imrahil!” Denethor took the Prince’s hand and held it, almost crushing the small bones, “I could not see the green of the land beneath their feet, there were so many!” He lay back, exhausted.

“Nay.” The Steward whispered. “That is the rub, is it not? But soon. The landscape of the Pelennor was not much changed. I noted some trees I am familiar with; they are about the same size. It will be within five years at the most.”

“Nay. Towards the beginning of a new day for Gondor, Denethor. I promise. The men of Gondor are doughty. We will not fall. Minas Tirith will not fall.” He lowered his voice, released the strong hold he had on Denethor’s arm, changed it into a light touch and said, “Rest well. I do not want to have to answer to Boromir when he returns!” He smiled down at his friend. Denethor’s eyes were closed. Imrahil turned and left the room.

“How fares he?” Húrin stood, strode forward and asked as soon as the Prince came out of the bedchambers.

“He carries a heavy burden. I see hope in his eyes though. He continues to do battle, and we must stand beside him with swords drawn, Húrin. Else Gondor will fall.” He bid the Warden good night and walked slowly back to his own quarters.

Húrin sat upon the settle once again, his hand held a goblet of mulled wine. He had decided to keep watch, but only a moment had passed when Denethor’s cry rang out. He jumped from the settle and ran into the bedchambers.

Húrin tried to calm the Steward, but nothing but a promise to send for one immediately calmed his cousin. Húrin ran to the door and summoned the guard. He then ordered him, loud enough for Denethor to hear, to fetch an errand-rider. The man saluted and left.

Húrin ran to the study and brought a writing board, parchment, a quill and ink to the bed. Denethor took it and began writing furiously. By the time he had finished, the errand-rider knocked on the door. At Denethor’s bidding, Húrin found the seal and the wax, melted it on the note, and handed it to Denethor, who set his seal on the note and handed it to the rider. “Take this to Amon Dîn immediately. Let no one stop you and personally hand it to Captain-General Boromir.”

The rider saluted, took the proffered note, turned and left. Denethor lay back against the pillow, his face white as marble. “Thank you, Húrin. I will sleep now, I promise.” The shadow of a smile graced his face.

Húrin, thoroughly flustered, went back to the settle and poured himself a large goblet of wine. He sat and shook his head. ‘This is going to be a long night!’

Denethor pushed the covers back and stood. He walked to the window and looked out upon his beloved land. He clenched his teeth as the vision shown him in the orb threatened to overwhelm him, and then bent over to mitigate the pain that shot through his mind. ‘Too long did I look; I will not do that again,’ he thought miserably. The White Tree stood in the Courtyard. Not a leaf clung to it, but was not that the way it had looked all his life?

Yet, the Pelennor beyond was green in the flush of springtime, albeit a dry one. He watched as the land undulated under the stars in its slow drop to the river. It took his breath away, as always. A few lights twinkled in the dark to mark a farmhouse, a vineyard, or the occasional hostelry. He could not remember the last time he had ridden out and felt the clean wind on his face, the feel of his mount under him, and the smell of the rich soil of the farmlands. His head dropped in inconsolable grief. If this fell, if this fair land was trampled and raped by the Enemy, could he yet live? He bit his lip and turned from the window.

The Pelennor was not the only target for the Enemy. He quickly dressed. ‘Where is my hauberk?’ he thought in irritation. ‘They have taken it away; that wretched servant of mine finally has had his way and has removed it from me.’ But no, a moment later he found it and put it on, then his tunic. He found his belt, scabbard and sword and quickly finished. At last, he found his overcoat, the fur-lined one that warmed almost any night on the parapet. He put it on and walked out the door.

He stopped as suddenly as he had started. Húrin sat by the fire. He swore under his breath, but then smiled grimly. The man was sound asleep; the goblet had fallen to the floor. Denethor squirmed at the thought of his faithful cousin. He should send him off to Belfalas or somewhere to lead a life of ease. Yet, here he had charged him with one of the most grievous duties in the realm, Warden of the Keys. He touched the man’s forehead in love as he passed.

The guard’s face openly showed complete surprise. Some part of Denethor wryly thought of the confusion of the guard: should he stop his Steward and send for aid or should he let him pass? ‘Well, I have no time for that now,’ Denethor thought, and barely nodded as he passed the man by. He knew, if he was quick and firm in his step that the guard would be nonplussed enough not to venture any action. He was right.

He walked the two flights up and found the door unlocked. He walked into the outer chamber and saw the fire was near spent. The room was cold and Denethor wrapped his coat closely about him. He walked through the outer doors and into the bedchamber. The fire here burned even lower. He put a few logs onto it and looked for a chair. One stood near the window. He brought it to the bed and sat down. A smell assailed him, familiar and unpleasant. ‘Ah, valerian tea. But why? What need has Faramir for this?’

He looked more closely at his son. Faramir did not stir. A slight sheen of sweet covered the boy’s forehead. His face looked as it did in the vision. Fear drove him to touch the boy’s chest. The slow, steady, though shallow rhythm eased his concern. Denethor swallowed as tears stung his eyes. He vowed, in the Tower room, that he would not cry again. Never would he be pathetic enough to allow the Enemy to do what he had done this night, find him weak and easily o’ercome. Never again.

A cock crowed somewhere in the vast expanse of Minas Tirith and Denethor stirred. ‘I should be away before he wakes, else he be concerned.’ But he had been too late in the thought; Faramir’s eyes looked at him quizzically.

“Ada… Father,” he noted the boy corrected himself. A shaft of pain pricked his heart.

“I was on my way to the Great Hall and decided to look in on you,” he lied fluidly. “Are you well? I see the tea?”

“I am weak,” Faramir’s voice spoke volumes. Dejection and frustration vied for control.

“It is the poison. One arrow laced thus would kill many a man, my son, yet you have taken two such hits. It is not unexpected, though frustrating.”

Faramir looked up in surprise. “It is frustrating! I went to groom my horse and had to be nigh carried back here.” A scowl lit his face and Denethor quelled a laugh.

Faramir smiled tiredly, “I am sorry, Father, of course you do. Above all other men in Gondor, you know frustration. I seem to be a large part of it, of late.”

“Nay,” Denethor took Faramir’s hand and held it. “You are a large part of my life, that I will attest to, but not my frustration. This is a hard time for a soldier, Faramir, to be laid low, knowing there is much that needs your attention. Gondor will wait for your recovery.”

Faramir smiled, closed his eyes and slept again. Denethor stood, kissed his brow, and left the room. The walk to his own study on the first floor lasted a year at least, he thought miserably. ‘I am as weak as Faramir.’ He paused with his hand on the door, changed his mind and walked out onto the Courtyard. Passing through the tunnel, he entered the Sixth Circle and turned left. The training grounds lay before him. He walked into the building and found the armoury.

After a moment’s work, he was fully equipped; he walked into the sandy circle and faced the padded practice pole. He raised his practice sword, swung it time and time again, and grimaced as the thuds reverberated through his body. He could feel his frustration leave him and a sense of calm finally return. He would beat the Enemy as he beat this pole. No harm would come to his sons.

“No harm will come to Boromir. No harm will come to Faramir. The Pelennor will remain clean and beautiful. Minas Tirith will stand till Arda itself falls.” Over and over he chanted these words until his breath came in short gasps and his arms felt like lead.

An arm grabbed him as he pitched forward. “Brother,” Imrahil’s quiet voice pervaded the haze of exhaustion.

“Brother,” he replied. “How kind of you to rescue me, again.” He heard Imrahil chuckle as darkness spread.

Riding slowly out of the garrison at Amon Dîn with Captain Guilin beside him, Boromir mused on the cryptic message from his father. True, the direction he needed was contained in the missive, but naught else: no greeting, no small scribble about Faramir and wedding plans, no fare well. Not oft did his father write so blandly and that worried Boromir. Trying to read behind the lines was useless – there were no lines to read! He swore under his breath and his brow furrowed even deeper. His horse, noting the disquiet of her master, took to snorting and pulling at the reins. Boromir had to shush her a number of times.

“She will not quiet until you do, Captain-General.” Guilin spoke low so none other could hear.

Guilin looked at him in surprise. “Something in the Steward’s missive gives you concern?”

“There is naught in the missive but where Marshal Éomer is and that is enough to concern me. If our mission were not so vital, I would turn around right now.” He shook his head and bit his lower lip. “I do not understand it.”

“You sent a rider to Captain Faramir this morning, right after you received the missive. There should be a reply within days. Cannot you wait until then?”

“I must.” He heaved a sigh. His father had not looked well the last time Boromir had seen him, and though he had begged Imrahil to watch over him, Boromir was not sure if any could stop the Steward from doing anything that his father deemed necessary, no matter the hour or the danger. After listening to Beregond’s tales last night, and some of the hasty, yes that was the word, hasty actions of his father when he was a youth, Boromir was not certain that flair for adventure and danger did not still linger in his father’s mind. Would he in actuality go to Osgiliath himself? He had been headed that way after Faramir’s wounding. ‘Nay! He has more sense.’

“We could return to Amon Dîn and wait for your brother’s reply. We are only gone an hour.”

“Nay.” Another deep sigh. “We will ride at an easy pace. We might have a reply before we break camp tomorrow morning. I would that were so. But now, let us speak of Éomer and the Rohirrim.”

They rode with only three breaks, once in the morning and afternoon, and once for nuncheon. At last, as Anor set behind the mountains, they pulled up to the garrison of Eilenach. The men camped outside while Boromir was given the captain’s own quarters. Food and drink were rationed, as the winter had been hard. The men of this outpost were grateful for the oranges from Lebennin that Boromir brought with him. But more, they seemed awed that their Captain-General should deem fit to visit them. That same Captain-General found himself ruing the fact that he had not been to the Beacon Hills for a very long time. As soon as was possible, which meant near to the mid night hour, Boromir took himself away from the main gathering and went to bed. He fingered his father’s missive as he closed his eyes.

He had not been asleep more than an hour when there was a furious knocking on the door. He sat up and called ‘enter’ whilst wrapping a robe about him. ‘The errand-rider,’ he sighed as the man stood before him. He took the missive, thanked and dismissed the man.

I have not seen Father all day. Uncle Imrahil states he is well, but I understand your misgivings and have tried diligently to ask towards father’s welfare. None gave it, until late this afternoon. Hence, the delay in the messenger’s arrival.

He is not well, Boromir. I feigned a relapse so that he would come to me. When he did not, I took myself to his chambers. Húrin sat in the parlour and barred my way. After a small bit of shouting, of which I am not proud, Uncle entered the room from father’s bedchambers. He saw I would not be swayed in my endeavor to speak with father, so he let me through.

The paper looked crumpled and Boromir spent a moment smoothing it out. At least, that is what he told himself; in fact, he needed a moment to steel himself before reading further.

I know not what has befallen him, Boromir. I would have sobbed if not for the look in his eyes, as if he dared me to show weakness. I pulled myself straight and saluted. Eru forgive me, I wanted to fall at his side and weep as a babe.

He spoke calmly and chastised me for causing an uproar, for my disrespect of his Warden, and for many other things. I was… surprised by his vehemence. But I will forgive that, I already have. It is the state of his body that causes me alarm. I cannot even describe it to you, Boromir. It is as if our grandfather stood before me – not our father. He has aged by ten years at least since last night.

I spoke of mundane things, Boromir. He knows I saw the betrayal of his body. To speak of it in the open would have been fruitless. I suggested I might go to Osgiliath and begin the work you planned for the garrison. He agreed immediately and told me to leave on the morrow.

He knows I have no strength. He was with me last night. I did have a small relapse. Nothing to be concerned about, brother, for it is only the weakness of the poison. It has not quite washed completely from my body, but I am well enough. But not well enough to go across the Pelennor. I only tell you this so you will understand my concern… Nay! My alarm over his condition.

Do your best to complete your mission as quickly as possible and return to Minas Tirith. I leave for Osgiliath on the morrow. I promise, and at this Boromir smiled, to ride slowly.

Boromir crawled back into bed, pulled the covers over him, and shook. The Enemy had somehow reached Denethor. The lies were not enough. How could he have entered the Citadel? When he returned, he vowed, he would place extra guards in Denethor’s detail, he would search the Tower itself for secret passages, and he would secretly set his own guard upon his father, one who would only report to him. His anger flared. ‘We will leave for Rohan at first light. We will stay only long enough to discuss the lies of the Nameless One, then I will return home and make some sense of what is happening. Enough of this madness!’

Faramir lay back, exhausted. His walk to his father’s chambers was not, however, the reason. His mind reeled once again as he thought of the sight that had greeted him upon entry to his father’s bedchamber. As he had written Boromir, it seemed Ecthelion stared back at him. His father’s breathing was soft, but strong; yet, Faramir noted a slight trembling in Denethor’s hands. His face was waxen and covered with a slight sheen of sweat. His hair was more silver than black and deep furrows creased his brow accompanied by deep wrinkles along his eyes and mouth. Imrahil was wiping the sweat when Denethor batted his hand away. He had seen Faramir enter the room and wanted no show of weakness for his son. ‘Too late,’ thought Faramir. ‘He is beyond weak. What has caused this?’ He dared not ask.

“Uncle Imrahil,” the Steward’s son turned to the Prince. “I see you are caring for my father as my brother asked?”

The hint of anger in his nephew’s voice stung. “I am, Faramir. As well as I am able.”

Faramir nodded, a half smile graced his face. “Mayhap I should let you rest and take your watch?”

“I need no watchers!” Denethor spat furiously. A touch of his old vigour helped him push himself up on his arms to sit up in the bed. “I need no nursemaid!” Then, much to his dismay, his arms gave way and he fell backwards into the pillows. “Wizard’s pus!”

Denethor drew in a deep breath. “They certainly do, for every time I find myself in their presence, I find myself wiping spittle and pus from my mind!”

“Oh! I like that phrase, Father. May I use it when next I write to Mithrandir?”

At once, Faramir realized he had taken the jibe too far. His father’s experiences with Saruman flashed across Denethor’s face and Faramir knelt by his bed. “Forgive me, Father. I jest about something that causes you discomfort.”

Imrahil nodded and walked out of the room as Faramir sat in the chair by the bed. He bit his lip in faint imitation of his brother and Denethor could not help but smile.

“I stayed up too late. In fact, I do not believe I slept. I wanted to expunge some anger I was feeling and went to the training grounds. I spent some time hitting the practice pole. I went too far. Imrahil helped me save face by letting me collect myself before I walked back here. The people did not see it.”

Faramir had to blink back tears. “I am grateful for my uncle’s care. I think I have an apology to tender.”

Smiling, Faramir took Denethor’s hand and winced at the paper-thin feel of the skin. “You are worth ever bit of love and friendship any have to give, Father. You do not stint yourself in your love for Gondor. Who cannot admire that? Who cannot love you?”

Denethor closed his eyes at the unexpected tribute. “I would rest, Faramir. You will leave for Osgiliath tomorrow?”

“It is. Your brother’s plans are on the desk in my private study. Take them with you and begin the process of rebuilding the garrison.”

Denethor did not answer. Faramir stood, gazing one last time on his father, then turned, shoulders hunched, and left the room. He passed Imrahil in the outer chamber without a word.

“Have you lost your mind,” Imrahil hissed between clenched teeth, his hand painfully digging into Faramir's arm.

Faramir turned Steelsheen's head around and stopped, well away from the supply caravan heading for Osgiliath. “What do you know of loyalty and obedience?” he snapped, fatigue overwhelming him. “I am bid hasten to the garrison by my Steward; therefore I am as you find me.”

“You are not yet recovered from your wounds.” Imrahil let the harshness of his nephew’s words pass over.

“The wounds are healed. The poison will work its way out in time. I am not helpless.”

“Faramir,” Imrahil clenched his hands on his reins. “You should have told your father of the weakness of your body. He is not himself these days. He is not thinking clearly.”

“It is not that difficult a ride, Uncle,” Faramir smiled, moistness filling his eyes at his uncle’s concern. “I must do as father asks. It was not an order, not in the usual sense, but he needs me there. Do you not understand that? Whether he is himself or no, I owe him my allegiance. I am well enough to travel at the pace the caravan sets. Will you stay with me when we stop for nuncheon?”

“I cannot understand either one of you.” Imrahil shook his head. “At least Boromir is straightforward. He does not play games with me or with himself.”

The Prince fumed. “That is not what I meant. I would that you would stand up for yourself, at least in circumstances such as these.”

“As I said, I am not helpless. Perhaps weak, but that will pass. There is much to be done, Uncle. I want to be back home for Boromir's betrothal. I want to meet the lady.” Faramir smiled.

Imrahil returned the smile. “Since your companions set an easy pace, I must be content with your decision. Remember this, Faramir, you are not readily expendable. You are needed and most important to Gondor and to your father. Do not sell yourself short.”

“Let us continue this journey then. Tell me more about Míriel. Was she raised in Dol Amroth itself or is she from the lands nearby?”

“She has lived in Dol Amroth her entire life. Her father is on my council. Her mother is one of the social gadflies that love to stick their noses in everyone's business. Míriel is, fortunately, more like her father than her mother, else I would not have suggested her to Denethor. I like her. You will too, I am sure. As for Boromir,” Imrahil shook his head, “I do not believe there is a woman alive who can take his heart from Minas Tirith. She has a daunting task ahead of her. But I think she is ready for it. Court life in your city is not as convoluted as in mine. I think Indis had great bearing on that. She kept the intrigue to a minimum. Would not tolerate any. That was a blessing for Denethor. It was a grievous day, when she passed.”

“He misses her terribly. I think he has no one he trusts as he did his sister. I am told she was councilor to Ecthelion also?”

“He listens to his Council, but usually," and Faramir's smile turned bitter, “Usually he does what he had planned before he even spoke with them. They grow frustrated. And bitter.”

“I can understand that. His spies and the other tools he uses to dredge information are unique. I cannot keep up with his thoughts myself. It must be very frustrating to not have the information he does and have to council him. I do not envy these lords.”

“Nor I. I know Boromir is becoming frustrated. He needs must have the reports father has, but father does not share them all. Boromir's hands are tied. At least now, I think, father has agreed to send all army related reports to Boromir. Father seems to know the enemies movements, but does not tell Boromir. How does one plan a campaign if one is blind?”

“Mayhap I can do something about that. When I return, if your father has recovered fully, I will discuss this matter.”

The caravan pulled up and Faramir and Imrahil sat with the men and shared a cold meal and warm ale. Then, they broke camp and continued their journey to Osgiliath.

Imrahil hugged Faramir warmly before helping his nephew mount his horse. “I am still gravely concerned for your welfare. Boromir will be angry at your actions, you know.”

Faramir chuckled. “He will indeed. I have already sent a missive to him, so he will return to Minas Tirith, ready to tear me to shreds!"

“Return quickly, Faramir. Set the plans in motion and return to your warm bed. You will be needed for the betrothal, by me, if not by your brother.”

Faramir waved and set off after the supply wagons. Imrahil looked on, concern filling him. ‘I know not how to protect either man, Denethor nor Faramir. They are both stubborn. Mayhap, when Boromir returns, we can talk sense into these two!’ He shrugged and headed back to the city.

Derufin was delighted to see Faramir, then quickly frowned. “You are not well?”

“I am fine. Just a little weak. We have much work to do.” Faramir stumbled; Derufin caught him.

“A little more than weak, I think. Exhausted is more like it. Why are you here?”

“I am taking a short leave. I came to Osgiliath for its healing properties,” Faramir laughed roundly.

“Nay! No such thing. I have plans that Boromir wants implemented. I will only spend a few days here. I hope this is not an inconvenience?"

“The only inconvenience is if you fall off your horse and crack your skull open. Which, from the state I see you in now, was a possibility on your long ride.”

“More than a moment, Captain. We will discuss Boromir's plans in the morning, after you have had a good night's sleep and broken your fast.” He held up a hand to stay Faramir's response. “If you are stationed here for a year or a few days, you are under my command. And my orders are for you to retire to your quarters. I will not speak with you until the morrow.” The captain walked away.

Faramir did not miss Damrod's smug look. “So I am still to be treated as a babe.”

“I do. This is... not my place to comment. I will order food for the daymeal when that time comes. I will be standing here if you need me.”

“Find quarters for yourself for the night. I refuse... " He swore loudly and a few of the men standing about looked at him questioningly. “Boromir will not let you find quarters, will he?”

“I think not, my Captain." Damrod smiled. “I am not going to share your room this time. I do not think you need a nursemaid any longer. I will be on guard in front of your quarters, if you need me.”

“Damrod,” frustration colored Faramir's mien, “I cannot have you standing outside of my quarters until we leave Osgiliath. You need your rest and your privacy, too. Please, find yourself a billet and stand guard when you feel you must, but then leave me. Please.”

“Aye, Captain. I think you are well guarded here. But I will remain at your side during the day. I wonder where Mablung is billeted? Mayhap, he will share a room with me.”

“Go and find him. I am going to sleep.” They had reached the captain's quarters by this time.

Damrod saluted and watched Faramir enter the building. He waited a few moments, then entered the room. It was as he expected; Faramir was asleep on the bed, uncovered, his boots and sword still on him. The Ranger shook his head, removed the sword, scabbard and boots, and covered his captain. He then left the room to find Mablung. He had promised Faramir he would not stand guard both day and night, but he had already decided he would watch during the day and Mablung would guard their captain at night. Boromir would be pleased.

The sun was well on her way to setting before Faramir woke. His body ached, not just his shoulder, but he put the pain aside when he noted the shadows in the room. Anger, frustration, and exhaustion took turns pummeling his thoughts. ‘There is so much to do,’ he moaned. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand, but the room began to sway. He caught himself before he fell and lay back on the bed, cursing quietly.

“I am not surprised. Almost six hours in the saddle and no dinner last night, no food yet today. I will return in a moment. Please, do not try to stand. Please,” and Faramir nodded. “Thank you. I will return with a meal.” The soldier stepped back out the door as quickly as he had entered.

Faramir did not move. His mind screamed at him to stand, to not lie about, but his body had other ideas. He took a few short gulps of air, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep. When Damrod returned, he smiled and turned to Mablung, who had followed him from the dining room. “Almost time for you to guard him. If he wakes, he will be furious, just to let you know.”

Mablung frowned. “We only do our duty. He does the same. He will not be angry. At least,” and the frown turned to a smile, “not when I tell him Boromir would gut us both if anything else happened to him!”

“He will, Mablung. Potent are the poisons of the Enemy, but the healers assure Lord Denethor he will recover, and none would dare lie to the Steward.”

“Aye. I will stand watch. The meal is all cold stuffs. I will keep it here in case he wakes before morning. Will you report to Captain Derufin?”

“Hmmm. That might be a good idea. Not mention Captain Faramir's weakness, but to...”

“To what? If I send a missive without mention of the captain's state, he will wonder why his son did not send a missive himself. If I send one and tell of the captain's weakness... I do not want to do that.”

“Have Captain Derufin send one. As part of his usual garrison report. That way,” Mablung shrugged, “The Steward will be none the wiser and we have saved Captain Faramir shame.”

“Aye. I will speak with Captain Derufin now. A good solution,” the Ranger sighed, but before he could leave, Faramir opened his eyes.

“Mablung, Damrod. It is good to see you both. Forgive me. I need to relieve myself.” He blushed furiously. “I will need help.”

Damrod strode quickly to the bed and helped Faramir stand. Then, holding his arm, he walked him out the door and to the privy. He left him standing before it and stepped out of the door, waiting. After a few moments, Faramir called him. He walked back in and helped Faramir back to the captain's quarters. A few men stopped and looked as they crossed the compound, but none said a word. Damrod hoped Faramir had not noticed.

“Thank you,” Faramir said, his voice almost a whisper. “If I had the strength, I would curse every Orc in Middle-earth.”

“There is food, Captain,” Damrod said and held a plate before him. “And ale.”

“Thank you. I will sit at the table. I am beginning to hate that bed almost as much as the one in the Houses.” He smiled, daunted.

Damrod and Mablung stood by the door. “Nay! Please, sit with me. There is too much food anyhow. I would ask that you would share this meal with me. I am not used to eating alone.”

The two men looked at each other in consternation. Shrugging, they sat. “Thank you,” their captain said. “And thank you for not cutting this,” and he held up a piece of cold meat, “for not cutting this into little pieces as if I was a child.”

The Rangers laughed. “Boromir did not tell us that we had that duty also!” Mablung said with glee.

“Good. And do not tell him that either,” Faramir said. After the first few bites, his head had stopped spinning. He took a gulp of the ale and sat back. “Where is Captain Derufin?”

“He took a patrol out this morning. He should return shortly. I think they were headed south, towards Emyn Arnen.”

“Here,” and Mablung stood and walked to the captain's desk. “All laid out and ready for you.”

“None, Captain. Would you wish to send a missive to the Steward?” Damrod asked furtively.

“Aye. I would. I think I can make it to the desk by myself.” He turned towards Damrod. “I am surly, at times, and do not know enough to thank those who help me. I am sorry.”

“Here. Come look at this with me. Especially you, Mablung. You have been in Osgiliath for the last few days. I am sure Boromir asked you to look around and see what changes might be needed.”

“He did.” Mablung stood up and stepped behind the chair where Faramir sat. “He was particularly concerned with the docks. They make it too easy for the Enemy to land his troops. He suggested we use timber and masonry from the destroyed buildings to block them. There are enough ruins nearby that it should not be a difficult task. We will need fulcrums and levers and such, but it can be done. Especially since the Lord Denethor has restored the garrison to full strength.”

A horn was heard and Faramir motioned. Mablung ran from the room and after a few moments, Derufin entered with the Ranger. “Captain Faramir. It is good to see you up and about.”

“Not until you leave. Do not ask again. I have found a nice little billet away from the dust and the noise of the compound, and not many can find me.”

Faramir burst into laughter. “So that is why you have given me your quarters – to hide?”

“Aye. And it has worked quite well. Now, I will find some food and return. You have orders for me, I believe?”

“I do. But Mablung will bring you food. We just finished our meal. Unfortunately, my hunger got the better of me and there is none left.”

Mablung saluted and left as Derufin sat at the desk alongside Faramir. “These are very good maps,” he said, wonder filling his voice. “Where did you get them?”

“Nay. Though some of the buildings have crumbled even further. Still, the docks and the bridge and the defenses are the same. This is incredible. A copy should be left here at the garrison.”

“Aye. I will see it is done when I return to Minas Tirith. Now, eat,” he smiled as Mablung walked in with a large bowl of stew and thick slices of bread.

The winds on the parapet blew colder than they had this past fortnight and Denethor wondered once again about the Enemy's hold on the weather. 'Is He that powerful? Can He tame the elements, bind them to His will?'

A hand lightly touched his arm. “My Captain,” Húrin said quietly, “You are troubled?”

“‘Twas kind of you not to say outright, 'I was able to come upon your back unawares!’” Denethor turned to face his cousin. “When a soldier leaves the battlefield for the final time, he loses a part of himself.”

Denethor's breath hitched, but his reply was strong and his Warden missed the catch. “Lost in thought only, Húrin. Do you need something?”

“You asked me to apprise you when a messenger from Amon Dîn arrived. Boromir has begun his journey to Rohan.”

“Did you meet with the builders? Have you set a date yet for when they will start?”

“We met, my Lord. My estimate and young Faramir's were off by a wide mark. The builders believe it will take nigh unto ten years to heighten the Rammas.”

Denethor said not a word, but this time, Húrin did note a straightening of the broad shoulders of his Steward. “I still think it is best that we begin the project at the Causeway Forts. In two days time, I will ride to Harlond and survey the Rammas there. Then I will decide.”

“Nay. The North Gate will be the last. Our allies from Rohan help us guard the north. Preparations,” Denethor changed the subject, “for new silos and granaries are under way?”

“They are, my Lord. I am planning on building two granaries and one silo this year.”

“I have not. And you? Though that question seems to be moot. I am sure you have not.”

“And you would be correct in this, at least. Húrin, let us take our stalwart Prince to the dinner hall. I would the men see their Steward still lives, and,” he put his hand on Imrahil's shoulder, “that Dol Amroth's most beloved Swan Knight still graces Minas Tirith with his presence.”

Imrahil smiled gently. “I must return to my city when Míriel’s cortege leaves.”

“You will be missed. Of all the lords of Gondor, your friendship and wisdom I prize the most.”

As they entered the hall, the soldiers all rose in unison. Cries of “Huzzah!” rang through the hall. Denethor beamed and saluted them. One of the servers ran to Denethor and offered a table. Another brought a tray of pastries and hot teas.

Denethor whispered to Húrin who left them. Imrahil and Denethor sat. The Prince watched as Húrin went from captain to captain. One at a time, the captains came forward to approach Denethor's table. He asked each to sit and questioned them about their duties, their men and their families.

After an hour and with scarce a sip of his tea or a bit of pastry, Denethor was satisfied. He had interrogated, praised and exhorted all the captains present in the hall. A warm glow hung over the men. When he stood to take his leave, the soldiers rose again and cheered him wildly. He saluted, then Imrahil, Húrin and he left.

“I am exhilarated. They are good men, what few there are left. They know their duty, could you not feel it? They will fight till the end.”

“And you will collapse,” Imrahil gently chided him, “as will I if I do not eat something with more substance than pastries!”

Denethor nodded and the three walked to the Steward's quarters. Denethor rang for a meal while Húrin and Imrahil settled themselves in deep leather chairs in the study. When Denethor joined them, Imrahil asked, “You were discussing granaries for food storage when I came upon you on the parapet?”

“You have many great houses that lay empty and boarded. Instead of building new granaries, would it not be more frugal and quicker to turn a few of these into storage?”

“An excellent idea. As Steward, you can acquire empty homes in the name of Gondor. I will do a survey these next few days and attempt to discern which houses would best be suited for this need.”

“There are three problems, Imrahil, with your idea,” Denethor stated as he finished his tea. “Fire, mold and vermin. The upper portion of the houses would have to be sealed. We would have to use the largest homes, ones that had great ballrooms or great foyers. Because of the threat of fire, there could be no lit fires inside and the vermin would surely find their way in and eat what we have endeavoured to save.”

“The major problem, as I see it, is keeping the grain dry and free of rot.” Imrahil stood and began pacing across the study, his face lit in excitement. “I propose using the spill drains that lie under most of the houses. Seal them off and then fill them with hot water. Of course, fires would have to be built on the outside to heat the water. But the cost would be much less than building new granaries. And the houses are already empty! You already have drain pipes running under the larger ones to take the spill from Mindolluin away from the City and to prevent flooding in the spring. Chose two houses that are directly over some of these spillways. The houses chosen should be far enough apart to prevent flooding. Stopper the ends of the drains, set fire near the top stopper for heating water, then flood the pipes with the heated water. Every morning, have the bottom stopper removed and the cooled water flushed out. Then – repeat the process.”

“Men would have to shift the grain at least twice a day to kept it from molding,” Húrin interjected.

“Aye. Twice a day they could move the grain from one end of the ballrooms or whatever to the other end. The casements would be left open to allow air to flow freely. If you do chose two houses far apart from each other, it will counteract the threat of flooding.” Imrahil sat, contented.

“And,” Denethor stated wryly, “the cats of the City would be most pleased to prowl the perimeters to keep the vermin down.” Denethor stood and walked to the window. After a long moment, he turned and looked at his friends. “It is a good plan. Húrin, find the drawings for the sewers and locate the best houses. We will begin immediately. The Council will be furious; already the Lords of the Building Trades were rubbing their hands in anticipation of the stipends they would have received for building these granaries. Imrahil’s plan is much better, and,” he turned towards the Prince, “infinitely more reasonably priced. Gondor thanks you.” He pulled the man up from the settle and hugged him warmly. “I have said before, and I will say it again, you will be sorely missed when you return to Dol Amroth.”

Imrahil and Húrin spent the rest of the day in the archives while Denethor prepared for the next day’s Council meeting. As he had feared, many of the Council members were furious at the change of plans. Denethor could easily read their hearts. Yet, he listened attentively to their complaints, their counter suggestions and their outright fury at their loss of coin. In the end, he thanked and dismissed them. Grumbling could be heard well after he left the Council chambers.

Returning to his private study, he was not surprised to find Imrahil there and waiting for him. Before Denethor even sat down, Imrahil raged. “They are glad we are at war! Their eyes are filled with visions of wealth. Have they not lost sons in these years past? Do they not know the horror of war? How can they put their greed above the welfare of our people?”

Denethor held his hand up to stop Imrahil’s tirade, but it did little good, for in strode Húrin, his face filled with the same anger Denethor saw in Imrahil’s.

“How dare Lord Ohtar claim the houses we picked as his? His relation to the former owners is tenuous at best. At most, he is a twentieth cousin removed. The owners of these houses have been long dead and none have claimed them before this! The buildings have been left to rot. But now that he sees he might blackmail you into paying for their use… Argh!” the Warden snorted in derision and sat heavily on the settle next to Imrahil.

Denethor poured goblets of wine and passed them to his friends. His face, however, was as grim as theirs were angry. “I have already made my decision. We will go ahead with the plans and turn the houses into granaries. Ohtar can bring a formal complaint if he wills, but as I judge complaints…” A taut smile crossed his face for a moment; he did not finish the sentence. “If he continues his complaint, I will have him thrown in the dungeons.”

“But it felt good saying it, did it not?” Imrahil laughed. “Eased my anger too. Let us eat and prepare for tomorrow’s trip to the Harlond.” The servants had entered by this time and served the daymeal to the three.

Though the day dawned dark and miserable with the threat of rain from the east o’erhanging Minas Tirith, Denethor could not help but have a small moment of ease at the thought of leaving the City. He had not ridden in months; too many affairs of state lay before him. He had found every time he attempted to mount his horse, someone or something interrupted and he was forced to cancel his outing. Húrin had promised he would let nothing stop the Steward from his inspection of the Rammas.

Imrahil noted the rare good mood that engulfed Denethor and smiled warmly. “Your mount looks as happy as you do.”

Denethor took in a quick breath and relished the feel of Minas Tirith in his nostrils. Some thought his City smelt of age and neglect and refuse, but to Denethor, the City smelt of life, pure and clean, sharp as steel and bright as silver. His arms prickled with the feel of it, the joy of it. He had forgotten. He swallowed the tightness in his throat and urged his horse into a gentle walk.

“Why do we really go to the Harlond, Denethor? Húrin could have gone, would have at but your word.”

“I need to be seen. The people know of the threat from o’er the mountains and I would assure them their Steward has everything in hand. Just as I did with the soldiers in the dining hall. A captain must let his men see his strength, else they become anxious. The same is true with my people. I have too long kept in the confines of the City. True, I send Boromir and Faramir, but that is different. I am their Steward. I am their guardian.” His head raised a fraction and his back straightened. “They need a strong guardian, especially at this time, as strong as the Rammas Echor.” He gave a small grunt. “As strong as it will be once we finish the refortifications. I should have begun them long ago. Without Faramir’s urging, we might have been found wanting, Imrahil.”

Imrahil nodded. “I like the bent of his mind. He sometimes seems too quiet, perhaps withdrawn, but he thinks on his feet, and has a good grasp of lore. As do you, brother.”

“He is too much like me. Gondor needs more like Boromir, quick with a sword and a shield, ready to leap into battle without a thought, afraid of nothing.” His face beamed with pride. “He is Gondor, Imrahil. Have you watched him? No hesitation. His men know it too and follow him into the most loathsome situations. They care not. As long as Boromir leads them, they know they are in for an adventure. The lad relishes battle. I think he would be lost if there was peace.” Denethor’s voice dropped in wonder.

“Of course it is,” Denethor said testily, “and Boromir will rein himself in, when the time comes, and govern Gondor well. But for now, I am most grateful that he rides into battle as his namesake did, with fury and strength.”

“And he is grateful that he has the love and wisdom of his brother to council him, when he becomes Steward. Though I would not talk of that time now. He will have time to ‘rein in’ his battle lust long before you pass the Rod to him.”

“Faramir is wise in lore.” Denethor’s brow creased. “He analyzes things o’erlong. A crisis comes and is passed before he takes action. I hope his time in Osgiliath is well spent. The needs there are many.”

“Faramir will do well. He does take longer to make a decision. He calls in his captains and asks their opinions. His men love him for that.”

“I am well aware of the love of his men. But a captain must have more than love, he must have loyalty.”

“Faramir has the loyalty of his men.” Imrahil’s own brow creased. “Is there aught I have missed?”

Denethor squinted across the Pelennor, wondering what Faramir was about this day. “I do not, not yet,” he sighed heavily.

“He went to Osgiliath whilst still suffering from the effects of the Orc poison.” Imrahil’s jaw tightened. “Is that not loyalty?”

“What mean you?” Denethor looked at the Prince in surprise. “He was healed. He had returned to his own rooms. Had been discharged by the Warden of the Houses!”

“He was still weak, had just had a relapse the morning before you sent him off.”

Denethor turned his horse towards Imrahil and dismounted. Imrahil did the same. Denethor grasped the Prince by the arms and pulled him close, nails digging into Imrahil’s arms. “What say you? He was ill when he took the journey?”

Imrahil felt the wavering of the Steward’s body and clasped him to his own. “He obeys you in all things,” he whispered.

Imrahil nodded and crushed Denethor to him. “Your son will be pleased to see you.”

The journey took well over four hours. In fact, Imrahil wondered if they would ever reach the garrison, for all sorts of folk came out when they heard the horses’ hooves. The farmers and their children waved, joy apparent on their faces, and their wives curtsied to their Lord. Denethor fairly beamed. He slowed the pace every time they came near a homestead, knowing the people hungered for his presence, his strength. And he gave it to them, as a cup o’erflowing. At last, they stopped for nuncheon at a hostelry halfway between Minas Tirith and the Causeway Forts. Soldiers of Gondor milled about the entranceway. As soon as they saw who approached, some ran into the inn while others quickly strode forward, hands to their chests in salute, their faces plainly showing their surprise.

Denethor nodded to them and let one of them take his reins. Another tried to give him a hand as he dismounted and he had to hold himself still. Though his hair was whiter than ever it had been in his life, he was not yet a dotard. Still, the soldier’s motives were pure, he felt, so he let the man help him dismount. Imrahil was at his side in a moment. Denethor asked the soldier his name and where he was stationed. Then, he turned to the others who looked expectantly to him. He spent some time with them, then, at Imrahil’s urging, he went into the inn. The keeper was at his side in an instant, offering a table in a back room. Denethor shook his head and insisted they be seated in the front of the inn with the other soldiers of Gondor.

The proprietor beamed from ear to ear. ‘This is so good for business,’ he almost rubbed his hands in glee. ‘Many will come to sit at the table that the Steward sat at. I must make a plaque or some such – I cannot believe my good fortune!’ He hurried forward to wipe the table with his shirtsleeve. Then, he ran to the back and brought forth two tall flagons filled with his best ale. Rarely did he serve this ale, not to the common soldiers of Gondor, but for the Steward, ‘only the best will do!’

Denethor looked at the man as he set the drinks before him. Something about the man’s curled lip, or perhaps the over brightness of his eyes, betrayed his thoughts to the Steward. “I would drink what you serve my men.”

The tone chilled the innkeeper to the bone. “My Lord,” he stumbled over the words, “this is what I serve your men.” He swallowed hard and Denethor watched the man’s throat constrict.

“This is not what you serve the warriors of Gondor. Bring me a flagon of that. And now.” The Steward’s voice was low but Imrahil himself felt a shudder, as of icy water, run down his back.

“Beg your pardon, my Lord Steward,” the man cringed, “I have just now received a new shipment. Here!” he called to the girl behind the serving table, “Clear the flagons of the soldiers of Gondor and give them the new ale, the one that arrived just this morning.” The girl looked at him in confusion. He turned towards her, his face contorted in rage. “Are you dense, girl? I’ll do it myself. Clear the tables.” She ran forward and took the flagons in front of all those in the common room and brought them back. The innkeeper started pouring ale into the emptied drinking vessels, then he motioned for the girl to take them to the men.

The men cried aloud in joy as they tasted the better ale, then raised their flagons to their Steward. One o’er zealous soldier stood on a table and led them in a cheer. Three huzzahs, a salute to their Steward, and the men quaffed their ale.

Denethor’s face never changed. He took his drink, returned the salute and downed his own ale. The innkeeper returned. “Have you some sort of stew?”

“Lamb, my Lord Steward.” The proprietor’s diffidence troubled Denethor. ‘Was the man hiding something else?’ He nodded and shortly thereafter, a steaming bowl of stew was placed before Imrahil and him. The stew was good and Denethor put aside his unease. Denethor ate quickly and Imrahil followed suit; no words were spoken.

At last, as Denethor chewed the last bite of bread, he relaxed. Looking hard at Imrahil, he asked, “Do you remember Thorongil?”

“I was twenty and five years when he won the great battle against the Corsairs. I commanded a ship under him.”

Denethor nodded. “Of course.” Again, the Prince found himself under close scrutiny by his brother. After another moment, Denethor sighed heavily. “By all rights…” he shook his head. “Nay! The people would have crowned him, had he come back to Minas Tirith. They thought nothing of their Steward nor of his Heir. I think that surprised my father. He heard the calls in the street, the same calls I heard for the Northerner to be crowned.” The eyes searched Imrahil’s face.

“I had heard rumours of… adulation,” Imrahil said quietly. “What did your father do?”

A choked laugh greeted his question. “Nothing. Thorongil left the battle site and was not heard from again. Mithrandir left soon after.”

“I know not. But my men would not regale me as they have today, nor as they did in the hall two days ago, if he was still here.”

Imrahil nodded. Denethor dropped some coins on the table and left the inn. Imrahil followed. By the time they reached the Causeway Forts, it was close to nightfall. The sentries challenged them and Denethor pulled his horse up in chagrin. “I do not know the password. I had not planned on leaving the Pelennor. I neglected to ask for it. Know you?”

Denethor burst into laughter. “Then we might as well turn around and return to the City.”

“This time, Imrahil, I would. My orders are law. No one enters or leaves the Pelennor without the password. No one.”

The guard walked towards the riders. “The password,” then stopped in confusion. “My Lord Steward!” he saluted. “Forgive me, my Lord, the password?”

Turning in panic to the other guard, the first said, “The Lord Steward does not know the password.”

The second guard walked quietly towards Denethor. He drew his sword, saluted, and paused. Taking a deep breath, he said, “By order of the Steward of Gondor, none may pass without the password.” He bit his lip after saying this and Denethor noted that the first guard was almost hopping from one leg to the next. They were both clearly frightened.

“Would you send a rider for Captain Faramir? He is staying at the garrison in Osgiliath.”

“I will, my Lord Steward.” The man turned and barked an order to another soldier standing nearby. The man ran to the stables, mounted and rode across the Causeway towards Osgiliath.

“To be precise, they should hold us both as prisoners until they are given orders as to our disposal.” Denethor had to hold back another laugh. “I am grateful they have decided to leave us be, for the moment.”

A lieutenant strode quickly forward. Denethor knew he must have been sent for. He waited to see what would happen next.

The soldier blushed, but did not retreat. “Hirgon. I am in charge of this outpost.”

“That none may enter or leave the Pelennor without the password. I will not leave; I will stand here and wait for my son. You may have my sword.” He began to unbuckle the sword belt, but the soldier hurried forward. “It is not necessary, my Lord. I will give you one hour, then I must escort you back to Minas Tirith.”

Denethor nodded. The lieutenant walked back to the guards. Imrahil scowled, but Denethor had a pleased expression on his face. They waited.

The Warden of the Keys swore softly under his breath as he stood upon the escarpment, looking out upon the fields of the Pelennor. He could not find what he looked for, but he knew, with the certainty of his long relationship with Denethor, that the Steward was not where he should be. He swore again and turned towards the Tower.

Three soldiers ran from the tunnel leading to the Sixth Circle. Húrin stopped and waited. They ran; it pleased him to see this show of duty. Their swords hit their legs at the pace they set. Stopping before him, they saluted. The youngest, much to Húrin’s surprise, spoke. “My Lord. The Steward is not at the Harlond. We looked everywhere for him. At last, due to our diligence, we discovered a man who had seen him riding towards Osgiliath.”

Húrin bit his lip to keep from smiling. ‘Due to our diligence!’ The man was indeed young and obviously a proud pup. He nodded and motioned for them to leave. The speaker moved towards him, as if to continue, but the other soldiers took his arms and led him away. As they moved, he heard one of the soldiers say, “Due to our diligence? What an idiot you are. Do you not know it was our duty not our diligence. Now we look like fools, puffing ourselves out as Haradric peacocks!” The other cuffed the youngest on the side of his head. Húrin chuckled quietly. He remembered a time when Denethor had done something similar and Húrin had been the one to give him his comeuppance. His brow furrowed at the thought of Denethor. ‘Where is he? Is he truly going to Osgiliath? Well, wherever he is going, he is not going without an escort.’ He walked quickly into the Tower, ordering one of the guards to bring the Captain of the Guard to him.

As he entered his own office, he found the Captain of the Guard waiting for him. Ragorn stepped forward and Húrin could see the palpable tension on the man’s face. “Speak.”

“The Steward is not at the Harlond. Those I sent to meet him have sent an errand-rider saying he never arrived. Do you know aught?”

“I have just discovered this myself, Captain. It would be best if you quickly assembled your company and followed him, ere he is lost in the hills.”

Ragorn scowled, but saluted and ran from the room. Húrin smiled. ‘Denethor will receive a tongue-lashing for this, if I know Captain Ragorn.’ He sat at his desk in relief, glad to know that Denethor would be looked after. Then, he grimaced. He was to meet with the Chamberlain to arrange the seats for the betrothal banquet. He held his head in his hands and moaned. ‘Where is Indis? She did this so well.’

In the meantime, Ragorn ran to the stables in the Sixth Circle, signaled and he and the company he had already called together rode down the streets of Minas Tirith and out into the fields of the Pelennor. Mile after mile passed under their horses’ hooves as Ragorn paced them. They arrived at the inn well after nuncheon and were told in excited tones that Denethor had indeed been there but had gone on to the Causeway.

Again, the company of Denethor’s personal guard rode eastward. At long last, they reached the Forts and discovered Denethor standing under armed guard. Ragorn jumped from his horse, his sword drawn before he landed. His full company immediately joined him as the guard from the Causeway ran forward. In moments, the air rang with the sounds of swords being drawn.

Faramir stood at the end of the broken bridge, the third of its kind that spanned the Great River. This one, though demolished, stood out about six feet over the water. He watched as the current caught on sunken debris and swished the river this way and that. ‘Treacherous to swim here,’ he thought mildly and fondly remembered the times Boromir and he had swam in the channels by Cair Andros. The water was warmer there as the river ran lower in the summer near the island fortress. He shook his head and pulled himself back from such reverie. He watched as the currents flowed swiftly past certain areas near to this side of Osgiliath and realized that the river was an ally, in places. Yet, as he watched, he noted how easily the old wharfs and docks made it for landings. ‘They should be torn down,’ he thought to himself, but a part of him dreaded the thought, for tearing the city further down only magnified the fact that Osgiliath was indeed dead and not soon to be resurrected.

Faramir turned and left the bridge, climbing down onto the ruins and over to Damrod. The two nights and one day of total rest had revived him; the poison seemed to have finally left him.

“In here,” his aide said and pointed once they had passed in through a narrow hall.

The light was diffused and dust rose and choked them at every footfall. At last, they came to an opening where the light finally brightened, showing them docks, long lines of docks that opened right into the city itself. Faramir shivered. The enemy could pull their boats up here and enter the city with nary a problem. Swallowing hard, he walked further along. “This must have been some sort of entertainment area or such. Look at the wine bottles. Boats must have docked here and the people walked right into this inn. How many more are there along the river?” Fatigue shook his voice.

Damrod did not note Faramir’s weariness. “There cannot be many, but I think a full scale search must be organized. Every one of these docks must be destroyed and the openings into these buildings must be sealed.”

Faramir nodded. He took a deep breath and both men left the building. “The sun will be down soon. We will mount an expedition tomorrow, at least three companies, and explore this part of the river. We would be helpless if an attack were launched now.”

Damrod agreed as they made their way to the garrison. Faramir heard his name called and turned in surprise. It was Mablung. “The Steward awaits you at the Causeway Forts, Captain Faramir.”

The look of concern on Faramir’s face grabbed at Mablung’s heart. “Naught is wrong, according to the messenger.”

Running towards the stables, Faramir called for a mounted horse. Within moments, Mablung, Damrod and he were riding west to the Causeway.

Denethor stepped forward and raised his hand. “Cease! I am well, Captain Ragorn. Put away your sword. Lieutenant Hirgon, tell your men to lower their swords.”

At that very moment, Faramir pulled up, staring in horror at the sight before him. He stayed in the background; Denethor had not seen him, but Faramir watched in consternation as the Men of Gondor faced off against each other. Mablung made to draw his own sword, but Faramir held his hand. They waited at the edge of the impending conflict. Not oft did Faramir have the opportunity to watch his father; he waited, wondering what had caused this state of affairs and what the outcome would be.

“They do not,” Denethor said heatedly, then lowered his voice and sighed. “They raise them against you. Does it not seem a fairly dangerous thing to draw your sword in the presence of the Steward? What can the lieutenant think but that you have come armed to o’ertake me?”

His aide sputtered and fumed. “I would not raise my hand or my sword against my Steward.”

Denethor put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “As does the captain of my personal guard. Know you not the livery?”

The lieutenant’s face blazed red; his breath caught. “I… I am sorry, my Lord, I did not note. I only saw their swords drawn.”

The lieutenant did as he was ordered, turned to his men and ordered them to sheath their own swords. Ragorn did the same. Both men saluted Denethor and waited.

“Have you not noted that our Enemy takes great pains to sunder us?” the Steward spoke quietly. “Have you not watched as those who live closest to the Ephel Dúath, those who refuse to leave their farm lands, cheat and lie and steal. They murder their neighbors whilst they plot against the realm.”

“That is only rumour,” Hirgon cried in protest. “None have actually seen it.”

“None have actually seen those who live in the lands east of the Harad Road. Yet, I know they are there, that they have turned to the Nameless One and pledged Him their fealty. His poison drifts on the air, over the mountains and down upon Osgiliath. Nay! Upon all of Gondor. You have now breathed in that poison.”

“Aye! Any who turn a sword against me or mine, against my soldiers, my warriors, has succumbed to the Nameless One. You may as well go and join his leaguers in Minas Morgul.”

He watched as many of the men shivered. “Aye! You can feel him, can you not? But take heart. You are not alone. His poison has touched others. Yet, Gondor still stands. Imrahil and I stand in the gap. Boromir, Faramir and Húrin. We know and we fight against even these weapons. Will you not stand with us? Will you not fight dissension?”

Faramir strode forward and stood at his father’s right hand. His sword was sheathed but his eyes sparkled. Denethor looked at him, keeping the surprise from his eyes and from the men about him. “Go now back to your duties. Remember what you have seen and heard this day. Keep yourselves alert! Do not listen to the Enemy. Be strong together!”

The men of the Causeway saluted and walked slowly back to their barracks, their posts, and their duties. Ragorn and his men stood back and waited for their Steward’s next orders. Hirgon waited.

“Lieutenant. I now have the password. May I use your quarters for a half hour? I need to speak with Captain Faramir.”

“Aye, my Lord Steward. Please forgive me.” The man started mumbling and stuttering.

“There is naught to forgive. The Enemy knows our weaknesses, the weaknesses of all men, and will use it against us. You have shown exemplary leadership today. Continue as you have, watch for these signs among your men, and help them to fight.”

Hirgon led them to his rooms and left them. Denethor turned to Faramir. Gently taking him by the shoulder, he sat him on a chair. Imrahil stood by the door. “Faramir. Why did you not tell me you were still suffering from the poison? Why did you come here whilst still ill?”

“I am well now, Father,” Faramir protested. “I took my time on the journey and arrived in good health, reasonably good health,” he amended.

Faramir blushed. “Nay, but Father, you asked me to come here and I knew I was almost well. There is so much to be done.”

“Then you and I both listened to the whispers and succumbed.” Denethor shuddered. “I count on you, when I am weak, to council me. Will you remember that?”

“I do, Father.” Denethor watched as Faramir shook his head. “I did not think what you asked was so grievous.”

“Gondor needs her captains strong, Faramir. Remember that. Now, how fare you?”

“I am well. I was at the Northern Bridge. There are inns right along the water, Father, with docks that open right into the city. The defense work will be more arduous than I had thought.”

Denethor sat across from his son. “Do the best you can, whilst taking care of yourself. Then return for the ceremony. Your brother expects you there.” He smiled warmly. “As do I.”

“I will stay here tonight, if the lieutenant will not begrudge me a bed, inspect the Rammas in the morning, and then ride back to the City. Húrin can send inspectors to the Harlond.”

“Good.” They sat until the daymeal was brought, discussing Boromir’s betrothal, the Rammas, Gondor’s defenses, and when they finished their meal, they watched the stars before Faramir took his leave.

Arthad walked the Citadel, a deep frown upon his face. He had been left behind to prepare for Boromir’s next posting. But Denethor’s army, under Boromir’s direction, was well oiled. In two days’ time, the Captain-General’s aide had everything planned and ready. So instead of helping guard his captain, he was left to walk the escarpment and wait. His warrior training accepted this, but, on the third day, as Anor broke over the mountains turning the sky into the most brilliant blue imaginable, he broke. He flung his covers from his bed, dressed quickly and ran to the parapet. The Pelennor spread before him, its green fields, little hamlets, sloping hills, and tree-studded lanes spoke of peace and tranquility. Arthad harrumphed. ‘Peace and tranquility! I am a warrior. I should not be here; I should be beside my captain.’

Yet, every bit of his training rooted him to the spot. He could not leave Minas Tirith without orders, and they would not come from Boromir. The warrior’s eyes sparkled. ‘Mayhap I can cajole the Steward into sending me as a messenger. Aye!’ the man fairly beamed. ‘I will offer myself as errand-rider.’ He ran back to his rooms, made his bed, suited himself in his livery and walked swiftly to the company’s buttery. After eating a quick meal, he strode to the Great Hall. His face fell as he learned that Denethor was in Osgiliath.

Making his way to the armoury, he turned a corner and literally ran into Prince Imrahil. “Forgive me, my Lord. I was not watching…”

“You were a thousand leagues away,” the Prince laughed. “Who were you looking for?”

“He returned late last night. If you wait till the ninth bell, he should be in the Great Hall.” Before Arthad had a moment to turn, Imrahil took him by the arm. “You are Boromir’s aide, are you not?”

Arthad’s proud face fell. “I am preparing for Boromir’s trip to the North.”

“Why do you seek the Steward? I am sure you are capable of making the necessary preparations without the Steward’s help?”

The man squared his shoulders. “All is prepared and has been for over two days. I am, if I may speak forthrightly, at wit’s end. Everything is ready. And I stand here and twiddle my thumbs.”

“Well, would you mind spending some of that twiddling time at the training grounds with me? Mayhap a little sword practice would take your mind from your troubles?”

After an hour’s thorough battering by the Prince, Arthad was exhausted. The man was at least twenty years older than he was and yet, he had held his own. Arthad had to surrender. He not only had held his own, the Prince had thoroughly beaten him too many times for Arthad to remember. ‘Remember?’ Tales of Elves told him by Boromir ran through his memory. If he wanted to, the warrior could say it was by that gift that Imrahil had beaten him, but he knew it was not. Pure skill. The warrior shook his head and offered his arm. “A good drubbing. I see this is why I was left behind. To hone my skills.”

“Nay, Arthad. Boromir has told me of your prowess on the field of battle. You have naught to be ashamed of. Mayhap it was my Elven heritage that o’ercame you today?”

The twinkle in the Prince’s eye made Arthad stop and wonder if perhaps the Prince had the same capability of mind reading that the Steward was said to have. He saluted the Prince, took the man’s weapons and armour, and walked to the bathing area. Depositing these accoutrements and his own, he walked into the bath area. Steam rose; Arthad looked forward to washing the grime of battle from him with pleasure. Though it was still spring, the heat rose from the Pelennor to the upper levels, and had made their practice more strenuous than during the winter months. Imrahil followed him into the large bathing area.

Both men sat for many long minutes, silenced by the feel of the hot water soaking their bruised bodies. At last, Arthad spoke. “It is at least another ten days before Boromir returns. Do you think the Steward might use me as an errand-rider whilst I wait?”

“Always. Missives must be sent off to all corners of the kingdom. I ride well. I can protect myself if o’ertaken.”

The men finished their bath and walked slowly towards the Citadel. “Are you from Minas Tirith, Arthad?”

“I am, my Lord. Born and raised here, on the fourth level. My father, Tarcil, was a guard in the Sixth Company.”

“I would like to purchase a betrothal gift for Boromir. Might you know of a shop where I might find something to the captain’s liking?”

The man grinned from ear to ear. “There is a set of vambraces that has caught his eye. A leather worker on the third level has made a fine pair, embossed with the White Tree. The man has hidden strips of steel in them for further protection. The captain would be happy to have the pair.”

Imrahil slapped the man on the back in delight. “Before we attend the Steward, would you show me the shop?”

Arthad laughed and turned about. Imrahil followed. The walk was not long and soon they were standing in front of a small shop in one of the lesser lanes of the Third Level. The smell was pungent, as it should be, but Arthad put his hand over his nose for a moment to accustom himself. Imrahil followed him in. After much bargaining and much laughter, Imrahil walked from the shop with the vambraces. “This deserves a drink,” he said and led Arthad to the Fourth Level. They sat and drank a cup or two of Gondor’s finest.

“Boromir will be pleased. He has wanted those for nigh unto six months. He wears his father’s, so he was honour bound to keep them, but his heart longed for these.”

“You know your captain well. I cannot thank you enough. Boromir is dear to me, as is his brother. I do not see them often enough.” The Prince shook his head. “We, all of us, are duty-bound, are we not, to leave our own thoughts and needs behind and place Gondor’s needs first? It is a hard life that we all lead, but I deem the hardest is lived by the son’s of Denethor.”

“Nay,” the warrior said quietly, “The hardest is lived by Gondor’s Steward, for he must be the one to push his sons forward, to offer them in service to Gondor. That is a hard thing for a father to have to do, give his son to Gondor. But doubly assailed is Denethor for he must give both his sons.”

Imrahil looked at the soldier in surprise. “Aye. My father had to do the same, and his father before him. I am doing the same with my own sons.” The look of joy that had filled the Prince’s face not an hour before had fled. “I do not envy Denethor, for I fear his sense of duty far surpasses mine. I fear he would give everything for Gondor and I am not quite ready to do that. My sons are precious to me.”

“His sons are precious to him,” the warrior spoke heatedly. “But what course has he but the one he takes? Do not all the men of Gondor give of themselves and of their sons? What recourse have we? The Enemy breathes upon our very necks.” Arthad shivered. “It is different in Dol Amroth. You do not see that every time you look up, or out your window, or over your shoulder.”

“You are right to chide me. I do not see that mountain every day and what it stands for.”

“Nay. Forgive me. Boromir would have my head if he heard me speak such to you, his favoured uncle.”

“Favoured am I?” Imrahil smiled. “He is a most favoured nephew. Well, we best be about our business. I have much to do in preparation for Lady Míriel’s arrival and you have a request of the Steward.”

It was now short of a fortnight when the Lady Míriel was expected to arrive; the Citadel was awhirl in preparations. Húrin swore long and often as he tried to accomplish all the details necessary for such a large event. Not only was the betrothal ceremony to be planned and the Great Hall bedecked in finery, Merethrond had to be decorated, invitations were long o’erdue, meals must be planned for at least a fortnight, perhaps two, and guests' quarters had to be prepared. Húrin still had no idea how many were coming from Dol Amroth in Lady Míriel’s entourage.

Denethor quietly watched and finally came to a decision. Indis was sorely missed. These were the things she did with such flourish. Never a thing wrong, nor out of place, during her time as Steward's council. He sighed heavily but walked away before the Warden caught sight of him. He did not want his cousin to think he intruded, nor think the man was not up to the task. He must find someone else to plan the betrothal and the attendant activities concerning it. Húrin must prepare Gondor for war.

'Perhaps Boromir was right. Perhaps we should have left this go for another year. Preparations for war should take up all our time. But if war comes, as I very much expect, then an heir is of the utmost importance, if only to hide in the hills with its mother whilst Minas Tirith falls.' He swallowed hard at the thought. 'Another thing to prepare, hiding places for my people. Húrin has the evacuation well in hand, but where will they go? Perhaps some shelters should be set up along the River Gilrain. I have asked the lords of the different fiefdoms, from Lossarnach to Anfalas, to prepare to receive our refugees, but there is not enough room in their cities to accommodate the vast number that will be displaced.’ He had reached the steps of the Tower now and wondered, but good sense took over. He had not fully recovered from his last time with the stone. He would wait another day, perhaps two, before attempting to see what was happening in Rohan.

He heard the disturbance in the hall before he saw anyone. A young rider. 'Ah!' he thought happily, 'A rider from Belfalas by the livery he wears. And of the Prince's own court. He will be glad to receive this missive.' He walked to his Chair and sat. The messenger strode forward. "I have a missive for Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth," the man bowed courteously.

Imrahil ran into the Great Hall and up to Denethor. “My Lord Steward,” he saluted, smiling cheerfully. “O’erlong is the message in coming. If it contains what I think it should, our friend Húrin will be most pleased.”

“The Lady Míriel will be here by the tenth of April,” the Prince read aloud. “Ivriniel is accompanying her, as I thought. And my beloved is coming too.” A huge grin split Imrahil's face. “It is o'erlong since last we were together.”

“My apologies for keeping you so long, but the journey home will be a pleasure, will it not?”

“It will indeed,” and Imrahil blushed at the knowing look Denethor gave him.

“Are your quarters sufficient for the both of you? I could move you to the third floor.”

“Nay. Sadly, we will not be spending much time in our rooms. The festivities, along with chaperoning Lady Míriel will take much of our time. Oh, my Lord Steward. Here is Arthad, Boromir’s aide. He begs a boon from you.”

Arthad took a deep breath and stepped forward, saluting his Steward. When Denethor nodded, he began. “I am left here by Captain Boromir to prepare for his next posting. I have completed all my tasks.” He paused and looked uncertainly towards Imrahil, who smiled and nodded for him to continue. “I am a warrior, my Lord Steward and chafe at this inactivity. Might I beg a posting as errand-rider until Captain Boromir returns?”

Denethor shook his head. “The Lord Boromir will be returning shortly. I cannot use someone who has only days to give. Though that has given me an idea of how to repay a certain lieutenant at the Forts. Húrin,” he motioned and the Warden was at his side in an instant. “There is a Lieutenant Hirgon in charge of the Causeway Forts. He has impressed me with his courage and his sense of duty. I would have him brought back here and made an errand-rider. He has most pleased me.”

“As for this young man,” Denethor turned once again towards Arthad. “I would have him be your helper for the moment. Put him in charge of the betrothal preparations. If he has so soon prepared himself for Boromir’s next posting, then he is adept at planning.”

Arthad stepped back in surprise and confusion. “I have not the skills, my Lord.”

“You have the skills. Preparing a battalion for war duty is more than will ever be required of you in this posting.” A small grin battled for prominence, but Denethor’s stern face won out. “Meet with Húrin after nuncheon. He will begin to show you your duties.”

Arthad swallowed, saluted and left the Great Hall, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

From that moment on, planning went more smoothly. Denethor and Húrin spent the next few days concentrating on preparations for war.

Five days after leaving Amon Dîn, the weary warriors of Gondor reached the Mering Stream. Boromir motioned for his men to remain behind as he rode forward to seek permission to enter Rohan. It was nigh unto dark, yet the Rohirrim who guarded the border challenged him. Boromir nodded his head in approval. However, approval very quickly turned to anger when his request was denied, with what appeared to Boromir as nary a thought. He bit his lower lip and counted to ten in Quenya.

“I am Boromir, son of Denethor, and Captain-General of Gondor. I would see Marshal Éomer.”

“He is not here,” the guard said disdainfully, holding his pike tightly to his side whilst three men stood behind him, their bows nocked and ready. “He has been summoned back to Edoras. Now be off with you, unless you have a writ of entry from Théoden King.”

Boromir clenched his hand on the pommel of his sword; the gesture, he noted, did not escape the sentry’s eyes. “Did Marshal Éomer leave word as to when he would return?”

“I am not privy to his comings and goings. He is the sister-son of the king and under no duty to tell me. Go back to Mundberg. You are not welcome here.”

Boromir could take no more. He swung his horse around and rode back to his men, seething all the while.

Guilin, having noted the angry gestures of the guard and his captain, spoke not.

Guilin ordered the preparations and set the pickets. He shook his head; they had not brought tents, for they stayed at garrisons along the way and had planned on the hospitality of the Rohirrim. He grimaced in a small moment of satisfaction. ‘Now, Captain Boromir sees what we have endured these past months!’

‘I have four days,’ Boromir thought as his mind whirled at this turn of events, ‘before I must leave and return to the City. I will wait and hope that Éomer returns quickly. And I will keep my temper else I ask one of my archers to shoot that pretentious guard!’

When morning came, while his men gathered what little supplies they had in preparation for breaking the fast, Boromir wandered away from the camp and found himself by the Mering. His father, brother and he had fished here many times, many times with the king of Rohan and his son and his nephew. All friends and sworn allies until just of late when there was a cooling in the relationship. In fact, Boromir remembered that it was soon after Indis’ death in Edoras that the friendship between the king and his father had begun to wane. He lowered his head and tried to remember that time, but the pain had been so great and frightening, especially for Faramir to whom Indis was the closest thing to a mother, for his memories of Finduilas were lost, that Boromir had not the heart to peruse the thought any further.

The river ran higher than normal, for the winter snows were melting off the White Mountains. A picket stood close by; he nodded, and continued. Stopping by the stream, he picked up a stone, fingered it and thought long and hard. He tossed the stone down and walked a little further. His mind was not on Rohan, but Minas Tirith and his father and brother. How weak was Faramir, he worried, and what had happened to his father? Where was his uncle? Imrahil had promised he would watch over Denethor. Of course, he couldn’t let his father know he had set his uncle as a nursemaid over the Steward, but if Denethor could not take care of himself in the small things, like eating, then what recourse did he have?

He sighed heavily and picked up another stone. This one was small and smooth to the touch. He smiled and pitched it across the water. Though the current was strong, the stone skipped four times. He laughed out loud and heard an answering snicker from across the stream. Quickly looking up in alarm, he saw a Rohir standing on the opposite side. He took a breath. “Care to join in a contest?” he called in Rohirric.

The horse-lord was surprised at the Gondorian’s knowledge of Rohirric, but he smiled and nodded. He held up both hands. Boromir looked around for ten stones. Within moments, he had his arsenal ready. At a nod, the Rohir went first. His stone hit the water smoothly and skipped three times. He bowed and Boromir took his first stone, rubbed it for a moment to rid it of any debris, then flung it sideways. It skipped four times, as his first had done. He smiled and returned the bow. For many moments, both men were consumed with the contest. Boromir was in the lead, but only by one skip. The Rohir had one stone left. Boromir was the last to shoot.

The Rohir’s stone hit seven times, easily skimming the stream. Boromir raised an eyebrow. ‘Good throw!’ He saw the grin split the man’s face and smiled. His last stone – and only three skips. He bowed in defeat. The horse-lord smiled warmly, then turned and left. Boromir was once again alone, all his previous concern washing over him stronger than before the brief respite. He laved his face in the cold mountain spring, then turned and looked south towards Amon Anwar - and made his decision.

When he returned to camp, food was laid out. Yesterday’s bread and some cheese. He snorted in disgust as the smell of bacon wafted across the Mering. The Rohirrim were eating in style! His anger flared again.

“Guilin!” he called and the man was at his side in an instant. “I am going for a ride into the Firien and then, perhaps, to our outpost at Amon Anwar. We should have camped there last night. At least we would have a passing meal this morning. I will return in time for the daymeal.”

“We are hemmed in by the Rohirrim on our West and our outpost on the North. I will be fine.”

“And I will be dead if I allow this,” the captain said, his face turning furious. “To allow the Captain-General and heir to traipse about without a guard is treason!”

Boromir looked at the man in surprise, his quick retort quelled by the last word. In truth, he could understand the man’s fear. “Very well, we will take one company and leave the other here. We will spend the night at the outpost. I will wait for a rider to bring me news of Éomer’s return.”

Guilin relaxed as Boromir squatted by the fire and took the proffered meager meal, His Captain-General bit into the hard crust, muttering curses. While Boromir ate, Guilin saddled his horse, then ordered the men to break camp.

An hour after leaving the Mering Stream's Rohirric garrison, Boromir pulled up. Guilin did the same and waited. “I think it about time that the men have a day’s rest. The Mering is known for its fishing. Tell the men to dismount and relax. Any who want to throw in a line are welcome, as will their catch be welcome for nuncheon. We will resume our way to Amon Anwar after our meal.”

Boromir dismounted and walked away from the group. The sounds of their joy at the unexpected furlough echoed through the air. He could not help but smile; the smile quickly turned into a frown. ‘However am I to wed and be a husband and father? I will spend the next year on the northern borders and only return to the City at infrequent intervals. I will not even know the woman.’ He bit his lip. ‘Many before me have not known their spouses until the day of the wedding feast. Why should I be different? Though I had hoped…’ Sadness filled him. ‘I have thought of naught but war since I was six and now I am to put that all aside and think of home and family…’ He turned eastward. The foothills of the White Mountains lay before him. ‘If I but look in any direction, I can see the site of a battle long since past. Is this the legacy I want to leave my child?’ He shuddered. ‘The self-same legacy that Faramir and I have been gifted with. War and battle and death.’ Swallowing became difficult. ‘Even now, Faramir may lie dead on some patch of green in Ithilien. Do I want this for my son? How does father endure this? How does he send us off with the knowledge that he has? He knows more than I, sees more than I, and still he sends us out. And his people. He sees their suffering. I can think no further on this. I know my duty. It is the same as fathers. If I wed and have a son, I will,’ he drew a sharp breath, ‘I will raise him as a warrior.’ He turned back to his camp. He needed to hear the sound of soldiers.

They broke camp three hours after nuncheon. The sun had already passed well westward and was hidden by the mountains. Darkness began to engulf them as they entered the Firien. Light was the banter as they road towards the beacon garrison. Boromir’s heart had lifted as soon as he had returned to their camp. ‘My son could have no better life than this,’ he thought. ‘If only there was no war.’ The silence of the forest was hypnotic. ‘So peaceful, so green,’ he thought. He pulled his horse up. Something had caught his attention, but he knew not what.

‘Silence!’ He called to Guilin, but in the moment between his thought and his cry, the first scream rent the air. Orcs! A large number were coming from all sides. Guilin pulled his horse up close to Boromir’s; his drawn sword flashed in the waning sunlight. They were quickly surrounded. Men fell before they had unsheathed their swords. Boromir swore. ‘Where are my scouts? By the Valar, where are my scouts?’ But he had no further time to think. They were engulfed, encompassed and Boromir knew they were defeated. He looked about, trying to find some way of escape. The hoard was thick. Guilin fell, a dark splash of red quickly staining the front of his tunic. Boromir dismounted and tried to hold the man. He reached out and killed the Orc that had attacked him, but the Orc fell on top of him, its hard helm crashing down upon Boromir’s unprotected head. Boromir swayed and fell forward.

‘Silence.’ Tears filled his eyes. He lay still, waiting for his senses to return, waiting for the sword to slash through his tunic, waiting for death to come. It did not. He heard far off grunts and wondered who it could possibly be. He tried to open his eyes, but they were covered in some sort of film; a sticky ooze ran down his face. His arms still worked. He was surprised, for his head throbbed. He did not think any part of his body still functioned. He brought his hand slowly and carefully to his face and wiped away the slime. Trying to see in the blackness that engulfed him, he blinked and tasted a bitterness. ‘Orc’s blood; thankfully, not my own. But why does my head pound so?’ Slowly, memory returned to him. ‘Guilin!’ The grunts he had heard must be the Orcs. ‘But where are they?’ The noise was growing softer. ‘They are leaving. They take me for dead and they are leaving.’ He raised himself but found he could only move an inch or two. ‘Ah! The Orc still lies on my body.’ He pushed with all his might and his dead enemy slid off him; Boromir stood. “Orc's breath!” He swayed but fell to one knee and saved himself. He waited for the dizziness to subside, noting that the darkness was not from his wound but that night had fallen.

‘Guilin. He was next to me. Where is he?’ He stood. Bodies lay all about him. ‘The Orcs will be back to collect more food. I wonder why they left.’ He stumbled over Guilin and heard a moan. “Guilin?” The moan grew louder. “It is Boromir. Where are you hurt?” There was no answer. Boromir wished with all his might that there was more light. He remembered the slash across the captain’s chest. He touched it and felt the blood; it was cool. He opened his tunic, tore his shirt and stuffed it up under Guilin’s own tunic. Wildly looking about, he tried to remember where he was, what part of the forest this was. ‘There is a cave nearby, if I recollect rightly. It is only a furlong away to the south.’ He pulled Guilin to a standing position. “Please, Guilin. You must help me. Can you walk?” The man did not reply, only groaned softly. “I will take that as an aye. Now, we are going to walk a little way, a short distance. You can do that!” He wrapped Guilin’s left arm about his shoulder and began walking towards what he hoped was south. After many long moments, he felt Guilin’s body become heavier. He stopped and waited, listening. There was still breath. He began walking again, more slowly as the weight of the warrior increased.

After an interminable length of time, he felt the ground begin to rise. ‘We are near the foothills,’ he thought in relief. ‘The cave is here somewhere.’ They broke out of a part of the forest and into a patch of open land; the moon shone brightly upon them. Boromir offered a prayer of thanks to Ithil. Nothing was visible in front of him, but he saw a dark spot off to his left. He turned towards it, hoping it was the cave. Only moments passed and he reached the dark area. It was the cave. He sobbed in relief. ‘Empty,’ he prayed to the Valar, ‘please have it be uninhabited.’ He could not lay Guilin down to explore it; he would have to trust. He stooped and entered. The air was only slightly foul and dusty. It was empty! He sighed as he lowered Guilin to the ground. “Stay here, my friend. I cannot start a fire yet. The Orcs most likely are still about, but I know a stream that runs nearby. I will bring water. Be still until I return.” He hoped that Guilin heard and understood but he had not the time for a reply.

Another few moments and he was back, his water skin full. He helped Guilin to a near sitting position and offered the drink. Guilin swallowed a bit, then his head sagged. Boromir laid him back on the ground and took a quick swig himself. Then, he explored the cave. It was tiny, as he remembered. A twinge of remorse tugged at his heart. Faramir and he had played hide ‘n seek here when his father took them hunting as children. They had scared the breeches off Denethor when he could not find them.

He knew the cave fairly well. There was a second chamber behind the first. He could only crawl into it, the ceiling so low. Firewood and kindling, just as he remembered. He felt it in his hands and sighed. ‘I can start a fire here and it will not be seen from outside.’ He crawled back into the outer chamber, put his arms under Guilin’s still form, and pulled him into the back chamber. He started a fire. Then, he examined Guilin. The gash was long and deep. He held the captain to him and waited. Within the hour, Guilin died in his arms. He never woke. For some reason, comfort for himself, he could not say, he held the man closer. His throat tightening, he whispered, “You were a good soldier, Guilin. I am sorry we spoke hard words to each other at Amon Dîn. You will be missed, by your men and by me. I knew I had your loyalty, even when you said things that you knew I did not want to hear, but needed to hear. You were a good friend.” He choked and stopped. At last, he pulled the body closer to him and dragged it off to the side of the chamber. “When I return, I will bury you, I promise.”

He leaned against the side wall, next to the body of his companion, and waited for morning. He planned to leave at first light, go further up the mountain to the beacon garrison and bring back a contingent to find the Orcs and destroy them, then to bury their fallen. Closing his eyes for a moment, he relaxed. The cold of the earth about him felt good; his head still throbbed but at least he was able to walk. His head nodded. ‘I cannot sleep, not now.’ He could not walk in here so he crawled through the opening into the outer chamber. He sighed and walked to the entranceway.

Morning was almost upon him. Denethor put down the globe and leaned back, wearily wiping his brow. No sign of Boromir. He walked to the window and looked out upon the Pelennor. The stars were lost now in the faint hue of Anor as she began her climb from behind the Ephel Dúath. Resting his hands upon the sill, he closed his eyes. Whenever he looked westward, he felt strong. Even if he looked into Isengard, still he was able to watch without the horrid fatigue that assailed him when he looked eastward. And yet, eastward was the Enemy. Waiting and watching for him. Ready to pounce at the slightest sign of weakness.

He was tired. He had ridden late yesterday after having inspected the Rammas by the Causeway Forts and then, against his better judgment, the Rammas where it met the Harlond. Faramir was right, as usual. The Rammas needed improvements by the Forts. It should be raised at least another two feet. But the cost and the manpower were beyond Gondor’s ability at this time. Better to concentrate solely on the Forts and leave the Harlond for another year. The wall was still strong by the quays; the merchants who used the Harlond made sure of that. He remembered the vocal sessions trying to raise the tariff on goods coming in. They screamed their fury, but his logic had won out, that time. The Harlond was safe, for the time being. The North-gate. He had told Húrin that could wait for another few years, but in truth, it should be raised. Denethor shook his head. It would not be this year, nor the next. Perhaps in three years?

He covered the stone and walked slowly down the stairs. ‘Why does it not show me my sons? And yet, I saw them - dead.’ He shuddered; the stone would only show them to him when they were dead. So now he had to hope that he would never see that again. He leaned against the cold white marble and laid his burning forehead against it. The coolness sent a shiver through his body. It felt like the cold flesh of the dead. He clenched his teeth, fear and agony vying to undo him. He pushed himself away from the wall and continued to the Citadel’s floor. Imrahil was crossing the Courtyard and waived to him. Denethor stared. He wanted desperately to look to the past again, to find Finduilas and revel in the sight of her. He knew he could not. The last time he had done that, a month ago he thought, he had found it nigh unto impossible to break away. The stone held him. Brought scene after scene to his eyes, of her dancing, of the birth of his sons, of their times in Rohan. The weddings. He held his breath again. He could not look upon her.

As he came to the Great Hall, Imrahil greeted him. “I have been wondering where you went off to. It is almost time. Lady Míriel will arrive soon. Arthad has been a great help. Her quarters have been aired and cleaned. I think she will be pleased. The windows look south. Is there a reason for that?” He put his hand gently on Denethor’s shoulder.

“Not today, Imrahil,” Denethor whispered, not looking at his brother. “Not today.”

Imrahil took the man in his arms and held him. The stiff body would not yield. “I will not press you. She is happy, wherever she is.” And he let Denethor go and walked away.

Denethor’s knees buckled but he caught himself before he fell. Turning swiftly to the tunnel, he walked through and to the practice field. He spent an hour there, then refreshed himself in the baths and returned in time to break his fast with Húrin. Another day of preparation for war.

Boromir watched as the sky turned a lighter shade of black. The sun would rise soon. He must get away. He returned to the inner chamber and snuffed out what remained of his fire. He took some dried meat from his belt and quickly ate it, followed by a slug of the water. He should refill his skin before he left. He looked once more upon Guilin. Saluting, he crawled back out. The outer chamber was filled with the most hideous stench. Boromir looked up in surprise. Orcs filled the cave. He stood up, drawing his sword, and hesitated as the largest of the hoard laughed, if laugh it could be called. He stood firm as his heart sank.

When next he awoke, Boromir found that the pain in his gut far outweighed the pain in his head. He kept as still as possible, waiting for his senses to tell him where he was, who he was with, and what was happening. He knew he must still be in the cave for he could feel the cold floor under his back. He could remember nothing after he began hacking at the Orcs with his sword. He did not have long to wait.

“Fresh meat. That’s what he is, fresh meat and ya’ll not be touchin’ him till I says. We head further up the mountain as soon as night falls. The others have all been cut and put in sacks; we’ll have enough meat to last for a week or more. Then, we kill this one. If’n ya have a problem with that, then stick yer head in Isengard’s fires.” A harsh laugh, the same one he had heard when first he was surrounded, burst forth. Boromir decided he did not like that laugh nor its owner.

None noted that he was awake. If he could have, he would have smiled. It was a trick Faramir and he had honed over long years of practice. They had been taught, and well, how to keep their stomach muscles loose, how to breath little sips of air from the corner of their mouths, how to keep their eyes rolled up so that none could see any errant movement. They had sorely tried and many times startled their nannies.

The pain, now, was almost more than he could bear; he found it more and more difficult to ‘play possum.’ He wondered how deep the wound to his stomach was, and if the Orcs had used poisoned weapons. ‘Not if they plan on eating me. Though I doubt their poison would harm them. And if they wait till nightfall, I’ll have bled out by then and will definitely not be fresh meat.’

There was a stirring in the cave, a rustling of cloth, and suddenly all grew quiet. ‘They sleep,’ he marveled. He opened his eyes to tiny slits and looked around the best he could without actually moving. There were six of the beasts lying about the cave. He wondered how many might be in the back chamber and then almost gave himself away as he realized Guilin would be naught but bones. The sob caught in his throat and he almost choked. He closed his eyes, but too late.

“So ya think ya’ve got me fooled, do ya?” The cruel voice laughed low. “I knew ya’d been awake all this time. Thinkin’ ya might be able ta escape?” A low rumble turned into dreadful coughing as the creature tried to stifle its laughter.

Boromir opened his eyes and looked full upon the face of his enemy. Never, in all the long years that he had fought Orcs, never had he spoken with one. His skin prickled at the thought, but somehow he had to keep himself alive, hoping against hope that someone would rescue him. He could not possibly escape on his own. And the creature knew it and reveled in that fact.

‘How do I act? Do I speak? Do I give him homage?’ The question was moot as the evil thing kicked Boromir hard and slammed the breath from him. Blackness engulfed him once again.

Vaguely, he remembered a tale his father had told him about being captured by Wildmen near this very same forest. Boromir tried to focus on the tale, anything to keep his mind off the searing pain in his gut, the feel of blood running down his side, and the fearful pain that lit his chest every time he tried to breath. ‘Ribs broken, probably.’

“I see you,” the hideous voice whispered, then broke into another foul laugh.

Was the filthy thing watching him constantly? Did it not sleep? Boromir’s mouth felt like death warmed over. It was dry and foul. He wanted desperately to ask for water. Instinct told him that he would be mocked and ridiculed if he asked. He smiled grimly. Water would not be forthcoming anyhow, more likely a swift kick. He tried to swallow and a moan escaped him. Under his breath,he swore every curse known to him, for the show of weakness.

“I suppose ya want water?” The creature waited, and when Boromir nodded, it laughed, hissed, and kicked until, once again, Boromir lay senseless.

He felt himself being pulled up. His head hurt, but that pain was o’er ridden by the fire in his gut. His legs were wobbly and prickled. He had lost feeling in them sometime during the day and could not stand. The foul creature that tormented him grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back. “If ya don’t walk, I’ll cut off yer fingers one by one. Then, I’ll eat each one before yer very eyes. And then I’ll cut out yer tongue and then yer ears. Ya can imagine where I’ll go from there.”

Boromir grabbed the beast’s arm and pulled himself up. He took a step, and then another as he willed himself to walk. The Orc laughed and pushed him towards the opening of the cave; it was almost night. Boromir’s head hit the side of the cave as he was shoved through to the outside. He crumpled to the ground.

“Faramir, you came,” the words hardly sounded intelligible, but he could tell from the gleam in his brother’s eyes that Faramir had heard and understood. Boromir shuddered in relief.

Boromir sighed. Faramir was here with him. A tear escaped his eye and he tried to brush it away, but his arm would not obey him.

Letting out the breath that he had unconsciously pulled in when the pain shot through his gut, Boromir tried to calm, tried to obey his brother. “I…” He found he could no longer speak.

Boromir turned to look at Faramir. The sweet face beamed down at him, the ebony hair lay loose about his face, the hands held him and squeezed. Tighter and tighter until Boromir raised an eyebrow in concern. He heard a laugh and his skin prickled. Faramir’s gentle face grew longer, wider, grew into a hideous caricature of the beloved face. It was the Orc!

“Faramir!” he cried in distress. ‘The beast has Faramir.’ He cried out in fury, “I will save you, little brother.” He reached for his sword and found it was not there. Blood covered his hand. He looked up to where Faramir had been just a moment before and saw him lying on the ground next to him, his face still serene, but his stomach split wide open. He screamed, “No! Faramir! No! I will save you. I will save you.” But nothing came from his mouth; instead, it filled with the coppery taste of blood. His own. He was dying. ‘Better to die at Faramir’s side than to live without him. To live knowing I let him die for me.’ He sobbed.

“I do not know. I will not give up though. Bring the torch a little closer. Boromir? Boromir!”

“She should be here any moment. ‘Tis a good thing we keep one at this outpost. If he lives, he would not survive to Edoras.”

Éomer closed his eyes, lifted his heart to Béma and thought simply, ‘Do not let him die.’

Boromir cried out in agony. Éomer gasped and took the beloved hand and held it. “Boromir. It is I, Éomer. I have come to help. Hold on a little longer.”

Tears spilled from the closed eyes. Boromir’s hold on his hand was tenuous at best. “I want you to remember who you are. Boromir, famed Captain-General of Gondor, my friend. Do you remember the times we went riding together, when your family came to Edoras? Do you remember the times we would cut through the streets and alleyways of Minas Tirith in search of the perfect pint?”

The tears flowed. “Boromir. I know you can hear me. I need you to hang on. Think of anything but the pain.” He took a deep breath. “Think of Faramir. He needs you. You know he does.” The hand tightened and Boromir’s face turned into a deep grimace. ‘What is wrong with Faramir,’ the Rohir wondered, ‘that the mention of him should bring such agony of mind? Oh! Béma, I pray Faramir was not here. Was not part of this company.’ Frantically he looked about, but there was no sign of any other, only the half-eaten corpse in the other chamber. ‘Too short for Faramir,’ Éomer shuddered.

“Ah!” A thought struck him. “Think of your betrothal, Boromir. I hear it is soon. You will be happy; I know it. You will grow fat and lazy as she feeds you good foods, takes care of all your needs, loves and cherishes you.” The Rohir choked. “Boromir. You will return to Minas Tirith soon and to your father. He waits for your report.”

Éomer bowed his head in grief. The leech entered the cave and stopped. “My lord,” she strode purposefully towards the Marshal. “Where is your wound?”

“It is Boromir who is injured. Here,” and Éomer pointed to the blood-stained tunic. “It is deep.”

She moved the tunic to the side and wondered aloud where the shirt was, but immediately began to pull the skin apart to see how deep the cut was. “Deep, but I have seen worse. He still lives and that is a good thing. Are we safe here?” she asked, looking about at the dead carcasses of Orcs lying about.

“I suppose it would be too much to ask to move him to a quiet, undisturbed corner? This dust will infect the wound.”

“We must. Orcs carry foul diseases with them. Their bodies have infected the floor here. Move him we must.”

Éomer nodded and six of his éored picked Boromir up and easily moved him to the back chamber. The fire was started again and the room quickly warmed.

“I will need hot water and lots of it.” She knelt next to the stricken man and opened a large pouch. Éomer could smell the medicaments and herbs. “Go away now. I will take care of him. If I need you, I will call.”

Night turned into day and still Boromir seemed as if dead. Éomer sent riders to Amon Anwar; by noon a rider of Gondor came. The White Tree was emblazoned upon the man’s livery. Éomer kept his hand on his sword. He had no idea what would transpire here. This rider’s captain lay near death and in the presence of Rohirrim. There was no longer the open trust of a few year’s back; there was dissension and distrust. Éomer knew his life and the lives of his men hung in the balance with the words he was about to utter.

He stepped up and saluted the Gondorian. “Orcs attacked your captain’s company. None but Boromir survived. He was alive, but barely, when we found him. My healer is with him now.”

“He came to the Mering to meet with me, as far as I can discern. I… I was not at the camp when he arrived so he left.”

“Boromir left a company at the Mering. When I returned from Edoras, I was told of Boromir’s arrival and later departure; I quickly left to follow him. We found the remains of a battle near the Firien, then followed tracks and discovered this cave and Boromir. The Orcs were holding him as captive.” He saw the man shudder and quickly continued. “We overcame them and released Boromir, but he was already grievous wounded. I sent a rider back to Boromir’s company at the Mering. I was told they dispatched a rider to Minas Tirith.”

The man sighed and Éomer realized the Gondorian was glad that he did not have to be the one to send a rider. Such dreadful news for the Steward would not be well-received.

“The garrison at Amon Anwar is too small. He should be moved back to the City. Yet, is he able?”

“I think not. He began to bleed further when we moved him a short distance to the back chamber of this cave.”

“Of course,” Éomer said, surprised at the diffidence in the request. “Come with me.”

Éomer bent to enter the chamber and the Gondorian followed him. He heard the man take in a sharp breath. Boromir’s face was covered with the black blood of Orcs, probably from the battle, and his tunic, laid to the side, was drenched with his own blood. The wound gaped open, wide and ugly, while Boromir’s sides were purpling into nasty bruises. “Kicked a number of times, I think,” Éomer explained.

The Gondorian clenched his fists. “You spoke of a company of men with Boromir. Where are they now? Why did they do nothing to protect him?” Anger flared in the man’s eyes and Éomer pulled him back into the outer room.

“They are all dead. We found sacks with their remains… we found them dead. There was one in the other room with Boromir, but he is… dead too.”

The man nodded, walked to the entrance, and hurried outside. Éomer heard the retching and left the man alone.

Éomer ran to Boromir’s side, but his friend was still unconscious. ‘I must find out if Faramir was part of this sortie. If he was, Béma help us. I will then have to search the sacks.’ His stomach roiled at the thought. “Send a rider to the Mering. Ask the Gondorian captain if Lord Faramir was with Captain-General Boromir.” One of his men saluted and left.

Éomer slumped to the floor; this was turning more hideous than ever. If only his sentry had used common sense and had been civil to Boromir. He knew, from the accounts he had heard when he reached his camp, that things had gone horribly wrong. Boromir had been affronted and left. Obviously, Boromir planned on returning when he found that Éomer himself had returned. Théoden’s orders were firm, yet this was the son of Denethor! He swore under his breath. His men milled about waiting for their Marshal to calm.

Éomer waived the apology aside. “Nothing to forgive. Will you send a patrol to see if there are more Orcs about the area?”

“I have already ordered it. My men left the outpost as I was riding here. Your rider told me of the attack. Hence the swiftness of my arrival. I am grateful.”

The man paused and Éomer wondered at the rift that was slowly building between Rohan and Gondor.

“There has always been Orc activity upon these foothills, but I knew of naught in recent days. I just returned from a sortie to the Emyn Muil. There, we fought and slew every Orc we found.”

The man blushed this time and for that, Éomer was glad. “This is something that must be stopped. I know my men are at fault also, but we both watch this border: you on the Gondorian side and my men on the Rohirric side. We must cooperate.” He wanted to add ‘whether our leaders cooperate or no,’ but he didn’t. “Have you orders to keep silent?”

The captain drew in a firm breath. “We do not! If we had heard, we would have sent a rider to your outpost.” The unspoken rebuke hung in the air.

This time, Éomer blushed. “I am sorry. I am Éomer, Marshal of the Riddermark. I thought you knew else I would have introduced myself. I am humbled by your trust, answering my questions without reservation.”

“Nay. And I will make sure your Captain-General knows of your sense of duty. I am proud to call you ally.”

Morning came and with it, a deep sense of urgency. No Orcs had been found; the Gondorians had come to the cave and reported to Mardil. This did nothing to lighten the mood of all present. Boromir was failing. Though the wound was not poisoned, he had lost a large amount of blood.

Mardil sat next to Éomer. “I think we must move him to Minas Tirith else he die.”

“I agree but the ride will probably kill him.” Éomer clenched his fists in anguish. “Gondor… Nay! Rohan cannot afford to lose such a warrior as he.”

“The longer we wait, the worse it will be. I can have two companies here within an hour. That should be enough.”

“I will come with you. I must… The Steward will want a full report and I am duty-bound to give one.”

“I will accompany you.” Mardil left the cave and Éomer heard him shouting orders. Within moments, the Gondorian patrol was gone.

Éomer called his own aide over and commanded him to bring Boromir’s company from the Mering.

Mardil stopped him. “If relations are as bad as they seem at the Mering, I will go with your errand-rider and bring the company back myself. I do not think they will obey you.”

“I will, with your permission, send out two companies into Gondor, along the West Road, and have them scout before us.”

“Aye. My outpost will be close to depleted with the two companies gone. I will send one of my men with your scouts else they be accosted by mistake.”

Both men knew it would not be by mistake, but they kept their thoughts to themselves. Mardil left shortly thereafter and Éomer went to prepare Boromir for the trip to Minas Tirith.

“Give me this night,” the healer pled when Mardil returned with Boromir’s remaining company. “It is already past noon. You will only have a few hours to ride. He is weak; I must put fluids back into him.” The leech stood before Éomer. “It is well to take him to Mundberg, but not tonight.”

“If she thinks she can help strengthen him further, then it would be best to wait. I have syringes at the garrison if she needs extra.”

“Syringes? Do you mean syrinx?” the healer looked at him quizzically. “For what?”

“For putting the fluids back. How else?” He looked at her in horror. “You would not…? A physic? That practice has not been used for a hundred years! Not for replacing fluids!”

“It is safe and done in the King’s own hall,” the healer sputtered. “I have done it since I was nigh unto a babe. How else indeed? Not with some sharp thing that could puncture him!”

“Of course it would puncture him and put the fluids where they belong, in his body!”

The healer stood up, straight and tall. “My way will not puncture him. Now, leave me and let me do what I must. Marshal,” she turned to the dumbfounded Rohir, “I need to make a broth, of beef if you have any.”

The Gondorian pulled up once they had left the inner chamber and grabbed Éomer by the arm. “I will not allow it. It is barbaric!”

“We have no recourse. He is not awake. We cannot force the fluids down his throat. He will choke and eventually it will bring lung sickness. It must be this way, at least until we reach Mundberg.”

“The Orcs saw us and panicked. They pushed him. He hit his head on the cave’s entranceway right before we rescued him. I think he must have a héafodwund.”

Éomer looked at the man with disdain. “We are not barbarians as you seem to imply.”

“I am only concerned for my captain. These are questions you would ask also, if our roles were reversed.”

The frustration in Mardil’s voice touched a note in Éomer’s heart. “You are right. But you must let the healer do what she can. Without this, he will surely die.”

The night proved extremely long for Mardil. Boromir’s body was limp and non-responsive. Even during the physics, he did not move, nor moan. By the time morning came, Mardil was exhausted. He looked at the Rohirric Marshal. The man’s eyes were closed, but Mardil knew he did not sleep. The healer had left the chamber to try to sleep a little before they broke camp. Mardil wished with all his heart that he could do the same, but if Boromir died while he slept…. He took a huge gulp of air and Éomer opened his eyes.

“Nay,” Mardil shook his head in frustration. “But he is no better. We must leave now.”

“I will assemble the men. We can break our fast on the road. The handcart has been made?”

“It has. It is ready to carry him. It is strapped to his own horse. Odd that the horse survived the Orcs’ attack. Usually they eat them, too.”

“Boromir’s horse has been in the thick of battle too many times. It knows to run and then return, once the battle is o’er.”

Faramir returned to Minas Tirith three days after Denethor’s visit to Osgiliath. He walked slowly into the Great Hall, expecting to see Denethor. The Steward sat in the Chair. He had been hearing the grievances of his people and giving his judgments. Faramir stood in the back by the entrance hall and waited. The Chamberlain whispered in Denethor’s ear, when he caught sight of the Steward’s son; Denethor raised his eyes from the man in front of him and looked down the hall. He nodded and Faramir smiled in acknowledgement. The young captain went directly to Denethor’s private study and waited.

“It is good to see you here,” Denethor said as he entered the room. He poured them both glasses of wine and handed one to Faramir. “I had not expected you for another seven or eight days.”

Faramir had almost jumped when Denethor spoke; he had been lost in thought. But now, he stood, greeting his father with a warm hug. “I… My heart is heavy and I know not why. I thought… I thought you might have word of Boromir?”

“Nay. He should be on his way home by now. I have not received any missives, which is sometimes unusual for your brother.” Denethor smiled. “Or not.”

Faramir chuckled. “More likely, or not, with Boromir. Probably has been having too much fun. Hunting and fishing along the way. Singing and dancing in the evenings. He is unattached for only a short time more. Probably savouring the moments.”

Denethor stood by the window and looked northward. “I wish he would send a rider. I am anxious to find how his dealings with Éomer progressed.”

Faramir stood behind Denethor, scanning the northern horizon himself, but for a different reason. Two nights before, he had a hideous nightmare. He had seen Boromir covered with blood and lying in some filthy cave, an Orc standing over him. The dream repeated itself last night also. He left Osgiliath looking for answers. Though now that he was here, he could not bring himself to ask Denethor, but he was worried.

“You do not look as if you rested at all while at the garrison, Faramir. I thought I asked you to take care of yourself?”

“Which, by the look of the bags under your eyes, was not often. If Boromir comes home and finds you in this state, he will be quite put out. And will probably blame me.”

“Nay, Father. He likes to blame Fëanor.” Faramir smiled at the old joke. “But you do not look much better, Father. Have you not slept?”

“Imrahil shoes me to bed every evening before the mid night hour. I can hardly get any work done. But I am well.” He did not mention the horrid dreams he had been having. No sense in upsetting Faramir. He looked down into his wine glass. The red was the same red as Boromir’s blood, in his dreams. He held himself so that Faramir would not see the shiver that tried to shame him.

“They are, much to Arthad’s dismay. I put the young aide in charge of the ceremony and all the other attendant parts of it. He is quite good at it, but I understand he is not very happy about doing it. I think he is more unhappy that he is not with Boromir, than unhappy with his duties.”

Faramir smiled. “Arthad is a good man. I believe Boromir wants to make him captain of Cair Andros next year. He trusts the man implicitly.”

“He plans well. Everything is running smoothly. If the woman came tomorrow, I believe we would be ready for her.”

“We found the errand-rider, Captain Mardil. Well, we found what remained of him.” The man spoke quietly. They were standing a little ways off from the rest of the men. “It looks to have been Orcs.”

“What else?” Mardil said in disgust. “So the Lord Denethor still does not know and we still have no escort, but the little we have brought with us.”

“We will stop, though I am afraid any delay will not bode well for Captain-General Boromir.” Mardil motioned and Éomer joined them.

“The errand-rider never made it to Minas Tirith. I will not dare send another.”

“It does not seem wise to send another. Our company is not large enough to waste men in such a manner.”

“Aye. It is almost night and we will not reach Calenhad this night. We will camp here, if you agree.”

“We are on Gondor’s soil now, Captain Mardil. What I agree to or not is of no importance.”

“Lord Denethor has made it clear that the men of Rohan are allies. As my ally, your input is deemed important. Let us speak of this no more. I believe we should camp here this night. Do you agree?”

Mardil clasped Éomer on the shoulder. “That would be well. My men will want to make sure their Captain-General is comfortable. They will raise camp.”

Both men went their separate ways. The soldier who had brought the news looked after them in surprise. “This is not the way of those of us closer to Minas Tirith,” he wondered to the soldier who had found the rider’s body with him. “The Rohirrim by Amon Dîn do not treat us as this man has done.”

Éomer stopped. He walked back to the men, who shied back in alarm. “Forgive my men, then.” He spoke with fervor. “That is not our way. I would not make excuses for them, but mayhap they have been too long away from the Golden Hall. Théoden King renewed Eorl’s vow to Denethor when he took up the crown. Denethor renewed Cirion’s. We are allies, no matter what others might say.”

The men nodded their heads in wonder. Éomer saluted them and walked back to the camp. He set his pickets and then found his way to the tent they had pitched for Boromir. The healer was busy about her work. Éomer ran his hands through his hair. Mardil walked up to him and motioned for him to sit. After finishing their meal, Mardil turned to the Rohir. “I heard what you told Guilin’s men. Thank you.”

“Aye – the captain of the men who accompanied Boromir. ‘Twas his body that lay in the cave next to Boromir.”

The Rohirrim began to sing softly as Anor coursed her way behind the White Mountains.

“It is a song of the Golden Hall of Meduseld in our city of Edoras. It tells of the sun glinting upon its roof. The beauty of the fields and the grasslands of Rohan in her path, warmed and turned as golden as the Hall by the sun’s glint.”

The song felt sad and Mardil found himself transported back to Minas Tirith. It had been long since he had seen the White Tower, the Tower of Ecthelion, as it gleamed in the sunlight. He missed it terribly. Now, he was returning, but the homecoming would be bitter.

“My father told me that he met Lord Denethor first by the Mering. The Steward was but a man new grown at the time. The men of Gondor challenged the men of my country to a singing battle. The Lord Denethor refused. Said his voice scared the great mountain cats.” Éomer chuckled. “They became fast friends.”

Éomer nodded his head only to have it snap back as the sounds of Boromir’s screams rent the night air. Both men stood and ran to the tent. The healer was bent over the Gondorian, holding his hands as he thrashed about. The wound was bleeding. Éomer knelt on Boromir’s right and Mardil on his left. The healer quickly brought a cup to Boromir’s mouth and attempted to make the man swallow. He only choked. She tried again and Boromir took some of the proffered tea. ‘Valerian,’ thought Mardil. Two or three more drops were taken by Boromir and within a few moments the thrashing ceased.

“I know not. He is coming awake though. Might be the pain from his wound.” She clucked angrily. “He has pulled the stitches out. I will have to sew him up again. Hold him a little longer while I find my needle.” She scavenged about the place and then turned with a glee-filled smile upon her face. “Here it is.” She bent and began to sew the wound.

At last, she finished her work and wiped her hands on her apron. “There! That should hold him, at least till the next time he thrashes about.” She walked away.

Mardil went to the fire and dipped a cloth in a pot of water that stood boiling to the side of the fire. He brought it to Boromir and gently wiped the wound. The captain sat on the floor and took Boromir’s hand.

He startled back, but kept the cloth held tight. “Boromir!” he whispered as the grey eyes looked up at him.

“That is a good sign, Éomer. He speaks.” Mardil sat and watched his captain until Boromir’s chest raised and lowered easily.

“It is, Mardil. However, you did not sleep last night, friend,” Éomer commented. “I will take first watch.”

He crawled to a blanket that lay spread out to the side and fell onto it; his eyes closed.

“Nay!” Mardil sat up with a start. “Friendship has been won this day. Forget that not, Éomer. Even in the midst of the most terrible of times, evil will not win out.”

They passed Calenhad, Min-Rimmon, and Erelas. Nardol could be seen clearly. Mardil sighed in relief and pointed out the beacon hill to Éomer. “We are more than half way home.”

“The road. There is no road in the forest that I recall, though that way would prove much shorter. Without a road, Boromir would suffer greatly. More so than he has up to now.”

“Once we pass Amon Dîn. Our road should be safe from that point on. Will you also send your éored back?”

Éomer smiled grimly. “I will not bring the éored onto the Pelennor, but camp it before the North-gate. Another three days then? Before we reach Minas Tirith?”

“At least. Boromir cannot continue this pace much longer. Though we only go about eight leagues a day, it is still too much for him. I will send an errand-rider when we reach Amon Din. Denethor must be prepared.”

“If you wish, I will stay with the men and you can ride yourself to the Steward. I think he should hear the news from your own lips.”

“Perhaps. In fact, I would much prefer that. When we reach Amon Dîn, we will make camp. I do not know who is in charge of the garrison there. It was Captain Guilin, but he is now dead. Whoever it is, I will ensure you and your men are safe, then I will ride on and notify those at Forannest of your coming. You will be given safe passage onto the Pelennor – you and Boromir and the men of Gondor. As you said, leave your men camped without. It will be safer for them and for you. Leave your horse at the stables outside the city; once you enter Minas Tirith, someone will meet you and bring you to the Citadel. That is where the Steward will meet you.”

Lady Miriel’s retinue was at the Harlond and all of Minas Tirith rejoiced. Trumpets rang out a greeting from every level.

Denethor stood on the parapet, resting his hands on the wall that encircled the Citadel. Imrahil stood by his side.

“We have been through this before. Boromir will not fail me. He will come. In time.”

Denethor stood on the parapet. Though the Citadel buzzed from the early morning until now, he had not left his post. Waiting.

Faramir came to him three times during the day; each time, he tried desperately to make Denethor come in for food, for rest, to meet the lady, anything, but Denethor would not be swayed. He stayed his post.

At last, Imrahil came. “My brother,” he started quietly. “You do your son a great disservice by not meeting his bride to be. She has waited patiently.”

“He will come, Denethor. I trust him, as do you. Come now and greet the Lady Míriel and welcome her to your family.”

Faramir stood behind his uncle. He glanced northward, but there was naught to see. He turned again to watch his father, to see what the words of Imrahil would produce. At last, he saw the shoulders sag. His heart went out to his father.

The next hour was pleasant. They met in Finduilas’ garden. Imrahil, Lady Nerdanel, Lady Ivriniel, Lady Lothíriel, Lady Míriel, Denethor and Faramir chatted of Dol Amroth, relatives, and the sea. They spoke of the various holidays that would be shared with Boromir’s betrothed. They decided which holidays would be spent in Minas Tirith and which in Dol Amroth. They spoke of who would be invited and who would stay in the Citadel and who would stay on the lower levels. They spoke of the menu and the libations. They spoke of everything… but Boromir.

After the agreed upon hour was up, Denethor stood and bowed, kissed Lady Nerdanel’s cheek, then Lady Miriel’s, took Lothíriel’s chin in his hand and smiled fondly at her, then left the gardens. Boromir’s intended held her head up high.

Faramir was impressed. “If you do not mind, Aunt Nerdanel, I meet with the Steward now. Some unforeseen, important matters. Forgive me. I will see you at the festivities tonight?”

Imrahil sat next to his cousin and held her hand. Every sailor’s curse he could think of rattled through his mind. At last, he stood to take his leave. He must speak with Denethor further.

“Is there truly some untoward event that has caused his delay, Cousin, or has the Lord Boromir changed his mind?” she asked gently.

“He will not change his mind, Míriel. I promise you that, but this delay does not bode well for the Steward. Boromir would only be late if something had happened. I am concerned, as is his father.”

“Then I shall offer a prayer to the Valar before I retire tonight. For his well-being.” She stood and waited for him to stand. “Good evening, Cousin.”

“Take your rest this afternoon. I will escort you to the festival later this evening.” He kissed her lightly on her forehead, kissed his wife and daughter, and watched as they walked back to the stairs and turned towards their quarters. Then, he ran down the stairs and out onto the parapet. Denethor was nowhere to be seen. Another curse parted his lips.

“He is in the Tower,” Faramir’s grim voice rose behind him. “I could not stop him. He has locked the door.”

“He did. But he will not use it until the last moment. He is loyal to my father.”

Imrahil snorted. “As if loyalty matters when your father lays dying on the Tower floor!”

“If we could prove father lays dying on the Tower floor,” Faramir said dryly, “then he would open the door.”

“I will not. I will, however, stand outside the door, whether father will it or no, and if I hear anything that sounds ill, I will blow my horn. Húrin waits at the bottom of the stairs. I go now, Uncle.”

Imrahil nodded. Once Faramir left him, he kicked the parapet. He cursed again, loudly, and sat down on the wall. “Ulmo, Lord of Waters, give me strength to endure these proud men!”

As Anor set, Denethor left the room. Faramir stood at the top of the stairs. “My son,” he sighed heavily, “You should be with your uncle’s family. The celebration of Ethuil begins shortly. The Lady Míriel will need an escort.”

“She has Uncle and Aunt. I would be with you. I,” he noted his son’s hesitation and waited. Faramir began to walk down the stairs; Denethor followed. “Continue, my son.”

“I would ride to Amon Dîn to find news of Boromir. Please, Father. Unless you have news?”

Denethor scowled. “Though I can see much, Faramir, I cannot see you nor your brother. I have tried. He is not in my sight.”

“Then please let me ride to Amon Dîn. I will question them and then, perhaps ride further, towards Eilenach?”

“On the morrow. You will ride to Amon Dîn, but no further. Find out what you can, then report back to me.”

“Nay. No further than Amon Dîn. I will wait for your report in my study. I will have the daymeal prepared. You may share it with me.”

Denethor might have smiled at the sagging shoulders of his youngest, but his heart was bleeding. Boromir would not be late, unless misfortune had struck.

“I have not danced in a thousand years, Uncle. Might you show me what some of the latest steps are?”

Imrahil chuckled. “If you were with your men, you would not be so shy. What makes you tremble this evening?”

“I do not tremble. At least,” Faramir grinned, “Father would not allow me to tremble before anyone but him. However, dancing with a woman is different than dancing a warrior’s dance under the stars! You would not dance a sea shanty tonight, would you? Why should it be different with me? And why should you tease me so?”

“That was ages past. I cannot even remember the last dance we held here. So the steps I learned in my youth are useless for tonight.”

“Then I will show you what is current in Dol Amroth. But I cannot promise these steps will do you any good here in Minas Tirith.”

They began. Slowly at first, with turning and twirling and much laughter, until Faramir found himself wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. “I am ill prepared for dancing. The movements use muscles that I have not used in a long while.”

“Then perhaps your daily training should encompass a bit of dancing,” the voice of Denethor broke through Faramir’s concentration and the man all but fell.

“Nay. You do well. You do not look as awkward and gangly as at your first dance, though you still have not the grace of your uncle.”

“Do not let it go to your head. My Boromir would dance circles around the both of…” The Steward could not hide the shiver that coursed through him. “Let us to the dance before my state of melancholy infects us all.”

Merethrond was regally decorated as befitted the ceremony that was to take place on the morrow. Though the festival commemorated the first day of Spring, all knew that the major reason for this evening’s event was to welcome the Lady Míriel to Minas Tirith. There were flowers everywhere, food-laden tables stood against the walls, and a large group of players tuned their instruments in preparation for the dancing to be held later in the evening. Arthad ran from group to group making sure all were enjoying themselves and that the food supply was ample.

Imrahil led Nerdanel, Ivriniel, Lothíriel, and Míriel into the dining hall. Húrin ran forward to greet them. “Ah! Lady Nerdanel and Ivriniel. Too long has it been since last you graced Minas Tirith. The echoes of your laughter have long been missed. And you,” he turned towards Lothíriel, “You have grown full well. You look lovely. The blue becomes you.” He turned back towards Nerdanel and Ivriniel. “As it seems to become all the women of Dol Amroth!”

Lady Nerdanel smiled and kissed Húrin lightly on the cheek. “You have ever been glib with your tongue, dearest cousin. I have oft wondered how a man of such striking bearing has escaped marriage. But I see now that Minas Tirith holds your heart.”

“Aye, my Lady. Indeed it does. And when was I to wed when the Lord Denethor could not govern without me?”

At that he laughed heartily, but Imrahil noted that the Warden looked about and knew he looked to see if the Steward might have overheard the comment.

Imrahil took Miriel’s hand and led her forward. “Warden Húrin. I would like to present my cousin, the Lady Míriel. Lady Míriel, this is a cousin of ours, Húrin of the House of Húrin, Warden of the Keys.”

Míriel dropped a deep curtsy and Húrin blushed furiously. “Ah, my Lady. Please do not bow to me. I am but a lowly servant of Gondor. Let me say, though, that I am most pleased to meet you. Prince Imrahil speaks highly of you.”

At that moment, the Chamberlain rapped his staff on the marble floor and all turned. Denethor and Faramir stood in the doorway. The men saluted and the women bowed. Denethor waved his acknowledgement of the welcome. The Chamberlain bid them all to continue with the festivities.

Boromir tried to sit up, but the motion only caused his head to throb painfully. Nausea o’ercame him and he leaned forward. The leach ran to his side. “You must not sit. Not good for the stomach. My stitches will come undone!” She pushed him back onto the blanket, helped him lean to the side, and waited till his stomach had emptied. Then she laid him back down and shoved handfuls of dirt over the vomitus.

Éomer came in at the sound of Boromir’s discomfort and knelt next to the man. “You are awake.”

“This way of waking is not to my liking,” the Gondorian managed a weak smile. “How long?”

“We are camped near the Great West Road. The beacon of Eilenach is about two leagues south of us. We should reach Amon Dîn tomorrow in the late afternoon.”

“We came upon the Orcs as they were leaving the cave. One had begun to push you forward when he saw my men attacking. He must have become agitated. He pushed you into the wall itself. You have woken occasionally. My healer is concerned. Was there another injury to your head before this?”

“An Orc fell on me during the battle in the Firien. We clunked heads. He had a helm on; I did not. I was out for at least an hour.”

“Then that explains it. I was concerned myself. I had thought better of you.”

Boromir smiled. “I am known for my hard head, but this time, fate was too much for even me.” The smile left him. “My men. I lost them all, did I not?”

“All. Even Captain Guilin. We buried them. Deep so the Orcs would not smell the remains.”

“Nay. Greeting my bride. She was to arrive in Minas Tirith today. It is not the best way to start a relationship, leaving her standing at the White Tree. Father will be furious.”

“If I remember your father, and I remember him quite well, he will be o’erjoyed to see his eldest alive.”

“None need to stand for you, Boromir. At least, not with your father. He dotes on you.”

“As your uncle dotes on you, Éomer. The last time we were in Edoras…” The thought of the sickness that had taken Morwen, Indis and Listöwel brought a sudden stab to his heart.

“Those were sad days, Boromir. Never have I seen your father so inconsolable.”

“You, my friend, lost your mother too. I still have a father, but your uncle dotes on you, as I have said. He spent nigh unto two evenings, before Indis took ill, telling us of the great deeds you have done in the Eastmark.”

“He is as a father to me, as is Théodred a brother. I wish you could have seen him when the King sent him to Helm’s Deep as the Second Marshal of the Mark. I could not have been prouder of him.”

“Rest now, Boromir. We will break camp early tomorrow. You will see your father and your brother soon.”

The dance lasted o’erlong, in Denethor’s opinion. His heart stood upon the escarpment, not here in this raucous hall. The Steward noted that Faramir left his side only when one or the other of his cousin’s asked for a dance. He could not begrudge them that. This was to have been a joyous occasion.

“If I leave now, I can reach Amon Dîn before sunup.” Faramir stood by him once again. “Please, Father.”

“Do not tax me. I have not the strength, tonight, to argue with you. I have made my decision. At first light, you may leave, but not before.” He could feel the anger and anguish flow through his youngest’s body. The tension overwhelmed him. He wondered if it might have an odour, as of fear, but did not think so. His own heart rummaged somewhere in the middle of his throat. He could not swallow, had not been able to swallow for hours now.

He did not dance. Though the Lady Ivriniel requested one of him twice this night. He claimed a sore back, but she smiled sadly at him, hugged him warmly, and left. Others stayed far from him; he could hear the whispers and knew all wondered where Boromir, son of the Steward, was. When Denethor opened the ceremony earlier this eventide, he had suggested that Boromir was in Rohan on state business. His words apparently did not stop the whispers. He wanted to thrash a few of the gossips. He would find out, in time, who said what, and he now vowed that they would pay for their disloyalty.

He looked about him and realized that the hall was emptying. Anor’s light was awakening. It would be dawn soon and Faramir would leave him. He motioned to Imrahil. “Brother. Faramir will be leaving for Amon Dîn within the hour. I would speak with him in private. I will say my goodnights to your family. I am sorry.”

“There is no apology needed, Brother. The women are all tired. The trip was long, though not that arduous. I do believe none of them slept well this afternoon.”

“Then another apology is needed. I should have ended this debacle hours ago.”

Denethor watched as the prince brought his family to the Steward’s side. “My Lord Steward,” Imrahil hugged him warmly, “We come to bid you a good night. Long has the day been, but the evening was too full of good food and entertainment to leave. Forgive us for the delay.”

Denethor kissed each of his cousin’s and smiled. “It has been a long time for all of us. I bid you sleep well. We will break our fast whenever you decide. Please do not rise early on my account.”

Míriel stepped forward and curtsied. “I will offer a prayer to the Valar tonight for the safe return of Boromir.”

He turned and walked quickly from the hall. Faramir, after giving his farewells to the family, ran after his father.

“Nay. But she will before long. Unfortunately.” Denethor turned to his son. “As your mother did. We cannot let that same fate happen to Míriel.” Denethor’s eyes were sunken and red.

“Nay, Father. We will protect her. You have already wisely decided to give her leave more than once a year to visit her home. That should ameliorate any homesickness.”

“Let us discuss your travels. You will ride to Amon Dîn and inquire as to Boromir’s whereabouts. If you do not find him at the garrison, if there is no word of him, I would have you take three companies westward and find him.”

“Do not put yourself in harm’s way. If you are attacked, or even feel the presence of the Enemy, turn immediately back to Amon Dîn. Do you hear me? I will not chance the loss of both of you.”

Denethor groaned. “Boromir would be standing here right now if naught had happened to him or his men. I can be nothing but concerned. I will not, however, have you go into harm’s way. Do you understand me, Faramir? I cannot speak more strongly. Will you obey me; will you follow my wishes?”

“Very well. Now prepare yourself and be off. I will expect a missive sent as soon as you ascertain the conditions at Amon Dîn. Do not fail to send riders!”

Boromir did not wake the following morning and the healer could not be found. Éomer sent a patrol out to search for her, while his heart sank in nameless fear. Théoden King had changed much during the last few years; his fiery spirit lost in a morass of illnesses that only his councilor, Grima Wormtongue, seemed capable of healing. Rumour of treachery spread throughout the kingdom and among Éomer’s éored. Had treachery joined his own éored in the person of the leech? He shuddered at the thought.

Mardil knelt beside his Captain-General. The fever that had never left the Gondorian now raged unchecked. Boromir’s body was soaked in his own sweat and his breathing was shallow, rapid and laboured. Mardil was at a loss as to the cause of this. Gently, he moved Boromir’s shirt up and took off the bandages. He reeled back from the stench, desperately trying not to vomit. “Éomer!”

The Rohir came into the tent and stopped short. He put his hand over his mouth and nose and stepped forward. The flesh around Boromir’s wound was red, swollen, and oozed a cloudy pus. “Poison!” he whispered, as sick to his stomach as Mardil. “We must cut the wound open and clean it out. It is full of poison!”

“My knife is clean. Water will help and we will find cloth to wrap the wound, once we have cleaned it.”

Éomer left the tent and called for water to be boiled; then, he placed the end of his knife into the fire’s flame. He waited until it shone a bright red. Then, he took a pail and poured some of the almost boiled water into it; then dipped his hands in and laved them and his face. He ordered the water brought into the tent when it was fully boiled. He had a man bring a pot of cold water, filled from a nearby mountain stream for the breaking of the fast.

Mardil had been trying to clean the wound as best he could with a clean shirt of his own. He looked up when Éomer entered, eyeing the knife. “I should be the one to do this. He is my liege lord.”

“It is because of my healer that Boromir lies thus. It is my duty to right this wrong.”

“I am, I am sorry to say. Treachery.” Éomer knelt at Boromir’s side. “I hope he stays unconscious. I have no poppy, only Valerian tea, which will be useless should he wake.” He took his knife and put it to the wound. Gulping, he began to cut along the ragged line. The stench grew worse as the wound was re-opened. Blood and pus ran out.

By this time, a soldier had entered with the boiled water. Mardil dunked a torn piece of shirt into the water and waited a moment. Then, he pulled it from the pot. Steam rose as he clenched his teeth in pain. He waved the cloth about for a moment and then used it to wipe away the blood. The soldier who had brought the water in, realized what Mardil was about. He took another piece of cloth, did the same as Mardil had done, and handed the slightly cooled cloth to Mardil. As Éomer cut further, the two men cleaned the wound behind him.

At last, Éomer leaned back on his haunches. “Is the water cool enough to pour over the wound?”

The water washed over the wound as Éomer gasped. Tiny bits of burrs, leaves and dirt washed out. “Not poison! The leech used the very stuff of the earth to try to kill him.” Tears fell.

“She must have put those in the wound when she sewed him the second time,” Mardil moaned. “You were not with us and I spent the time consoling Boromir. Why would she do such a thing? Her a healer?”

“Treachery. But that is no matter now. We must make sure the wound is thoroughly cleaned.

The soldier left the tent and returned a few moments later with another full pail of hot water and a small case. “I brought my sewing kit, Captain Mardil. I did not know if you had one. The thread is clean; my mother taught me how to protect it.”

Mardil took the case and grabbed the soldier’s arm. “You did well. Now, help me pour more water over the wound. As you hold it open, I will try to get the debris out, then we will flush it.” They worked for long moments. Mardil’s fingers worked under the ripped skin feeling for any other waste. At last, Mardil was certain the wound was clean and the soldier flushed it four times with the warm water.

Éomer took a deep breath and began to sew the wound closed. He swore. “The flesh is torn from the debris; some of it is rotted. See the blackness here. And the swelling. Ah! We have no maggots, so I must cut some off else it will continue to rot and not heal properly.” Tears filled his eyes again. “Morgoth be cursed!” The blade was sharp and the wound was readied. Éomer finished sewing it closed. He sat on the floor and wiped his brow. Blood covered his hands. The soldier stepped forward and offered the pail. Éomer held out his hands and winced as the hot water washed away the blood and filth. “Thank you,” Éomer whispered as the man offered a cloth for him to dry off. Éomer did so, then wiped his face clean. “Now, let us leave it open for awhile, with just a thin layer of honey. It will heal better that way.”

“We will not travel today,” Mardil decided. “Boromir will not be able to stand the strain.”

“I agree,” Éomer laid a clean cloth lightly over the wound. “I need to-“

Shouts came from without the tent. Mardil ordered the soldier to stand guard over Boromir while Éomer and he went to see what the commotion was about.

“We found the healer, Captain. Here she is.” The healer was unceremoniously dumped from before the rider.

Mardil strode forward, but was roughly pushed aside by Éomer. The Rohir thrust his blade towards the woman’s stomach. “Feel the blood of the man you tried to kill!” he screamed in Rohirric. “Héo is déaðes scyldig!”

When Anor topped the mountains, Faramir was long on his road to Boromir, Damrod ever at his side. Denethor’s change of heart still perplexed his youngest. All seeing – had his father seen something and was not telling him? A cold chill ran down Faramir’s spine as he searched the horizon, looking for any sign of his brother’s return. They changed horses at the North-gate, then headed towards Amon Dîn. Four hours later, the gates of the garrison of Amon Dîn opened before them. Baranor stepped up to greet him, a great, crooked smile on his face.

“Captain Faramir! ‘Tis good to see you again. We had no missive. Will you be staying long?”

“Only for the time it takes get fresh mounts. I am away to meet Boromir. He is late and the Steward requires his presence.”

“Would that you could stay for a bit. I have had no news from the City in a fortnight.”

“I have sent the daily reports, but have received none. Mayhap the rider takes the reports directly to Captain Guilin at the Mering?”

Horses were readied. A soldier handed Damrod food packets and water skins affixed to their horses’ saddles. Faramir thanked both men and rode off.

Though Anor shone brightly, the cold off the mountain chilled him to the bone. He drew his cloak tighter and tucked his free hand inside. His breath blew out in ghostly white wisps. ‘I should have had some warm mead before I left Baranor. I had not remembered how bitter the winds could be. My mind is on Boromir. Why is he so late? Could the Rohirrim have possibly detained him?’ Faramir’s eyes widened at the thought. ‘No matter how badly Théoden might now think of Gondor, he would not do that.’ And yet the seed of doubt lowered Faramir’s spirits even further. Faramir was no fool; something had happened to his brother, that much was clear. But it would not be imprisonment. At least, not at the hands of the Rohirrim. Another shiver ran down his spine. Baranor said naught about Orcs or any other dangers upon the road, but he kept alert nonetheless.

Éomer shoved the woman away from him. Mardil stared in surprise. Éomer had stayed his hand! The woman lived! He ran forward and grabbed Éomer’s arm, pulling the man away in case his anger could not be contained a second time.

“Bind her and set guards upon her. Take her to a tent far away from me,” the Rohir growled to his men. Mardil sat him down by the fire and offered a flagon of warmed mead.

Mardil shifted. “My dealings with the Rohirrim have been friendly. The man that Boromir encountered must be newly stationed at the Mering.”

“The new men… Life has changed these past years. My King grows old and listens to words he would not have in his youth. Men who have not served in Rohan are given positions of importance. I do not know the new captain of Mering’s garrison.”

“I am Marshal in name only,” Éomer confided. “If I had killed that woman, even though her treachery is deep, I would find myself in the King’s dungeons.” He held up a hand to stay Mardil’s protest. “Aye! Even in my great anger, my love for Rohan o’ercame it. If I am imprisoned, who will guard our eastern border? I could not risk such an event.”

Shouts from the pickets sounded. Mardil stepped forward and began ordering the men to draw their weapons. Éomer went into the tent to guard Boromir.

Denethor sat opposite Lady Míriel and smiled with his eyes. He had spent an hour, this late morning, with the woman. In his mind’s eye, he could see she cared naught for the Heir, but for the title. ‘So this is the best I can offer my son?’ He smiled again and nodded as she continued her banter about Dol Amroth. Denethor noted Ivriniel was starting to fidget and hid a smile. When the other woman took a moment to breathe, he stood up. “I have some other business that I must now tend to. Forgive me. I must take my leave. I will see you at the daymeal. The cook has planned something special for tonight.”

She nodded. “I have a few errands I must attend to,” she said aloud. “I will return shortly.”

“You must forgive her,” Nerdanel began as they slowly walked down the steps of the Tower. “She is nervous and ill at ease.” Through her laughter at Denethor’s expressions, she said, “ She really never talks this much!”

“Oh! Denethor! She knows court life and how to simper. That is what she did with you just now. She presented the coy, sometimes dim of wit woman who does not appear to be a threat. But when I return to her, she will tell me all that she now thinks she knows about the Steward of Gondor.”

Denethor raised an eyebrow. “Would that my own sons could be so discerning.”

Denethor took her hand. “And that I trust. I will put aside my misgivings and accept her. Now, as for Ivriniel. She is well?”

“Minas Tirith holds many hard memories for her. Being in Finduilas’ garden yesterday was most difficult. Finduilas is missed. Forgive me,” she whispered, “But you did ask.”

“Now and again,” Denethor sighed, “The heart that I have steeled against memories cracks open. Finduilas is truly missed.”

”What if you had not sons to remember her by? Life would be so much sadder.”

He turned and took Imrahil’s wife in his arms. “You always remind me of much and bring my heart joy. Fate has been kind to you.”

“For the moment. Elphir’s posting on the Anduin gives my heart grief. With the enemy so near, if a missive fails to arrive every day, I find myself distraught.”

“His posting will be short. You understand the need?” As she nodded, he let her go. “Will the Lady Míriel understand such need? Or will she hope…?”

“Is that what troubles you, Denethor? That she only… I cannot believe it of her.” She looked long and hard at the Steward. “It is said you have the gift of foresight and know men’s thoughts. Is that what you see?”

“I have a year, my Lord,” her tone turned brusque. “Know you the time will be spent wisely. I will change her heart and show her the way of a Steward’s wife. My husband has given his word. Now I give you mine. She will be what Gondor needs.”

Denethor kissed her lightly on the brow. “Thank you, Lady Nerdanel. “My son’s happiness is in your hands.”

About the ninth hour, Faramir caught sight of the beacon at Eilenach. A small camp stood at the base of the hill and Faramir could see not only the Steward’s banners, but those of Rohan as well. His shoulders lifted as the burden of fear dissipated. “Boromir!” he breathed softly. Willing hands took his horse’s reins as he entered the camp; he slid from his horse to cries of welcome. Faramir felt at ease. As he was led to a large tent further from the road, his sense of euphoria lessened. The faces of the warriors were grim, though they lifted in joy when they recognized him. ‘Something is wrong.’

Éomer strode from the tent. Looking up in surprise when Faramir called his name, he strode forward and purposefully embraced Faramir warmly.

“Is not well. His company was attacked in the Firien Wood. We have done what we could.”

Faramir noted Éomer’s reticence and vowed to pursue the matter further, once he had seen to his brother’s welfare. He followed Éomer.

Damrod strode beside him, but stopped at the entrance to the tent. “I will wait here, Captain.”

Éomer led him into the tent. Boromir lay quietly, a Rohirric bear rug wrapped around him. Faramir knelt at his brother’s side. “Boromir. It is Faramir.” There was no response. A sheen of sweat lay upon his brother’s brow. Faramir found a cloth lying next to him and dabbed gently. He stroked back the hair that had fallen forward. “Where was he injured?”

“His stomach. It is a large gash. It had been tended and sewn, but there were complications. I will tell you later.”

Faramir lifted the rug and gently pulled back the bandage. The wound smelled ugly and looked even worse. “It is not healing.”

“Nay! But the cause has been found. We will clean it again after your visit and re-bandage it.”

“Aye. Great treachery. And at the hands of one of my people. I cannot speak of this in front of Boromir. He knows and understands, but I fear the telling would upset him.”

Faramir nodded and looked at the beloved face of Boromir. Grey eyes looked back at him.

“Ah! I had a dream sometime. I cannot remember when. But you were there and I knew I was safe.” A shudder ran threw the warrior’s body. “But you became an Orc.” His voice rose in pitch. “Touch me. Let me know you are real.”

Faramir sobbed and held Boromir tight. “I am real. I am here for you now. Close your eyes and rest. I will not leave you.”

Boromir sighed and closed his eyes. Faramir sat on the ground next to him. Éomer left them alone.

“Granted, Warden, my mind has been preoccupied with other things these last few weeks – Faramir’s wounding, the betrothal, the Enemy’s lies. However,” and Húrin sat up as the tone of his cousin and Steward changed from the light banter it had been since he entered Denethor’s study till now, “I wonder about the dearth of reports from my army.”

“Then – where are they?” Denethor raised an eyebrow. “Are you not receiving them?”

“I have received a few, but not all. Forgive me for not forwarding them to you. Boromir usually takes care of them.”

“I know he does,” and Denethor’s tone grew even colder. “Am I only to receive reports when Boromir is present?”

“Nay, of course not, my Lord Steward. I will look into this matter immediately.” He stood, placed his wine glass down on the table, bowed and left.

Denethor scowled. ‘How long did it take my last Warden to become adept at seeing to my needs?” He bowed his head. ‘It is useless, but I must try again.’

The Tower door opened without a sound. Denethor hesitated a moment. He was still angry over the report situation, but, mostly, his heart was ill at ease regarding Boromir. He took a long, deep breath, calmed himself, and entered the chamber. Taking the cover from the stone, he placed it to the side. Then, he walked to the north-facing window and looked out. ‘How fare you, Boromir, my son? My heart is heavy; I would have you here at my side.’ Clouds scudded across the sky; shadows ran along the mountains under them. All seemed peaceful and quiet. ‘If my heart were not so grieved, I could almost imagine I was living within the time of the Watchful Peace.’ Faint sounds of daily life and commerce wafted up from the levels below him. Stoneworkers laboured somewhere; the steady tap of their tools comforted him. ‘If only life could remain like this. Tranquil, unencumbered by war, my sons at my side…’

A sigh escaped him. ‘Time to be strong.’ He turned and walked purposefully to the plinth, placed his hands upon the Palantír and watched as the Pelennor opened before him. Of all of Gondor that the globe could show him, this view he loved the most. He indulged himself for a moment and brought the scene before him closer. He watched as farmers tended their fields, fields so desperately needed to feed Gondor’s army. He put that thought aside. He continued his gaze down the green hills that dropped to the Anduin. Everywhere was activity for the fields had been burned clean and the spring planting was begun. Fruit trees were leafed and the heifer’s born last fall were filling the open spaces. Meat for his men. Another thought to put aside for the moment.

‘It is time,’ he thought grimly and turned his view northward. He took in a quick breath. More Easterling encampments were springing up around the gate of Barad-dûr. There were even a few towards the border by the Nindalf. ‘Boromir will indeed have to be sent north when he returns. I think I will station him at Cair Andros instead of Amon Dîn. Rohan can only protect so much of that border,’ he noted as his gaze swept towards the Emyn Muil. ‘Orcs come from those heights and Rohan cannot stop them.’

At last, he turned his gaze upon Amon Dîn. He saw the patrols riding north of the garrison, but saw no sign of Faramir’s banner. ‘The boy has headed west. He did not find Boromir at Amon Dîn.’ He watched as the Drúadin Forest came into view. He raised an eyebrow and brought his focus tighter and closer. No wolves. No boar. ‘Orcs! They are the only things that eat wolf, except bear. There must have been Orcs here recently. And yet – reports!’ He scowled. Sending sight further west, he espied a camp a little north of Eilenach. He focused to bring the scene closer, but the Palantír would not obey him. “Ah!” he cried in delight. “So when my sons are near a place, you will not let me see. Wondrous! Now I know at least where one of them is. Your own disobedience gives you away!”

He quickly scanned the Great West Road, but saw no further signs of travel. The stone did not stop his inspection. He returned his gaze to the speck that represented the camp. ‘Would that I could ride there myself!’

He took his hands from the globe, covered it, and walked back to his study. Though only an hour before the daymeal, Denethor lay down. Exhaustion filled him so that he could hardly walk. He wondered at this, as he had not looked east, but sleep o’ercame him before he had time to study the matter.

“Faramir,” Éomer stepped through the flap and into the tent. “It is time for the daymeal. Will you eat it with us?”

“Nay. I will not leave him. The wound must be cleaned,” he reminded the Rohir.

“Faramir,” Boromir croaked, but he found his tongue swollen and stuck fast to the roof of his mouth; a look of terror crossed his face as he tried to breathe.

Éomer ran in with a skin and held it to Boromir’s lips. “Slowly, my friend.”

Boromir let the cool water run through his mouth and felt his tongue release. He closed his eyes.

“We are poor stewards for you, my friend. Your body needed water and we failed it.”

Boromir nodded, a look of utter relief passed over his face. He tried again and this time, his mouth worked properly. “Faramir. You came.”

Faramir tightened his hold on his brother’s hand. “It is good to see you awake.”

“He is anxious for your return. We knew there was trouble, must have been trouble for you not to have returned to the City at the appointed hour.” He nodded and Éomer left to get the hot water. “Boromir. Do not speak o’ermuch, but I must know. Has Éomer… Have the Rohirrim…”

“Éomer has been to me as a brother, as he always has, Faramir. I would be dead now, but for him and his men.”

Éomer entered the tent with two warriors of Gondor. The one, a captain, saluted. “Captain Faramir. I am Captain Mardil of Amon Anwar.”

Faramir stood and clasped the man’s arms warmly. “I have heard of you. You are Damrod’s son?”

“All know your father’s name. Long was he friend to the Steward. Too many times, he found himself having to save my father. There was the time in the Drúadan Forest; your father was one of those in the company who was with my father when Wild Men captured him. He was one of the great heroes of the Battle of Cair Andros in 2973. My father told me of your father’s valour in the battle; he saved my father’s life. And now, you have extended your family’s service. You have saved Boromir’s life!”

“Nay!” the captain said grimly, “Marshal Éomer and his men saved the Captain-General. My men and I only do guard duty. Marshal Éomer is in command.”

Éomer blushed and raised his hand in protest. “I would not presume to command warriors of Gondor, Captain Mardil.”

“Captain Faramir,” Mardil said vehemently. “It was the Rohirrim who found and saved Captain-General Boromir. Once they killed the Orcs who captured him and then tended to his wounds, they sent to our garrison to report. My men only guard.”

“I would hear the whole tale, once we tend Boromir’s wounds.” Faramir turned and pulled back the bear rug while Éomer wet a cloth in the hot water. Mardil replaced the cooled heating stones with hot ones.

“It was worse,” Éomer confided. “I had to cut skin away for we had not maggots.”

“Nor poppy either, I see,” Faramir frowned as he poured warm water over the wound. Éomer held cloths to catch the fallen water. “The smell lessons.”

The three men worked quietly for the next few moments. At last, the wound was cleaned and a poultice placed over it.

“Good, Éomer. And thank you. Now, the both of you take your meal. When you are done, if you would bring me a small plate? Captain Mardil?” Éomer nodded and left the tent. Mardil stood ready. The other soldier stood guard by the door.

“Why was no rider sent to Minas Tirith? I could have brought a healer with me and supplies to aid in Boromir’s recovery.”

“My Lord Faramir. We sent two riders the day after Boromir was attacked. We found their bodies two days later as we rode towards the City. Since we had Éomer’s healer, I thought it best not to risk any more lives. Until now, the reports we have received from garrisons along the way were that the Great West Road was not safe.”

Faramir chewed his lip. “Not safe? And yet, we have received no such reports in Minas Tirith.” Faramir shook his head. There were too many reports lost or not sent. His father must be told. “You may go.”

Faramir bent over Boromir who slept more soundly. He turned and motioned Mardil from the tent and followed him out. “It is time I learned of what befell Boromir,” he said. He motioned to Éomer who had been standing close by.

The three men walked a little ways from the tent and sat around a fire. The men nearby saluted and moved further away. The look on Captain Faramir’s face did not bode well for any to willingly be near.

“From the beginning,” Faramir said, his lips drawn taut and his voice sounding very much like the Steward’s. “All of it.”

Éomer began and followed through to the ending. When he was finished, Mardil filled in Gondor’s part. When he was done, he stood. Faramir looked up in surprise, and then nodded. A moment later, Mardil returned with three flagons of warm mead. The night’s chill was begun.

Faramir dismissed Mardil and Éomer and walked slowly back to Boromir’s tent. His father would be displeased, to say the least. He sighed. There was only an oath between Gondor and Rohan, no written treaty, for the Rohirrim believed that an oath given with honour need not be given on parchment. Since Cirion’s days, the fact that there were no written guidelines presented problems in relations between the two countries. None seemed graver to Faramir than this one.

Faramir entered Boromir’s tent and was surprised to see him awake. He smiled and sat beside him. “You look better.”

“I think I shall live,” Boromir quipped, “though only long enough to tease you, if for naught else. You look worried.” The lightness left Boromir’s voice. “What troubles you?”

“Ah,” Boromir shook his head sadly. “You have done something that will upset father?”

“There is a look in your eyes, little brother, that gives you away every time. What have you done now?”

“She is a member of Théoden King’s court. Her duty is to Rohan. I know not why she deemed it necessary to try to kill you. Éomer has no idea either. I do not believe it was ordered. However, she is under Éomer’s command. Though her act was done on Gondor’s soil, she is still their responsibility. And they have a responsibility to her.” Faramir hesitated.

“Go on. You might as well rehearse what you will say to father. He will be very angry, Faramir. Nothing you have said thus far seems strong enough to justify sending her back.”

Faramir nodded, his brow furrowed. “Rohan is our ally. She must have autonomy over her own subjects. Éomer has promised a trial and punishment. Am I to doubt the word of our faithful ally? If I brought her to Minas Tirith, father would have her hung immediately. As I will probably now be,” Faramir said dryly. “It would have meant war when we can least afford war with our allies! You were still unconscious. We travel to Amon Din tomorrow. It would have been too dangerous to wait any longer.”

“I sent Éomer’s men back, except for his personal guard, and Captain Mardil and most of his men. With my deepest thanks.”

Boromir smiled, then frowned. “I am glad. I would not want to explain all of this,” and he gestured about the tent.

Tears sprang up in Boromir’s eyes. He held out his hand and Faramir took it. “Nay, Faramir. Though it would have been better if I had sent her back. You need not endure any anger, Faramir. I am not angry, just a little surprised. I understood immediately why you did it, but I think you needed to tell me. As for father, he loves us dearly. I can imagine his fury, but I will be there, alive, and that is something,” Boromir smiled and Faramir joined in. “I love you, Faramir.”

Faramir leaned over and kissed Boromir gently on his forehead. “You are still fevered! Éomer!” he shouted.

”You will not be going anywhere until this dratted fever is stopped. Éomer,” the Rohir had quietly entered the tent, “We need to change the dressing again. Boromir’s fever is high.”

“It is night, Faramir. Fevers usually flare up after a long day’s battle with it. It is to be expected. But I will get the hot water and cloths and we will change the dressing.” Éomer left the tent as quickly as he had entered.

Both Faramir and Éomer were adept at changing dressings and the deed was done quickly and as painlessly as possible. Boromir was still sweating profusely by the time they had finished. The changing took much out of him.

Éomer left as they were finishing up and returned shortly after with a cup of valerian tea and a water skin. “It is the last of the leaves.”

Faramir gently hit his shoulder. “Is that the thanks we get for caring for you? And when was the last time you had water? I do not want your body failing again.”

Éomer offered the water to Boromir as Faramir held him in a semi-sitting position.

“Do not be getting yourself in any trouble whilst you look for it, Faramir. I do not think I can make it home by myself.” He smiled again and leaned back against Faramir’s thighs.

Éomer left and Boromir stayed still, his eyes closed. “I have not felt this peaceful in many a long day. I am glad you came, Faramir.”

“During the attack, I was felled too quickly. After that, the Orcs had it and my weapons in another part of the cave. Once Éomer came, I was too injured to even think. Not conscious most of those days.” He laughed quietly. “I don’t think I could have winded it if I had tried.”

Faramir began to gently stroke Boromir’s forehead. “I would rather have come home with no arms or legs than without you, Boromir.” His voice caught.

A long silence followed and Faramir thought his brother asleep until he heard a sharp hiss. “Boromir?”

“Just a twinge. Nothing more. I am well, Faramir.” He looked back at his brother and smiled. “Have you read any good books lately?” The smile broadened and there was a twinkle in Boromir’s eyes.

Faramir laughed out loud. “You scoundrel. You scare the life out of me and then you lie there as if really interested in anything I might read.”

“I had hoped perhaps it was of a battle and we could discuss strategy. But battles never quite go the way one thinks, do they, Faramir?”

Faramir blushed, lifted Boromir’s head, and moved to bring water, but Boromir would not be swayed. “What have you read? I can see it in your eyes. You have read something since lying about the Citadel. What was it?”

“I still have it,” Faramir’s blush deepened. “It is in my bag. Would you like to see it? I found it deep in the Library.”

Faramir nodded and left the tent, returning but moments later. “Tea and a book. Would you like some cookies, too?”

Boromir snorted and Faramir laughed. The younger sat down next to his brother and helped hold him up whilst he drank. After a few moments, Boromir pushed the mug aside. “Thank you. Now. The book.”

“It is about Elves.” Faramir laughed at the look of chagrin on Boromir’s face. “But also about battles.” Another laugh as Boromir nodded his encouragement. “So, if it is Elves it is not so good, but if it is about Elves and battles, then it is acceptable?”

“Do not chide me about Elves. And do NOT bring up that tale about Edhellond again either! Tell me about it. What is the title?”

“It is not about us, you silly sot! I didn’t say ‘The Wars of the Jewels,’ I said ‘The Wars of Beleriand.’ It is about the wars in the first age. There was an Elf who slew a great beast. Among other things. I was intrigued. The frontispiece has a picture of the beast. Do you see it?” He held it close to Boromir’s nose.

Boromir sneezed. “I merely stated the other name for the battles. The book still has the dust from the library on it. I can see it, Faramir.” Fondness colored his voice as he tried to push the book a little ways away. Another sneeze and this time he really was in pain.

Faramir quickly moved the book and wiped Boromir’s face with a cool cloth. “I am so sorry!”

Boromir waved one hand in disagreement, but held his nose with the other. After a moment, he took a breath. And then another. “The fit seems to be passing. Now, forgive me for interrupting. Would you read some of it?”

Faramir began. Éomer had entered and sat, cross-legged on the tent’s dirt floor. His eyes lit up when he recognized the Sindarin. ‘It has been a long while since last I heard my grandfather’s beloved language.’ Grima had convinced Théoden to ban the ‘foreign’ tongue. He sat very still. The guard had moved the flap of the tent back and listened attentively. The evening passed.

The next morning, his fever had left him. Faramir shouted orders for the camp to be struck. Within an hour after they broke their fast, they set out. Boromir was still on the litter. Faramir walked beside him. “I sent a rider this morning. There appears to be little danger in this part of Gondor. He should arrive in Minas Tirith by nuncheon.”

They went some way before Faramir noticed that Boromir was deep in thought. “Now, big brother,” he smiled warmly, “What troubles you?”

“I did. We had the feast for Ethuil and I danced with her. She is fair to look upon and she dances better than I.” He smirked at Boromir’s sudden grin. “Uncle Imrahil gave me a few lessons before the festival. I appointed myself well, according to Aunt Nerdanel. Well, she seems fair. I liked her, but I do not think father is convinced.”

Boromir smiled. “I should be wed to a queen, I think, in father’s mind. Perhaps the Queen of the Elves!”

“Boromir! There are Elves; you know that. It is not respectful to make light of them.”

“Calm yourself, Faramir,” Boromir laughed. “I know what you are saying. It was only a jest, nothing more.”

“One day you will meet one and then you will be sorry. I very much remember what he was like. Father told us about the time he met an Elf too, in Dol Amroth. Remember?”

“I do, Faramir. But the Elves are of no use to us now. They have deserted us. Have you seen one raise a sword in Gondor’s defense as of late? One day, we will need Elves, and Dwarves even, if what father foresees is true. I wonder, will we have their help? Or even Rohan’s?”

“If Éomer has anything to do with it, Rohan will help. I do not believe Théoden King will not help, if the Red Arrow is sent.”

They stopped twice that day, once for nuncheon and once nearer the daymeal. At both times, they changed Boromir’s dressings. The trip was beginning to wear upon Boromir. He slept fitfully in between stops and his fever returned. All hoped they would reach Amon Dîn before night fell.

Baranor greeted them at the gate. Faramir had winded his own horn and the gates had opened immediately. The old warrior was profuse in his welcome and his quiet assessment of their needs. Four soldiers picked up the litter with Boromir on it and walked quickly, but steadily, to the garrison’s healing rooms. Faramir began to follow, but Baranor stopped him. “He will be well tended. A rider with this news must be sent to Minas Tirith.”

“Another moment? Boromir is in very good hands. Our healer is one of the best in Minas Tirith. I picked him myself,” Baranor’s smile grew wide. “You and your men must eat and rest.”

Faramir’s head bowed. He was indeed tired and knew that the men who had accompanied Boromir from the Mering must be exhausted. “Show us where we may sleep. And thank you.” He was asleep a moment after his head hit the pillow.

“I know not yet. At the ninth hour, bring to me the errand-riders responsible for reports from the various garrisons. Bring them to the Great Hall, one by one. I would speak with them about these missing reports.”

Denethor stood and leaned against the window’s sill. He watched as the Tower Guard went through their morning ritual. Four men, dressed in the elaborate garb and helms of the Tower Guard marched in formation from their quarters to the base of the Tower, their boots sounding as one on the marble floor of the Citadel. They stopped in front of the White Tree, facing the Great Hall. The soldiers on duty drew their swords, saluted, sheathed their swords, and then formed their own detail. They marched to the other side of the White Tree and faced east. Their replacements saluted and marched to the now abandoned posts. The relieved detail marched briskly back to their quarters. All grew still again.

Denethor’s manservant knocked and entered. “Will you break your fast now, my Lord?”

The Steward nodded and watched as the man lay a linen cloth on Denethor’s desk, then placed silverware, plates and glasses in their appropriate spots. The man left the room, but within moments, returned carrying a large tray. He placed it next to the cloth, took the teapot, cup and saucer and placed them at the head of the linen. After that, he beckoned for Denethor to sit, holding the Steward’s chair out for him. Once his master was seated, he removed a large rounded top off a server, took a plate from the tray and began to fill it with bacon, poached eggs in a scallion sauce, fresh asparagus with dill, and small squares of new potatoes that had been boiled, mashed and fried. He put a bowl full of cut up fruit at Denethor’s left, with a plate of toasted, honeyed bread on his right. Bowing, the manservant left.

Denethor contemplated the food before him. Two thoughts entered the Steward’s mind in quick succession: there seemed to be an overabundance of food, and, should he bring in a taster for his food?

He wondered if he was always served so much food. He did not remember such plentitude. Was it because of the guests in the City for the betrothal? The talks with Imrahil and Húrin regarding the storage of extra foods and the increase in the fields being planted had reminded Denethor that food would not always be so plentiful. ‘Are we wasting it?’

The other thought was more grim. If treachery was afoot in the Citadel itself, would it not be prudent to have one? This thought galled him. Never, as far as he could remember, had a Steward needed a taster. He cursed. The Enemy would change the entire fabric of his life, if given the opportunity. He slammed his fist down. Nay! He would not have a taster. He smiled at the mess. His fist had thoroughly crushed the asparagus.

Two errand-riders had come to the City this day: one at midday, the other about an hour past. The news had been good, but not excellent. Boromir was indeed injured, but should return to Minas Tirith by the daymeal. The City grew chaotic as Húrin urged all to prepare for the heir’s arrival. Denethor had decided that Boromir would be taken to his own rooms; the Steward’s personal healer would attend him. The nature of the wound was discussed by a small gathering: Denethor, Húrin, Imrahil, twelve healers, and the errand-rider who came directly from Faramir.

“There was treachery, my Lord Steward. Captain Faramir deemed you hear of it, for the wound is infected.”

“Is it a gnawing sore?” Argon, Denethor’s Warden of the Houses asked the rider.

The man swallowed hard. “It is. We had no maggots. Marshal Éomer cut off the…”

“Marshal Éomer?” Denethor stood and the study immediately grew quiet. “What was Marshal Éomer doing there?”

“His company found Captain-General Boromir. I know nothing more, my Lord Steward. I was given these details only and told to ride for my life.”

“Is there anything more about the wound?” the Warden interrupted impatiently. “I must know about the wound to prepare medicaments.”

“It is a belly wound, my Lord. It is long, from here to here.” The rider used his finger to show the extent of the wound, as described by Faramir. “It cut the muscle, but did not enter his gut. The wound was cared for well at the beginning. I was not told how or why, but the wound became infected, due to treachery. Captain-General Boromir has been with fever since yesterday.”

“Aye. And speaking with Captain Faramir. I was told the wound is grievous and will need some diligent care.”

“You may go,” Denethor turned to the rider, “but stay within the Citadel, in case we need to ask more questions.”

Denethor put his elbows on his desk and leaned his chin on his folded hands. “Treachery. Long has it been our enemy. Go now, Argon and do what you must to prepare for Boromir’s arrival. I will have him stay in his own room. Bring what you need to the antechamber. If there is anything you need, anything, send for Húrin.”

The healer nodded and left. Imrahil waited a moment, then walked towards Denethor. “The Rohirrim are our allies. Éomer is with Boromir for a reason, perhaps to discuss the very thing you sent Boromir to discuss. I cannot believe he would be a part of any treachery.”

“I would believe you are correct, but the Enemy is cunning, Imrahil. He would turn us against one another. I wonder if Éomer is Faramir’s guest or prisoner?”

“Guest!” Húrin said emphatically. “If naught else, remember that Éomer is Morwen’s grandson. The blood of Númenor runs through the man. He would not betray his mother’s people!”

“The blood of Númenor runs through Théoden and I do not trust him further than I can throw him. He is weak. Is the same weakness in Éomer? It is useless to discuss further. When Faramir returns, we will discover where the treachery lies. As for now, let us find the treachery within our own walls. Húrin, where is the Captain of Report? You were going to send him to me this day.”

“I had given the position to young Arthad. We were finished with preparations for the betrothal and the man asked for another assignment. I did not realize you wanted to see him. I thoroughly interviewed him. The reports have been received and sent to those who needed them, according to Arthad. I know Boromir highly respects the man. I was going to bring my report to you this evening. I have found no cause for the missing reports. The errand-riders were ready to meet with you an hour ago, but I deemed it more important for you to meet with Faramir’s rider.”

“Arthad.” Denethor took a deep breath. “Aye. Both Boromir and myself hold Arthad in high esteem. Yet, he has seen much battle as of late. Mayhap battle sickness assails him. Have him taken to Argon and examined. I wish to hear your report by this evening. I will meet with the errand-riders tomorrow. Tonight, I must prepare for Boromir.”

Imrahil, noting Denethor’s disquiet, challenged him to a bit of sword work. Denethor agreed. The hour passed quickly. Denethor puffed a little. “You are younger than I and it is beginning to show. Or did you hold off the first few times we met, so that I was lulled into a sense of ease?”

Imrahil laughed. “I too am puffing. It is the late hour of our practice. Usually, we do this in the morning. I need a bath.

“Nerdanel thinks you are angry with her. She wonders at your absence. Would you join us for the daymeal?”

“I will. Give me an hour to bath and prepare myself and I will meet you in your quarters. Tell her to please not fuss.”

Denethor now sat with a glass of wine in one hand and waited for Imrahil. The Prince was finishing cleaning up.

“I will be with you in a moment,” he called from behind the screen. “Then, I will show you that sword that I found in father’s library. It is incredible. The detail is Elvish, I am sure of it.”

Denethor smiled at the excitement in Imrahil’s voice, but the smile quickly faded as he heard women’s voices coming from Miriel’s rooms, adjoining Imrahil’s study.

“I do not want to meet him at the ceremony! I want to see him beforehand. I do not want to be shocked by his appearance.”

“You will obey the Steward. The Lord Boromir has been injured and will require much time convalescing. If you do not meet him before the ceremony, you will have to accept that decision. It is the Stewards to make, not yours.”

“The wound. I heard it is ugly. Will I have to touch it? I do not want to touch a wound.”

“You are marrying a warrior, Míriel. A warrior of Gondor. He will have wounds. Your father has wounds, I am sure, and your mother touches him.”

“Do not speak of my father and mother in such terms. It is disgusting to think of them that way.”

He heard Nerdanel’s sigh. “As Boromir’s mate, you will be expected to attend him in many ways. One of them might even be taking care of his wounds, rubbing healing ointments on his battle-weary limbs, helping him undress when he is burdened with his armour. There are many things that are done by a good wife that are sometimes difficult, but the other parts of marriage are worth it. You must learn to touch him in many ways.”

Denethor heard a small foot stamp and his face grew livid. He put down his wine glass and left the room.

It felt as if he lay on a great, warm bed. He could hardly believe it. In truth, it felt like his own bed. Keeping his eyes closed, he savoured the feeling. When he tried to sink further into it, however, a stab of pain coursed from his belly to his head. So it was not a dream.

“It is your bed, my son, and it would be wise if you moved as little as possible.”

Boromir closed his eyes in gratitude; a lone tear trailed its way down his cheek. “I had not thought to see you again,” he whispered. “Do not tell Faramir.”

“And too proud to have it be known that the Steward of Gondor failed his own son,” Boromir smiled, though his eyes remained closed.

“That too,” Denethor smiled himself. “Pride has its place, at times.” Denethor bit his lip to keep the next thought silenced. ‘Was it pride led Faramir to usurp his authority to deal with the Rohirric traitor?’ In his wildest imaginings, he could not fathom why his youngest had allowed the fiend to escape his rightful judgment. Be that as it may, this was Boromir’s homecoming and Boromir would not welcome talk of Faramir’s moment of weakness.

“Is not the news of my return enough, Father? Yet, I see your anger and understand. It is against Faramir?”

“Let us not discuss your brother at this time. He has, as of late, decided to be Steward.”

“He has not, Father!” The vehemence of Boromir’s reply drew a gasp from him as the wound tightened. The muscles of his stomach were not yet healed and readily reacted to any movement.

“I told you it best not to move,” Denethor said gently. Then, he continued, “Let it suffice to say, Boromir, that I have forgiven your brother. I will speak of it no more.” A faint sheen of sweat now covered Boromir’s forehead. Denethor took a cloth and wiped it. Gently, he placed a kiss on his son’s brow. “How can I be angry with Faramir when he brings my son home?”

Boromir smiled, then quickly frowned. “What of Éomer, Father? You were kind?”

“As I have heard the story told, I would not have you beside me if not for Éomer of the Mark. I give him much credit, after the treachery of his healer, to come to me with apologies. I wonder how his uncle will react to the news?”

“I think not. Théoden knows he needs every capable warrior to guard his borders. Banishment? Nay. But perhaps demotion. I know not. I can no longer fathom my friend. Too many others of questionable regard have Théoden’s ear. But enough of this talk. Your promised one is here, in Minas Tirith, and eagerly awaits your recovery.”

“I have reservations. She is young. She will learn. Faramir, before he ran off after you, showed her about our City. She was most attentive. She is adept at needlework and has some organizational skills. Imrahil thinks highly of her.”

Denethor laughed, then looked down at his hands. “If she accomplishes that with you, then I have much to fear. For a man deeply in love with a woman will allow her to destroy, if she is so inclined, everything else that he loves.”

“Then I know what my task will be in this marriage – to ensure that I am never entrapped.”

Denethor looked up in surprise. “There are different forms of entrapment, my son. Your task in this marriage is to love this woman with all your heart, teach her the ways of Gondor, and give your land an heir.”

Boromir’s smile told Denethor who had come in. “Faramir,” he called. “Come and sit with your brother. He is restless, yet I must leave him. Boromir, the healers believe you will be up and about in four days. I have moved the ceremony back a fortnight. Do you agree?”

Denethor bent and kissed Boromir’s brow one more time. “Rest now, my son, and be at peace. You are home and safe.”

“Safe,” Denethor reiterated. He turned and left, nodding to Faramir on his way out.

“Did I need forgiveness? Was I not acting as a Captain of Gondor? Boromir, I did what I thought was right and proper. What needed to be done.”

“I know. And he knows as well. It is just that his anger and fear were too great. He almost lost me, that he realizes, and it is bitter knowledge to have. Give him time.”

Faramir smiled. “The healers will be here shortly. Let me look at you.” Faramir noted the sheen of sweat on Boromir’s brow. “The fever persists. Are you not resting?”

Boromir took Faramir’s hand and squeezed it. “Do not concern yourself with that now. Tell me, have you rested yourself? I remember naught since we left Eilenach.”

Faramir stared. “That was four days ago. I am surprised father did not let the healers place you in the Houses!”

“After your last ‘incarceration,’ I am most grateful he did not. My own bed suits me.”

Faramir returned the gesture. “Now, I have brought our book. Would you like me to read more?”

“Aye.” Boromir grimaced as he settled deeper in his bed. “Which battle?”

The next morning’s meeting with the errand-riders proved fruitless. Only four were present, as most were on their appointed rounds. He already knew most of what they said: reports were brought in and handed to Arthad; Arthad sent them to Denethor, Húrin, and the Lords of the Council; replies and orders were distributed to the appropriate riders; the riders delivered them to the different outposts and garrisons. All seemed to be in order. And yet, reports were not being received. Faramir had told him of Baranor’s complaints. He had his own; he was not receiving reports! He waved the riders away.

“Write a list of the daily and weekly reports, Húrin. Show me which errand-rider covers which territory. I must speak with Arthad, but I hesitate until I know more.”

Húrin painstakingly wrote a note. Then, he looked up at Denethor. “Éomer, Marshal of the Mark, still waits upon your pleasure.”

The hint of distress in Húrin’s voice would have made Denethor smile, if not for the gravity of the situation in Rohan. “I will see him after the morning’s audience.”

“He has been here two days already and has spent a very long time on the road before that, guarding Boromir.” Húrin hesitated to speak, but the courageous Rider of Rohan stirred empathy in his heart.

The crowds filed in, nobles and lords, peasants and shopkeepers, farmers and tradesmen, all awaiting his judgment of their grievances. He had found that, more and more, he could hardly bear this duty. Troubles and petty little squabbles. They had increased ten-fold this last year. No matter what he had done to alleviate their suffering from the effects of this war, they still found other things to complain about. The treasury was being bled dry by orphans and widows, never mind by the suppliers raising their charges for supplies desperately needed by Gondor’s army. Yet, when a Knight’s widow came to him, he readily offered recompense, though never enough to satisfy them. He had opened another two orphanages on the second level, but his Warden told him they would be full before the year was out. He set his jaw and sat.

When at last the time allotted was completed, he walked to his study. He needed to use the Palantír; the riders had to be followed and watched. Arthad was a capable administrator. Argon had done a thorough check of the man and found no signs of battle weariness. Reports should be arriving here and in the field. But they were not and he could not trust those about him. The stone would not lie. Only steps away from his own study, he turned the corner to go back up the stairs, and ran into the Marshal of the Mark.

“Éomer, Marshal, please, come into my study.” He offered a chair to Théoden’s nephew. “Sit down. Forgive me for the delay. You are anxious to return to Meduseld and I, I keep you here. Would you join me for some wine?” He turned and took the carafe off the silver tray and filled a pewter goblet. He handed it to Éomer. He laughed to himself, not many soldiers would turn down free wine. He sat on a chair opposite the Marshal and took a few sips. He could feel Éomer angering at the delay. This was not the first and it would not be the last. The young one would need to take a message back to Théoden King that to trifle with the loyalty and friendship of Gondor would be a fool’s tack in these times. He watched under his eyelashes as the Rohir squirmed in his chair. The wine had been quickly downed, as if, and he knew this was the reason, as if the man wanted to flee Minas Tirith as quickly as possible. He would find himself here another few days, if Denethor had his will. At last, he looked up and smiled. “I would offer a banquet in your honour. Gondor is most appreciative of your selfless act of courage. Bringing my son home to me is the greatest gift any man can give another. Do you not agree?”

Éomer opened his mouth as if to speak, but Denethor continued on, seemingly without haste, so that Éomer had not a moment to speak.

“A banquet is only fitting. I would ask you to stay for Boromir’s betrothal ceremony, but that is now scheduled a fortnight away. I do not think you will be able to attend that. Nay, it is a shame. Boromir himself would appreciate your being there. I know you are fond of each other; your long friendship has been a boon to Gondor. I think it has been a boon to Rohan as well, do you not think, Éomer? Well, never mind that. The important thing is that we, of Gondor, make some show of gratitude to you. What might you have in mind?”

Again, Éomer began to speak and Denethor cut him short. “I know. Mayhap a mithril-tipped spear? Engraved, of course, with your name and Boromir’s and the mention of your bravery? Ah, yes. That would be better than a banquet for a warrior such as yourself.”

“Father?” Faramir stood at Denethor’s study door. “Boromir has asked to see you.”

Denethor rose and ushered Faramir from the room. “I must speak with Éomer. He has waited long for our interview. Is Boromir not well? Does he need me now?”

“He wishes to speak to you about Éomer. He is concerned that you have not allowed him to leave Minas Tirith yet.”

“I do not need to answer to my sons on matters of state, Faramir.” His voice was cold and hard. “Tell Boromir that I will be kind, as he has asked, but I must make sure Rohan remains loyal. And Éomer will help me with that. Go back to Boromir, if indeed he sent you, and tell him I will sup with him tonight.”

“Lord Denethor,” Éomer stood behind him. “You need not be concerned. Rohan’s loyalty has been known since the days of Eorl. I would speak plainly with you. I do not acquaint myself with court manners nor customs. I am a simple warrior. I obey my liege lord and I obey my heart.”

Denethor looked at the man with affection. “Then I will not mince words either. I knew your father well. He would tell me of his love for your mother. I never doubted your father.”

“Aye. You have seen the treachery that rears up between us. You have seen it!” His voice rose in pitch; he stopped for a moment and collected himself. “Lies have spread throughout Gondor that Rohan has changed allegiance to a wizard in a tower. In deference to your father’s memory, I ask you, is this true?”

“It would seem so, but I do not believe it. If Gondor calls, I will answer as will my men, as will Théodred and, in the end, Théoden King. He swore the oath to you. No matter what his ‘counselors’ might say, he must keep his oath.”

“I will not look that far. I see more than you think, Lord Denethor. I know what lies are being spread. I have seen it first hand with Boromir and the leach. But even before that, I saw and heard them in my own éored and my men now know that I will not countenance the telling of those lies. They know I follow my king and our laws. If aught should happen, I will follow our laws. Is that enough for you?”

“Nay. But it will suffice. I could rely upon your grandmother to plead Gondor’s case with her son. May I rely upon you?”

“I can only do what I can do. Théodred and I have spoken of this. He leads his men well; they trust him and they are prepared to defend not only the Mark but Gondor as well. He reminds them of the oath.” With this, Éomer smiled. “Have you forgotten, Lord Denethor, how we swear by our ancestors? We believe we will see them one day and would not wish to greet them as traitors to an oath handed down generation to generation. You have my word. Unless I am imprisoned or dead, I will keep my word.”

“Then make haste back to the Mark, Éomer Marshal. And know that you have my love, as your father did. Your horse has been well tended. I will order supplies for you and your men. Would you leave this noon?”

“If it pleases you, my Lord Denethor. I will say my farewells to Boromir and Faramir.”

“First, take this.” Denethor strode to his antechamber and brought back a long, mithril-tipped spear, made of black lebethron wood. Carved horses’ heads ran down the length of it. A mithril plate, small, was attached directly below the point: ‘To Éomer, in deepest gratitude, Denethor.’

Éomer looked up, tears in his eyes. “Thank you. I will treasure it. May it ever serve the Mark and her friends.” He stepped forward and clasped Denethor to him. “To my father’s honour,” he saluted. Then, he turned and left.

Faramir had not missed the innuendo in his father’s reply. ‘If Boromir sent you…’ The sting of the words had hurt and infuriated him. He dared not go back to Boromir’s room, not with this anger raging in his breast. Boromir would see and be aggrieved. Right now, Boromir had to heal and anything that would delay that healing was unacceptable to Faramir. He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter about him. Where could he go? The stables. He would groom his horse, that usually calmed him. Edhel whinnied when he entered the stall and Faramir grinned. He put on the halter and hooked the horse securely, then pulled a body brush out of a nearby cupboard and proceeded to smooth the hair. He’d already groomed Edhel earlier in the morning, but needed the calm of the repetitive action to steady his heart.

“Faramir! I went to Boromir’s rooms to bid you both farewell, but you were not there. I am glad to have found you. I would not want to leave Mundberg before bidding you well.” Éomer strode forward and stopped outside the stall’s door.

“Father is letting you…? I am glad you and father have finished your business. I am very glad you are going home.”

“As am I. I… uh, I am not certain of my welcome in the King’s court, but I am long o’erdue.”

“Ah!” Éomer’s brow rose. “So I am not alone in the bad graces of a liege lord?”

Éomer laughed loud and heartily. “The same here. Among other things. My uncle does not quite see my way of thinking. Nay. He sees, but does not approve. I heard Denethor’s words. Not kind.”

“Nay. Not kind indeed, but not unexpected. I seem unable to win his graces, as of late.”

“I do not begrudge my cousin his father’s love and respect. At one time, I received a fair share. But no longer.”

“I do not begrudge Boromir’s place in father’s heart, either. It has been some time since I have received a fair share.” Faramir shrugged. He took off Edhel’s halter and moved out of the stall, locking it securely behind him. “I would that our time together had been longer and of not so serious a nature, but it was good to see you again.”

“As it was for me. Take care of yourself, Faramir. From everything that Boromir has told me, you are a good soldier.”

Éomer smiled. “We should both take such words to heart. There are enough lies spreading about the country without us listening to them!” He put his hand on Faramir’s shoulder and pulled him close.

“If I do not meet him before the betrothal, I will not stand next to him!” She stamped her foot and the sound rang through the hallway leading to the Great Hall. They were scheduled to meet with Denethor in a matter of moments and the silly girl had picked this time to be stubborn. Imrahil had all he could do not to stomp away himself; he had never been so angry. Nerdanel gave him a look and he obeyed her. She always could take care of situations like this much better than he.

“If you do not stand, as your father has promised, then you will return to Dol Amroth in disgrace. Do you understand me, girl?”

Míriel gasped. No one had ever spoken to her like this; not even her mother. She began to cry. Imrahil’s brow rose in concern, but Nerdanel gave him such a look of fury, that he stopped the words of comfort that were on his lips.

When her ploy did not work, she bit her lip. “My mother has many friends,” she sobbed, “and they will not invite you to their parties.”

Nerdanel laughed in shock and surprise. Imrahil stepped forward, but his wife shook her head. “If that is the price I must pay to ensure your father’s honour, than so be it,” she said in mock humility.

The girl stared at her. “I have my honour, too. I will not be wed without meeting him.”

They heard a discreet cough and turned. Faramir stood before them. “Mayhap the Lady Míriel has a point. Boromir, I am sure, would deem it appropriate for them to meet before the ceremony. I will arrange it, if you ask.”

Míriel smiled brightly and gave a deep, eyelash-fluttering bow to Faramir. Nerdanel drew in her breath and Imrahil let one out.

A perfect solution, the Prince thought. “Lord Faramir, if you would be so kind as to act as intermediary for us, I would be grateful.”

“I will speak with father after your audience. You are, as we speak being introduced, are you not?”

Imrahil heard the Chamberlain’s voice and shook his head. Never had he been late for an audience. He took Nerdanel by the arm and led her forward.

Faramir, seeing Miriel’s bewilderment, took her arm and led her into the Great Hall.

Boromir’s face was turned towards the sun. It was slowly moving westward; only another few hours, and Anor’s light would slip behind Mindolluin. Much as he loved the City, these savoured moments alone in his mother's garden filled him with a rare peace. He knew she would be coming soon; Faramir had arranged a meeting. Glad he was that his brother thought of the garden, for no other place in Minas Tirith would afford him the peace he would need.

Denethor did not like the woman, of that, Boromir was certain. Yet, he could not base his own life, his marriage, upon his father's feelings, wise though Denethor was. He did not need a companion; his men gave him companionship. He did not need someone to protect; did he not have all of Gondor to protect? He did not need someone to care for him; did not his mother teach him how to darn his own socks?

Nay! He needed someone to carry his seed to fruition. That was the crux of the matter. Miriel's family tree was long and strong. She could bear children, if her ancestry was any measure.

Is that all he had hoped for? Nay, again. He hoped for love and fidelity, for a warm hand on his back when the mail became burdensome and cut into him. He hoped for a playmate. He smiled at the idea. Time would not allow him the luxury of play, but he missed it. She could remind him to laugh and to look at the clouds and to remember joy. He swallowed hard. If his father was correct, this one would not fulfill any but the basest of needs. And he wondered if she would e'en do that.

And he - what was expected of him? She would eventually be the Steward's wife. She would have everything she would need. Food, shelter, fine clothes, jewels about her throat, slippers (his brother had told him women like many slippers), servants.... His father had suggested other needs... He knew, from the soldiers under his command, the needs of a woman, and he would happily take care of those needs. But would this one...? He heard a cough behind him and made to stand.

“Nay, dearest nephew! Please stay seated. Lady Míriel and I have brought tea and sandwiches and some chocolates from Harad. Let me serve you.” Aunt Nerdanel ordered a table brought over to where he sat while Míriel supervised the tray of refreshments.

He sat up in his chair, trying to stifle the grunt of pain that threatened. His gut was still sore, but it was to be expected. Today he had spent time in the practice court, trying to wield his sword. He bit his lip, remembering the frustration.

“Not much, Aunt. I moved the wrong way.” He smiled and it melted her heart, as his smiles always did. Truth be known, he was her favorite, though Imrahil loved Faramir more. The steadfastness of her eldest nephew and his great fortitude endeared him to her. He reminded her of her father, dead in the Corsair battle of '80.

“Lady Míriel,” Boromir bowed his head in greeting. “You look splendid today. Dol Amroth blue has never looked prettier, except perhaps on Lady Nerdanel.”

Míriel smiled slightly. The man was large and broad-shouldered; his hands were huge. She shivered. ‘Why could he not be like Faramir?’

He saw her eyes rove over him and was surprised at the expression he read in them. “Please, sit by my side. I have heard so much about you and your family. You have much to be proud of. Did your parents come for the ceremony?”

“Your father moved her family into one of the visitor's mansions on the Sixth Level,” Nerdanel broke in. “The Tower had not an apartment spacious enough for the entire family.”

Boromir immediately understood. Someone had been unhappy with the accommodations first given them. ‘Probably her mother,’ he mused. He had heard tales of the woman's pride and pomposity.

Nerdanel poured the steeping tea. She handed a cup and saucer to Boromir and then filled a plate with small sandwiches and slices of orange. The plate she placed on the table next to him.

He took the cup and smiled at her. Impulsively, he took her hand and kissed it lightly. “You have always been too kind, Aunt. I am deeply grateful.”

Míriel's eyes rose at the gesture. She took a proffered cup from Lady Nerdanel and sipped quietly.

“You have been in Minas Tirith for quite some time now. Is it what you expected, Lady Míriel?”

She looked up and towards the east. The mountain flared at that moment and she flinched.

“The mountain carries naught to frighten you. It is well beyond our borders and heavily guarded by the garrison at Osgiliath. If you walk to the end of the parapet, you can see the old city. It once was quite beautiful. Father and I have hopes of returning it to its glory. Did you know there was a planetarium there? And a fine theatre. We do have a theatre here, though not as grand as that one once was. We have our own troupe of actors. They are quite good. Mayhap, when next you return, I might take you to the theatre?”

After an hour, his strength flagged and Nerdanel, ever vigilant, noted his fatigue. It had been a very trying hour. His intended had said no more than a dozen words. And all were responses to Boromir's gentle questions. Nerdanel rose. “It is time we prepared for the daymeal. Your father has quite a feast planned, though I hope the evening will end early. We will all need our sleep for the ceremony tomorrow. Thank you, Boromir, for the directions to the jewelers and the cartographers. I mean to gift Prince Imrahil with a map. Your description of the new Bay of Belfalas one has piqued my interest. Your uncle will be delighted.”

“I am most pleased to offer any service I might. To both you and to you, Lady Míriel. I hope you enjoy the meal. I do not plan on attending.”

“If he dies, will Faramir be Steward?” he heard her whisper to his aunt. Hurt and sorrow filled him. “If Faramir becomes Steward, will the law protect me? Make him marry me? After all, the papers have been signed.” He heard Nerdanel’s reply; the slap was loud.

“I was not! But I noted the ladies did not seem to be smiling as I passed them in the hall. And Aunt Nerdanel was livid. I do not envy Míriel the next hour.”

Boromir tried to laugh, but pain had coursed through him during the last half hour of the meeting. He was, indeed, fatigued, and more.

“I am sorry, Boromir. I had hoped it would help to meet her. She is quite nice when she puts her mind to it.”

“Her mind was not on me this afternoon. I think she wishes I were someone else. She spoke hardly a word to me. Is she in love with another?”

“I had not thought so. I do not understand. We have had many delightful talks. But we discuss art and music.”

“Ah. I know not much about music, except what you play for me. But I did speak of our theatre. She seemed less than… thrilled.”

Faramir sat next to Boromir and helped himself to a plate of sandwiches. “I brought wine.” He poured Boromir and himself glasses. “Will you still wed her?”

“Thank you,” Boromir said dryly. “I have not put anyone to sleep in a very long time.”

“Forgive me, brother. Give her time. She is not used to warriors. She is used to a courtly life.”

“Aye. I stayed at the practice field too long. I know, I know,” he protested at the look Faramir gave him. “It is my own fault, but I must gain back my strength. Father plans to send me north sometime after the ceremony. I can hardly lift my blade.”

“Mayhap a lighter blade for the nonce? A practice sword instead of that great cleaver you call a sword?”

Boromir laughed, then grimaced. “Do not make me laugh, little brother. It is cruel.”

Faramir hugged him as he helped him stand, then took his arm and walked him back to his quarters. “Please rest,” he said as he pulled the bell. A servant entered immediately and began to help disrobe Boromir. “Sleep. If you do not mind, I will come for you when it is time for the daymeal.”

“Why? I am sorry. I should not question, but father will be displeased. It is a banquet for you in Merethrond. You and Lady Míriel.”

“Boromir, we have three hours before the meal. Wait and see how you feel.” Faramir pulled a chair up to the bed where Boromir, now clothed in a sleeping garment, lay. Faramir took his hand. “I promise. If you still are too weary at that time, I will go and tell father. And make him understand. Now, here, drink this tea.”

Boromir closed his eyes and Faramir continued to hold his hand. “I will not leave your side until you sleep. Will that help?”

“That is acceptable.” Boromir sighed. “And welcome. Thank you, little brother.”

A/N – the words that Faramir says to Boromir (“I would rather have come home with no arms or legs than without you, Boromir.”) are slightly changed from words from a World War II survivor, Walter Ehlers (PBS Series War.) Walter’s older brother and he landed at Normandy. He made it; his brother did not. He said of his brother, “I would rather have come home with no arms or legs than without my brother.” It struck such a cord with me. My heart went out to this still heartbroken soldier, but at the same time, I thought of the Brothers ‘Mir and realized that this statement exemplified my understanding of the bond between the two.

Boromir stood next to the Chair where his father sat. Both men wore their court attire. Faramir stood behind Boromir, as attendant for his brother. They waited. And still she did not come. Those in attendance in the Great Hall began to stir. Boromir had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. How could he not expect her to be late? She was willful and headstrong. If she wanted to make a grand entrance, then what was it to him? He could not even remember what she looked like. Of course, he knew she had the black hair and gray eyes of those of Númenor, but he could not recall how tall she was; if she was thin or heavy; if she had a long or stubbly nose; or if she was plain or pretty. It did not matter much, he supposed, but he should be able to recognize her. Another laugh had to be stifled. She probably did not remember him. She had other… things on her mind at the time: his brother, his inheritance, his title. He swallowed hard.

The music began. He watched Imrahil and Nerdanel being seated in the front. After them came Míriel, flanked by her father and mother. Her siblings had been seated many moments before. ‘Ah! She is fair to look at,’ he thought, ‘and not too thin nor too heavy. Her nose is good. Her chin,’ he again had to stifle a laugh. ‘is pointed and proud. Why am I not surprised that she holds it up and out. Stiff and cold.’ He swallowed again. ‘Time to smile, I suppose.’ He bowed to his father and walked forward. He bowed to Galador who handed over Míriel’s hand. Boromir placed it in the crook of his arm and turned towards Denethor. They bowed in unison. Denethor stood, his eyes moist, and addressed the company.

“Here stands Boromir of Gondor, son of Denethor, of the line of the House of Húrin. As his father, I, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, approve this union. Are you prepared, Lord Boromir, to plight thy troth to this woman?”

“Here stands Míriel of Dol Amroth, daughter of Galador, of the line of the House of Imrazôr. As her father, do you approve this union?”

Boromir and Míriel exchanged words promising the union of the two families and objects were passed from hand to hand to symbolize the transfer of possessions: the giving of a ring to Míriel by Boromir; the giving of a coin of the realm to Boromir from Míriel to signify her dowry. Miriel’s mother then stepped forward and untied Míriel’s hair; Imrahil stepped forward as her liege lord and joined their hands to show his approval. After Denethor spoke the words of binding, Nerdanel, taking the part of Finduilas, crowned the couple with garlands. At last, they shared a kiss. The ceremony was over; only one thing remained - the sharing of a goblet of wine ‘in the name of marriage’ to seal the espousal.

Faramir stepped in front of Denethor and offered the goblet to Míriel who took it, smiling sweetly and blinking her long eyelashes at Faramir as she tilted the cup to her lips. Suddenly, he realized what she had been about this past week. He blushed furiously and turned to Boromir, a look of horror in his eyes.

Boromir smiled and put his hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “I know and trust you, Faramir. Do not be concerned,” he whispered.

Faramir nodded, though pain flashed in his eyes. He took the goblet from Míriel, and offered it to Boromir. Their hands touched and Faramir held Boromir’s for an instant. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I did not know.”

Boromir drank deeply of the cup and returned it to Faramir, a wide smile on his face. “Thank you, little brother.”

He stepped up to Denethor to receive the traditional hug. “There, Father. It is done, as you have asked.”

The dance was almost over, the guests were beginning to leave, and still, Boromir had not danced with his intended, ‘cept for the first dance of the evening. Most of the night, she spent in Faramir’s arms, pushed there by Boromir, as he had no intention of exacerbating his wound with strenuous exercise. However, he was surprised and pleased when Nerdanel came to him, looked deep into his eyes, and asked him to dance with her. Boromir nodded, putting on a smile, and took her hand in his.

After a few moments, she steered him to the door leading onto Merethrond’s balcony. She found a settee and sat on it, beckoning for Boromir to join her. After he was seated, she held him close. “You are sad for such an evening?”

“Only tired. I should have asked father’s permission to retire an hour past. The wound…”

“I have tried to decide, since yesterday, which hurts more – the wound or the words.”

“My beloved nephew. She knows not of what she speaks. Her mother is a caddish woman who taught her daughter only greed and selfishness. But she is young,” her eyebrow raised, “and I have made a vow. She will change. She will be kind and good and faithful. I promise, Boromir. In your mother’s name, I promise.”

“Oh, Aunt. You can make no such promise. Changing a person. It cannot be done. I will live with her, when I am not away on campaigns, and I will give her everything she wants,” he swallowed, “but Faramir. And I will give Gondor an heir.” He smiled his dazzling smile. “I will bring her to Dol Amroth once a year, and you and I will dance away the nights. What say you to that, beloved aunt?”

She leaned her head against his shoulder and let her tears fall. “I tried to warn Imrahil. He would not listen. She has a pretty face and he is a man and the father of daughters. Perhaps he considers her a daughter too. He does not see her as she is.”

“Then I will not see her as she is.” He held her close. “I will remember my mother and how she was. I will bring Míriel what happiness I can. Do not look so sad. It is she who will suffer, for she will be alone. I will be out in the field with my men doing the things I love to do. Her only companion will be the child, but the child will be raised by nannies. She will have naught to do. I do not envy her.”

Nerdanel wept. “I will beseech the Valar and ask that you be given an heir soon, dearest Boromir. I will love him as my own. As will your uncle.”

“And Faramir. I believe the child will be spoiled silly,” he laughed quietly. “I assure you, Míriel will not care for him. Only the best and finest woman in Gondor will raise him. I will find her and entrust my son to her. Mayhap it should be Ioreth? Though she is old.”

“Listöwel,” Boromir choked. “Beloved. I had forgotten. So dear.” Tears spilled.

“Anairë is of our house. A cousin many times removed. Her blood is not pure, but she is a beautiful girl. She would be perfect. I will begin to prepare her. When you have a son, I will send her. She is young and malleable.” Nerdanel smiled to herself. “This will be perfect.”

The Citadel was empty except for the guard. A sliver of moon hung in the sky; a faint hint of pink peaked over the mountains. Denethor walked quietly to the keel, placed his hands on the parapet’s wall, and looked out upon the Pelennor. A light shone here and there. Farmhands were waking to prepare for the day. He had not slept, for great was his discontent.

He bit his lip. He would not cry. He could not remember the last time he had cried. But his heart ached as fiercely as if she had died this very night. He clenched the wall until his hands burned, but nothing would stay the tears. In deep shame, he let them fall. “Finduilas,” he brokenly whispered. “Would that you were here to see your son…” He hated the woman! Oh how he hated this little snip that would hold his Boromir in such contempt! His sobs turned into groans. ‘And so, father, it is done as you asked.’ He shook; he had enslaved his son to a selfish slut for the sake of Gondor. He was not a fool; he had seen the eyes she made at Faramir. There was no curse foul enough to use as he contemplated this harlot.

“Finduilas,” he called again, softly into the night. “I have never asked you to turn your face from the happiness of your new state; I would leave you in peace, but I cannot. If there is some way that you can make right what I have done, do it, my love, for the sake of our son.”

Ecthelion stood before him. “All for Gondor, Denethor. Have you forgotten? Is that not our creed, our word, for those of the House of Húrin?” His snarled derision bore through Denethor’s heart, as it always had, leaving a gaping hole. “ Now you would denigrate our line by taking back your word? You would save Boromir by treachery? I had always thought it possible. I knew your weakness. Ever did I know you. Your heart lacked resolve. Weak I deem you. Nay, I name you coward!”

He almost fell in horror. He was in the Tower, with no memory of walking the stairs, nor opening the door into the chamber. In the Palantír, his father stood in fury, hatred shining from the black eyes that oft looked with contempt upon his son. Denethor clenched his eyes shut, trying desperately not to see that visage in front of him. Still the mocking voice taunted him, reviled him. He tried to pull his hands away from the suddenly hated stone, but they would not obey him. He could not use his full powers to pull away for his heart condemned him, and he must punish himself for what he had done over the years, the times he had failed his father and all of Gondor. And so he let the fear, grief, horror, and guilt wash over him in ever-stronger strokes. He let his father lash him with words that cut into his very being. Words he had heard every time he had stood before the Chair.

He heard a gentle laugh and looked deeper into the stone. His skin prickled and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He shuddered and took a deep breath. “Curunír? What do you here?”

“I have missed you, son of Ecthelion. Where have you been? What mischief have you been up to? Have you been to the library? I have waited for you. Ah, I see you would dismiss me as inconsequential? That is to my favor. If you think so little of me, you give me leeway to do great damage. You think I am your foe? If you had treated me with respect, had listened to my words, you would be great. You would command all of Gondor and Mordor. I would have helped you. I saw the lonely boy and only tried to give him comfort. Now I will give you pain.”

“Nay! You speak lies. You twist me with cunning. I will not listen. Never again will I listen to you.”

“You will listen to that nothing? To Mithrandir? He is the one you should fear. Did he not try to put that usurper on the throne? I kept him away. For Gondor. For you. Yet, you think me the foe. I am now. Fear me, Denethor. Fear me and do not cross me.”

Denethor shut his eyes, willing the voice away. Too unbearable, that voice. It had sent him into nightmares as a boy and, he realized, he was still not free of the wizard’s wiles.

At last, too weary to stand, he crumpled at the base of the plinth, the globe still held in his hands. His mind left him and he wandered in lands he did not know. Lands of blessed peace and fair winds, lands filled with flowers, sweet scented and abundant. None walked these plains and mountains. Only he. ‘Is this Valinor? Or mayhap I stand on the island of Númenor?’

She came to him, then. Her black hair shone as it hung full to her waist. Her great gray eyes looked upon him with pity. Never had he seen her so beautiful, never so sad. “I cannot help,” she said, tears falling from those great wondrous beloved eyes. “There is no hope for him. You have seen him, have you not, lying dead in a slip of a boat, crashing over the falls.”

He screamed as the boat hovered at the lip of Rauros. He held his hands up to hold it back, push it to the shore, and save his son. But his arms were not long enough. They could not reach Boromir. The boat tipped crazily and he hoped, Valar how he hoped that it would not fall, but it did. A never-ending fall. But it did end, the fall ended on the rocks at the base of the falls and the boat split apart and Boromir’s body lay broken on a boulder. Boromir was lost. His son was dead.

He woke and found the globe lay next to him, calmed and still for the moment. He looked at it in dismay. “Do you speak the truth? Is what I see real? Or only a shadow of what might be? Tell me!” he screamed, “Tell me!”

Great sobs shook him. “I must trust it. It is a gift from the Elves.” His chin shook. “A gift from the Elves for the Faithful. Am I not faithful? Have I not given all? Is not duty my only hope?” He bowed his head as anguish filled him. At last, he swallowed, drew in a deep breath, and picked up the stone. Slowly, reverently, he placed it back on the pedestal and covered it. “I know what I must do.”

“I will be careful,” Boromir’s smile was quick and brilliant. “Though, of late I think we both have not been as careful as we might have been.”

Another brilliant smile and a hug answered him. “I will fare you well in the morning. Do not leave until I arrive. We will meet at the stables?”

“I cannot rid myself of the man. He made some kind of an oath to a certain Captain-General.”

“Now, go, get you some rest. Father has asked that I join him. Probably a few last minute words.” Faramir’s smile was genuine. “He still does not trust me. He thinks me a young whelp, not yet ready for battle.”

“I wish you were not,” Boromir said quietly. “I wish you were still ten and hiding in the library, reading your books.”

“I do not! I am glad I am able to help you and father defend Gondor. All the wishing in the world will not give us peace, much as we both would wish it.” Faramir sighed. “I have not picked up mother’s harp in an age. I fear I have lost the calluses on my fingers. I probably could not play it for more than a few minutes before my hands would hurt.”

“Nay, it is the way of things for now. Soon,” and Faramir’s brow rose, “we will have peace. Father plans for it.” He laughed. “And he is not one to be scorned nor trifled with.”

Boromir let out a great laugh. “Nor crossed!” He hugged Faramir close. “Go to him before he sends someone after you. I hate that most of all, the ignominy of an escort. As if we do not know our way about the Citadel.” Another hearty laugh. “I wonder he has not put a collar on us.”

Faramir laughed in glee. “Do not even let him hear that. You will give him ideas. I am off. I promise, I will not leave until you bid me farewell.”

Faramir watched as Boromir walked the steps of the Tower. He closed his eyes for a moment, realizing that his words were half in truth. He feared his father did not trust him. Well, there was naught he could do about that now.

He strode purposefully to his father’s study, knocked on the heavy oak door, and entered upon command. Denethor stood at his desk, papers strewn about, a decanter of wine and four used glasses at the end, precariously sitting on a silver tray. Faramir stepped forward and moved it to the sideboard.

“I have letters here for all the lords of the fiefdoms you will visit. Here is a map that shows the towns I want you to stop at. I have a purse here,” he opened a drawer and pulled out a heavy leather purse and placed it next to the rolled maps. “There is enough to keep you till Dol Amroth. Adrahil will give you more for your return trip. Procure yourself a new horse whilst you are there. His are rugged little creatures with great stamina. You will need such a one for, once you return, you will be stationed at Henneth-Annûn. A smaller horse, not that great stallion you ride, will be more appropriate for the hill country. Take your sword and your horn.”

Faramir listened as Denethor rambled on. He did not understand the small details that Denethor laid upon him. They had already discussed his route, the horse, the maps. He knew enough to take his sword and horn. Still, his father seemed to need to list these things.

At last, Denethor looked him full in the face. “I do not send you easily. You have only recently recovered from your wounds. If I did not deem the mission of such import, you would stay here. As would your brother. In fact, I must keep him here for at least another month, to let the wound heal. But it will not be healed in time. He will still carry it into duty and battle. I think you will not. I… I hope our southern realm will remain quiet for many years to come.”

“With the men you have trained, and Belfalas behind us, the southern fiefdoms will be spared.”

Denethor’s eyes searched his. “You will… Ah, Faramir. I am concerned. I rue the day…”

“Father. I will do you proud. I promise. I will bring trust to our men and to those of the fiefdoms. The lords will respond to your call. Men will be sent, and coin. I will not disappoint you.”

“Nay, you will not. I expect you back before Mettarë. Míriel and her entourage will be here. As will your uncle. Boromir will also be here for the festival. It is part of the agreement with Galador.”

Faramir nodded. “Father,” he hesitated a moment. “When Mithrandir comes, would you treat him civilly?”

Some sense of rebellion stirred in Denethor’s heart. “I will, Faramir. In fact, I intend to listen quite closely to all he might say.”

Faramir’s face lit in wonder. “I would hope he would still be here when I return?”

“I will try to hold him for a time. Mayhap if I tell him you will return, he will wait.”

“I think all of the House of Húrin are of consequence to him, Faramir. I will not see you away on the morrow. There is a Council. Come, farewell me now.”

Faramir stepped into Denethor’s arms. He felt the warmth of his father’s embrace and wondered.

“It is already warm enough to melt stone,” Boromir complained heartily. “Would that I were going with you. The sea air will be cool. And the women will be beautiful.”

Faramir laughed aloud. “You already have one woman waiting for you, Boromir. Would you have them all?”

“I am sorry,” Faramir breathed heartily. “I did not mean… I will stay away from her, I promise.”

“Faramir, Faramir. Do not be concerned. Aunt Nerdanel has promised she will watch over her like a hawk. Miriel will not dare to come near you. I think even her father has been warned.”

“Faramir! Do not be concerned. I know you. I know your heart. You are purity itself. I think you must have received this gift from mother.”

“I do. As I have always told you, you are made in her likeness. Sweet and gentle, kind and good of heart. Do not let that woman get her nails into you. She would use you.”

“But whilst you are in Dol Amroth, have some fun. There will be none here until you return. I would like that image in my mind’s eye. Of you enjoying yourself on this trip. Would you do that for me, Faramir? Would you enjoy yourself?”

“I have something for you.” Boromir turned and pulled a package from the stall behind them. “It should make the nights seem less dark.”

The paper fell and Faramir’s hands shook as he beheld the traveler’s harp. “Boromir!” He swallowed hard. “It is beautiful.” He grabbed his brother in a fierce hug. “Thank you!” He hung it on his saddle using the silk baldric that wrapped around its neck, jumped upon his horse, and saluted. “Thank you,” he whispered as tears glistened; he rode away.

Boromir waved, but Faramir did not look back. Smiling, Boromir walked back towards the Tower.

He sat with Faramir’s report splayed across his knees. No one could call his youngest son long-winded, for his reports were concise - but the detail! If any other had submitted this report, it would have filled one page, at the most, two. But Faramir. Denethor smiled. He counted the pages once again. Six. He sighed and began to read. A light knock on his door. He hardly looked up so absorbed was he. Arthad coughed. Denethor nodded.

“Send him in! Send him in!” He took the report and pushed the pages together. Placing it on the desk before him, he stood and hugged his eldest. “I was nigh unto faint with hunger, waiting for you to come. Arthad!” he called, “Have the meal served now.” He walked Boromir through the door into his dining area.

They passed the meal pleasantly, as was their wont. The breaking of their fast together had become a daily ritual after Faramir went south. Long discussions, mostly about defenses, allies, and battle strategy, filled the two hours Denethor allotted for them each day. After the repast, they retired to Denethor’s private study. He poured them both light wine, then offered Boromir Faramir’s report.

After an hour of reading, being interrupted, answering questions, and throwing out thoughts in response to the report, Boromir finished. Denethor sat back and Boromir smiled. He had sat on the edge of his seat as he read and he noted his father had also. “Faramir’s reports are not dull.” He burst out laughing.

Denethor smiled and took a sip of his drink. “They are not. Nor are they short. But he has told me all I need to know. I look forward to his report on Dol Amroth.”

“Father. I would be away. I feel strong. I am chaffing at the bit. As are my men. I need action.”

“Argon has not given his permission.” Denethor did not want these mornings to end. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed Boromir’s company. After all these years, he respected his son and he knew his son respected him. None other spoke to him so plainly.

“Arthad,” the man entered. “Ask the Master Healer to attend me.” The man nodded and left.

Silence attended the room. Boromir thought of Faramir and how much he missed him; Denethor thought of Boromir and how much he would miss him.

Denethor’s head snapped up. “Are you waiting for him? I did not know you looked forward to his visit.”

“I do. I cannot remember the last time he was here. He travels in far wider circles than we. Last time he was here, he told Faramir and me about an…”

“An Elven stronghold far west of Rohan, by the sea. How many Elves do you think still live in Middle-earth, Father? There cannot be many. None are ever seen.”

“I would think I was talking to Faramir. When have Elves been of concern to you?”

“Aunt Nerdanel and I spoke of her at the betrothal ball. I do not usually give much thought to her anymore, I am sorry to say.”

Denethor stood and walked to the fire, looked at the portrait above the mantel, and sighed. “She was a lovely woman.” He began to smile, and the smile turned to a small chuckle. “Your adadhron did not much care for Elves. It was difficult persuading him to allow the marriage. Thoron…” He stopped, clenching his teeth.

Denethor swallowed the last of the wine and put his glass down. “Thorongil. I am sure you have heard of his exploits? Do you remember him?”

“I have. Most warriors of Gondor have been taught his battle strategies. And I do remember, but scarcely.”

“Yes. Ones for the defense of Osgiliath. Mostly, we are taught what he did to the Corsairs.”

Boromir stopped and bit his lip. The tone was one he was well familiar with. Naught further would he hear about Captain Thorongil. “Are there many Elves left?”

Boromir had the grace to blush. “Ever since Faramir saw the one at Edhellond. It would be interesting. Might Faramir see another whilst he is in Dol Amroth?”

“Did he say he was going west from there?” At Boromir’s nod, Denethor shrugged. “Then he very well might. If he passes through Edhellond.”

“You have heard the stories, Boromir. I do not deem it a place you would wish to find yourself. I suggest, when you are guarding our northern border, that you stay away from there.”

Boromir smiled. “I think my duties will be such that I will find no time for such a sortie.”

Denethor nodded and opened it. “Smoke to the north of us. Beyond Forannest.” He turned to Arthad. “Is this the only missive you have?”

“Then we will go to my public study. If any bring word here, have them directed there. Boromir,” his son stood, “Go to my study and wait for me. I must do something first.” Boromir nodded and left, tucking a sweet roll or two into his pockets from their leftover meal.

Denethor quickly climbed the stairs. There had been no movement in the last few weeks. Could this fire be a natural occurrence? Had a farmer let a field clearing grow out of hand? He locked the door behind him and pulled the sheath. No time to prepare himself. He took a deep breath and placed his hands on either side; the globe wakened.

‘Fire!’ He wanted to cry at the destruction. Their desperately needed fields of grain were ablaze. One. Two. Six. Six fields lost! How could… He saw them as they lumbered back towards the Emyn Muil. They were driving horses and livestock before them. Orcs! Not a large band either, but large enough to do serious damage to Gondor’s winter food supply. The new storage buildings would not be filled this year. ‘May Morgoth rot in the Void!’ He turned his eyes back to the flaming fields. As he narrowed his vision, he could see the dead bodies littering entranceways and the ground around the farms. ‘Not only our precious grain, but men I had hoped to have as reserve for my army. A doubly hard blow this day!’ He searched further north, then west and east, but there was naught to be seen. He covered the stone and walked slowly down the steps. ‘How many women and children?’

As he entered his study, Boromir stepped forward with three missives in his hand. “You probably know already, Father. Six farms attacked. There were no survivors. May I follow those who did this? At least, have Gondor’s revenge if naught else?”

“Yes. Take the three companies you have prepared. I will write to the captains at Amon Dîn and Cair Andros. They are to give you more men from their garrisons, if the need arises.”

“I would travel with as few as possible, Father. Too many and I lose speed. Orcs travel slowly. We might be able to catch them.”

“Nay. The fires are burnt low. They attacked before dawn, as is their way. They are almost to the Emyn Muil. But they will return. You will have time, once you reach Cair Andros, to plan. I will do everything I can to watch for you, but even I cannot watch constantly, as evidenced by today’s attack.”

He sat heavily at his desk and motioned to Arthad. “Ask Húrin to come to me. And an errand-rider.” He waited a moment. “Boromir, I must speak with Argon. I cannot let you go if you are not healed.”

“Father.” Boromir took a deep breath. “I have been injured before, as have you. I know my own body. It is ready. Another week before we ride out from Cair Andros on patrol and I will be ready. I have been training and my arm is near as strong as before my wounding.” He smiled. “I would say do not concern yourself, though I know you will. But I will be ready by the time I take my men into the field.”

“Very well. You will be gone for at least three months. I had hoped to have you return to the City at Loëndë, but it would be impractical. I do not want you riding unnecessarily. At your last examination, Argon thought you would be fully healed by that time, but I would not strain a stomach wound. They can be delicate. Go. I must spend time with Húrin. A patrol must be sent to bury our dead. Boromir,” he stood and hugged his son, “I bid you fare well, my son.”

Boromir returned the embrace but did not leave. “One more thing, Father? I would take Arthad with me. He was my aide before you pilfered him from me.”

Denethor smiled and nodded as the errand-rider entered. Boromir saluted, took Arthad by the arm, and left the room. Denethor quickly wrote two missives, sealed them and sent the errand-rider to Amon Dîn and Cair Andros, apprising them of Boromir’s arrival. When he was once again alone, he closed his eyes, but only a moment later, Húrin knocked and entered. Amlaith entered behind him, sent by Boromir.

Húrin nodded and took the proffered drink. When Denethor had finished describing the latest attack, he asked, “How many companies should I send? Those who bury the dead will need protection. Which captain will you send?”

“I once sent for Hirgon from the Causeway Forts, but he has never appeared. Might you have a reason for this?”

“Hm. If I send a note now, by the time the burial detail is ready, he should be here. He will take the detail. Our need for captains outweighs our supply. He will take a company or two of our knights from the Tower Guard for protection. With Boromir’s troops riding in the same direction, the Orcs will stay away. Also, daylight protects our men, for the nonce.”

He wrote the orders in his study and handed them to Amlaith. “Make sure these are sent. Watch until the rider leaves the Citadel.”

“I believe so. Only six farms after all. How many would that be? The farmer and his wife and their children, plus a few helpers. Probably only eight or so per farm, if that. The graves will be common ones. There is no time for individual burial.”

“Now, we must speak of Amon Dîn. This is the closest attack we have had in my memory. Therefore, I must deploy more men to that garrison. With the men lost at the Firien, the garrison is vulnerable. It is a hard blow, knowing Guilin is dead. Baranor is stationed there, is he not?”

“He has served many years, my Lord. In normal times, he would have been long retired.”

Denethor grimaced. “Yes. In normal times. His son is stationed at the Causeway Forts, is he not?”

“I will promote him and send him to Amon Dîn. If he is anything like his father he will do well. Bring Baranor home. Give him his rest. Mayhap, he can train some of Gondor’s esquires.”

Morning came and with it, an unexpected visitor. Denethor could wait no longer. After nuncheon, he summoned the guest.

He began to put the ‘Kings and Stewards’ pieces away. “It will be long before I will play this again.”

Denethor stopped. He looked at the wizard in surprise. “So, they play this where you are from?”

“It goes by other names, but it is played in many places. A good game to learn strategy – battle and otherwise.”

Denethor nodded and put the pieces back on the board. “Both Boromir and Faramir enjoy the game. For different reasons. Obviously.”

Denethor nodded. “Your ‘indeed’ – you find their playing styles different? Or them?”

Denethor took a deep breath, walked to the sideboard, and poured two glasses. He turned and offered one to the wizard, then took a sip. “Cherry brandy from Lebennin, as yet untouched by the blight.”

Denethor sat at his desk. He unrolled a map and motioned for the wizard to join him.

“When I was in Ithilien, back in ’39, there was a blight upon many of the plants. Faramir reports that it is now spread from a few to almost all. There was a particular iris field that I was fond of. In ’39, the blight only touched the outer plants. This past year, the field was gone. Wiped out. I gave Faramir specific directions. It was not that he could not find the field or the plants; they were gone. Reports now come to me that plants in Lebennin and Lossarnach have been like infected. Have you noted this elsewhere?”

“You call me to Minas Tirith to discuss plants?” Mithrandir’s voice was low but light.

“It is not natural. I have never seen its like. My archivists have searched the Great Library and find no mention of such a blight. It is not only confined to one form of plant; it affects all. It has no favorites. And yet, you look at me askance. As if I waste your time upon a triviality. This affects our food crops also.”

“Denethor. That is well and good, but it is not the reason you asked me here.” He walked back to the settle, relit his pipe, and took another sip of the brandy. “It is very good.”

Denethor stood in stony silence. At last, he said, “‘Twill probably be the last bottle.” He walked over and sat in the chair on Mithrandir’s right. “When last you were here, you spent much time in the archives. Did you find aught of value?”

“I have spent much time there myself, especially as of late. I have found the scrolls of the kings particularly… interesting.”

Still silence. By this time, Denethor was beginning to tire of the game. “I have other duties that I must now attend to. Would you join me for a game of ‘Kings and Stewards’ after the daymeal?”

A knock on the door and he stood and walked back to his desk. He called enter whilst folding the map. “Húrin! Have you found anything out?”

“My Lord Steward. It seems indeed to be treachery. I cannot believe it would be Arthad though.”

“The riders received their missives from Arthad, then took them to their lieutenant. Wait. Let me begin with him. Tarostar is a lieutenant in the Errand-Riders Company. He was in charge of missives until he was injured in a questionable accident. Arthad, after he finished preparations for Boromir’s betrothal, needed something to keep him busy. I have not seen many with such drive, except perhaps Boromir. Well, be that as it may, the men did not readily accept Arthad. Nevertheless, the man took great diligence in discharging his duties, as I have seen him do in all he puts his hand to. The men took their missives from Arthad, took them to Tarostar who approved them and then sent the riders on their way. The same thing happened with missives coming into Minas Tirith. They gave them to Tarostar, who passed them on to Arthad.”

Denethor scowled. “Have you found anything… different about Tarostar and his relationships with his men?”

“Threats that seem to have been carried through upon the men…” Húrin squirmed, “and upon their families.”

“At least a year, perhaps a little more. Tarostar has been in charge of missives for two years.”

Denethor motioned and Húrin went to the sideboard, pouring himself a full glass. He turned to Denethor and brought the bottle with him. He poured Denethor more. He put his hand on Denethor’s shoulder. “I do not like this one bit. I do not know how it happened that none knew of this.”

“Because Tarostar thought Arthad had permanently taken his position, if my guess is right, and was trying to discredit him.”

Denethor drank the contents of the glass. “Treachery indeed. He cared not about his fellow soldiers? Put them at peril by withholding information?”

Denethor’s face blazed. “Arthad is now with Boromir. Who is in charge of the missives?”

“My Lord Denethor,” Húrin tried to clear his throat. “I know what he… It is fair.”

“Mayhap, Húrin, Boromir would not have been attacked if such missives had not gone astray. I must have proof though. I will not hang a man without proof.”

“I will obtain it, my Lord.” He swallowed the rest of his drink, saluted and left.

Denethor sat heavily in his chair. ‘It is the lies again. Do I hang a man for listening to the lies of the Enemy?’ He put his head in his hands and massaged his temples. ‘I will wait for proof. Then, I must. I must.’

After an hour with the Palantír, he walked to the parapet and looked northward. ‘Boromir,’ he thought. ‘How fare you this day? I have seen things. War is coming to you. How do I ensure that you will get the missive? Ah! Hirgon.’ He turned and walked back to the Tower. His aide stepped forward. “I sent a rider to the Causeway Forts with new orders for Lieutenant Hirgon. Has he reported?”

“My aide.” He grimaced. “Húrin, Boromir is not happy with the aides I have had these past three years. Since I let Berelach… since I promoted Berelach, I am at a loss. Amlaith is my third in these three years. Is there any that you would suggest?”

“Belegorn, my Lord,” Húrin said quickly. “A good man. From the line of Húrin, but long has the family lived in Linhir. The boy became a knight about three years ago. He is stationed at Amon Anwar under Captain Mardil. I have heard only good reports of him, for someone stationed at such a distant outpost.”

“I see. If Imrahil thought well of his father, then who am I to question that. Send him to me. But first, there is a band of Easterlings headed west. Right into Boromir’s path. Begin the process of finding men for me, Húrin. I must send a battalion, at least. I still await Hirgon.”

“I will look into that also, my Lord. He should be here shortly.” Húrin saluted and left.

Denethor sat once more and poured another glass of brandy. Anor was close to setting and he had accomplished naught this day. He twirled the glass in his hand. ‘I wonder what father would have done if I had been born lame? Or the wizard, would he have put Thorongil on the Throne… Why did Thorongil leave when he had Ecthelion in the palm of his hand? And where is he now? Long lost. I had him in my sights at the beginning of this year, and lo, the year is almost ended.’ He put down the glass and rubbed his forehead again. A nasty head ache loomed. He closed his eyes and yearned for Boromir to return. ‘Morgoth’s breath!’ he swore, ‘I must send a battalion north. But where will I get the men?”

He walked the stairs to the Tower room. The Palantír waited for him. He had just looked this morning. He opened his mind to it again and discovered the Easterlings he had seen had not traveled far. A large contingent. He furrowed his brow. ‘They are headed towards the Emyn Muil. Towards Boromir. I was right. There will be another battle and soon. I must gather my forces and send them north to Boromir. He will know what to do.’ He looked towards the Emyn Muil, but found no movement. Slowly, he worked the stone back south towards Ithilien. There was no activity there either. It had only been eight months since the last battle. Winter would be upon the Emyn Muil in six short weeks. The Enemy must think them weak indeed if He sent another sortie against them. ‘But of course, he thinks us weak. And we are.’ He put the globe down and walked back to his study. Mithrandir stood outside the door. Denethor silently sighed.

Arthad thought how good it was to be riding once again at Boromir’s side. Though their mission was grave, Boromir’s mood infected the entire troop. He was definitely happy to be once again heading towards battle. They stopped at Amon Dîn for the night; Boromir wanted to inspect the damage to Anórien, but he would not disobey his father. The next morning, he led his men across the Anduin and onto the island of Cair Andros. As he swung down from his saddle, he grinned. “Captain Hador! It is good to see you again. I am most grateful you and your men made it back after our last sortie.”

“He is well and on a mission to the southern fiefs. Come; let us discuss your garrison. I have read the daily reports. All seems well here.”

They entered the captain’s quarters and Boromir sat in his old chair. Hador brought out goblets and filled them with wine. “I expect you are parched?”

“Not in Ithilien. In the Firien Woods near Rohan. Orcs. I am almost mended.”

“Yet your father sends you out, wounded? The need must be great. Is there another foray by the enemy into our lands?”

“Orcs attacked six farms, destroyed the fields and took the horses and livestock.”

Hador sat heavily in his own chair and downed the wine. “I was afraid it was something like that. Too much smoke for a swithen fire gone astray. When do we follow them?”

Boromir smiled. “You are a man after my own heart. However, our orders are not to follow them, but to wait for their return. Which means patrols. I have three companies with me. Only the best men. Some Rangers even. I will send each company out towards our border. I will command one. Arthad will command another. And Anborn will lead the Rangers.”

“He is a Ranger from Henneth-Annûn. Faramir thinks he has promise and asked me to watch o’er him whilst he is gone.”

“Nay. Now. My men are ready. I have maps of Ithilien, the Nindalf and the northern borders. We will set up a permanent camp by the outpost at the base of Rauros. We will then split up and patrol Gondor’s border.”

“So be it. But first, you must eat. It will only take a few moments. Nuncheon is prepared.”

The meal was halfway complete when Arthad knocked and asked for entry. Hador granted it.

“The men are saddled and ready, Captain. They have eaten.” He looked at Boromir and smiled. “Would it be best if we waited a bit?”

“Nay!” Boromir laughed. “I can eat whilst riding. You know me better. Let us away.” He bid Hador farewell and mounted. A smile lit his face and his men were heartened, though they knew they would live in peril for the next few months. A warrior started a song and the rest of Boromir’s company quickly joined in.

“Faramir!” Imrahil’s warm embrace heartened him. “It is good to see you again. I had given up hope.”

“Denethor has allotted a goodly amount of time, therefore, we have progressed slowly. According to Agron, I am healed.”

“Then come with me. I have a meal ready. My guard, as ever, found it extremely easy to note your progress.”

Faramir laughed. “Uncle,” he turned and moved Damrod forward. “This is my aide, Damrod. I believe you met him in Minas Tirith. Would you see that he has quarters near mine?”

“Yes.” Faramir smiled. “The same. Though he is become a good friend and companion. If I do not have him quartered near me, he will sleep on the floor in front of my door.”

Imrahil shook his head. “Well, let us to your rooms so you can refresh yourselves. I expect to see you for the daymeal.”

“We will be there. Uncle,” Faramir paused. “Are… may I visit mother’s garden?”

“You never have to ask, Faramir. The flowers trip over each other, they grow so abundantly. I believe there is Elven magic in that place. I will not require you this afternoon.”

He was indeed very tired. In fact, he had not told his uncle that he was recovering from a fever. The company had had to stop in Tarnost for a week whilst he fought it. Damrod had been close to ending their mission, but the fever had finally passed. He bathed and rested but an hour. He needed to spend time on her terrace overlooking the Bay.

The garden was beautiful. A small smile graced his face. ‘I know you are not here, Nana, but I wanted to present myself well.’ A soft, gentle breeze lifted the unruly hair that always fell upon his brow. The bench he chose looked out upon the sea. He took in a few deep breaths and then began to hum one of her lullabies. Boromir had sung them oft enough, when first they found themselves alone. Father could not, or would not spend much time with them, those first years. He felt a light, gentle hand on his shoulder and held his breath, hoping beyond hope that it was some manifestation of his naneth. Shivering slightly, he called out, “Nana.” A faint laugh. “Ah, Nana, you tease me.”

He jumped to his feet and almost stumbled in his haste to move away from her. “Míriel! What are…? Why are…? How…?”

She laughed lightly. “I am very glad to see my presence affects you so greatly.” She moved forward.

He jumped back, three paces. “I have… An illness… Just getting over a fever…”

She laughed again, this time low and lustful. “You are most welcome to come to my home. I have some wonderful treatments that would strengthen you, heal you, with just a touch.” The last words were spoken in a whisper.

He shook his head. “No need. Prince Imrahil… his healer will look after me.”

She stepped closer; he fell over the bench. She giggled and knelt beside him. “You realize there are not many I would sacrifice my beautiful dress for. The grass will stain it. But that is of no consequence.” She tried to run her hand through his hair, but he jerked his head aside, and hit it on the base of the bench. “Oh, my poor, handsome Faramir. You are all awash at seeing me again, are you not? Well, we will spend our time together and you will become accustomed to my flirtations.”

A vicious curse crossed her lips, then she purred. “I will see you later tonight? You know where my father’s manor is.” She bent lower and kissed his lips. He pulled away, but she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer. He shuddered and pulled further back. She laughed and stood.

Damrod watched her walk away and noted how her hips swung, tantalizingly. “Wench,” he whispered, then ran to Faramir’s side.

“I tried to get away from her and fell and bashed my head into the bench.” Faramir pulled his bloodied hand away and sighed. “Now I really must see uncle’s healer.”

Imrahil’s anger was palpable. Never had he given permission for her to visit that wing of the palace. And for her to sully his sister’s garden. He paced his study, waiting for the healer’s report.

“It is nothing,” Faramir strode into his uncle’s study, Damrod close behind. “Just a scratch. Head wounds tend to bleed freely. I am well,” he answered his uncle’s unasked question. “I am sorry this happened here. By rights, I should have spoken to her myself, ended it in Minas Tirith.”

“I spoke with her father,” Imrahil’s brow rose. “I spoke quite pointedly. He will hear of this and he will be reprimanded. A father is culpable for his daughter!”

“It makes no difference. She is a Swan. I will banish the whole family to Ras Morthil, to the town of Athrad. If we are fortunate, she will become food for the Woses who still dwell in that land!”

“She is a young girl who found herself in a place not of her choosing with a man who frightens her. Obviously, she felt no fear with me.”

Imrahil took Faramir’s arm and led him to a chair. He motioned for Damrod to sit also, but the Ranger shook his head, positioning himself directly behind Faramir. “Take this,” he offered a glass of wine, “it will help settle you.”

Faramir smiled warmly. He did not quite think he needed anything to settle him, but if his uncle needed to offer something, then he would accept. He reached for the proffered glass, but before he could take it, Galador stormed into the room. Imrahil looked up in surprise. Galador’s look was fey. His eyes swung wildly about the room, then rested upon Faramir. The Swan Lord strode swiftly towards Denethor’s son. At the last moment, he drew a dirk and lunged forward.

A/N – 1) A swithen is the old Norse name for swidden – a cultivation process used to clear land of vegetation, sometimes for deforestation, sometimes for crops. Produces ash that raises Ph in the soil. Though both uses found at dictionary.com are nouns, I have found the word used as an adjective. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/swidden

2) The town of Athrad on the River Lefnui in Ras Morthil is from the Sindarin for crossing. Tolkien did not give a name for a town in that area of Middle-earth. http://home.netcom.com/~heensle/lang/elvish/sindarin/engsind.html In fact, the place was pretty much desolate… “The Men of Gondor did not make any settlements in Druwaith Iaur, although they did maintain beacons and a coast guard at the end of Andrast.” http://www.tuckborough.net/lands.html#Druwaith-Iaur Also, There was a Sarn Athrad in Beleriand too, and in his appendix to The Silmarillion Christopher Tolkien glossed the first member of the name thus: "sarn '(small) stone' in Sarn Athrad . . . ; also in Sarn Gebir ('stone-spikes': ceber, plural cebir 'stakes'), rapids in the river Anduin." http://www.forodrim.org/daeron/md_plur.html

They sat, nearly silent, for three hours. The wizard’s smoke, though the casements had been thrown open, still covered the high ceiling, as if some mighty cloud were in the room.

Mithrandir smiled. “It appears that the loss of my Steward has put my King in jeopardy.”

The wizard blew another circle of smoke and watched it waft to the ceiling. He moved his castle and Denethor breathed out. One small move, one knight shifted, and Denethor had him, “Checkmate.”

“So it is. Well,” Mithrandir started to stand, “a thoroughly pleasant evening.”

Mithrandir looked up, his brows sticking out as they shot into the air. “The hour is late.”

“I am delighted you noticed. Morgoth’s breath!” he swore. “Where were you during the Battle of the Dagorlad?”

“If you were at the Dagorlad, which side would you have been on – the side of the servant of your own? Or the side of Elves and Men?”

Mithrandir leaned forward with quiet vehemence. “The lad has a good head on his shoulders. He listens and learns. His mind is open to all possibilities. He has his mother’s heart.”

Denethor stood and walked firmly to the sideboard and poured himself more brandy.

Denethor brought the carafe and poured a little more for Mithrandir. “May I be forthright?”

Denethor clenched his hand around the glass, which promptly shattered. He looked down in surprise. His servant stepped forward, cleaned him quickly, and took the broken glass away, replacing it with another. Denethor sat, twirling the new glass. “Where have you been these past years?” he asked, his tone conversational.

“Our game, ‘Stewards and Kings.’ You won handily and yet you snarl as if you had lost.”

“I believe I have lost. At least, it would appear so.” He sighed wearily. “Faramir will return for Mettarë. He asked that you delay your departure until he returns.”

Denethor stood. “Then, I will send for you when he returns. You will spend your time in my library?”

Mithrandir stood and nodded. “Mayhap, the next time we meet, we might be forthright again. I hope it will be before Mettarë.”

Denethor stood silent, waited till the wizard left, then flung his glass against the door. His servant stood and waited.

As quick as lightening, Damrod stepped into the blade, a small grunt forced from him at the impact. He stumbled against Faramir, but grit his teeth and forced himself to remain standing, protecting his lord with his body, hoping Imrahil would be able to subdue the man. Galador fell back in disbelief. Imrahil shouted for his guards and grabbed Galador’s arms, pinning them to his side. The man did not struggle; in fact, with a sob, he crumpled into Imrahil’s arms.

Faramir turned and held Damrod to him. “Do not even think of leaving me,” he whispered through tear-trembling lips. “Boromir will kill us both.” Damrod attempted a smile; then collapsed. Faramir, brought to his knees by the dead weight of his friend, sobbed.

Four guards jostled their way into the room. One, seeing blood on Damrod’s back and Faramir’s hands, shouted commands and shoved one of the other guards out the study’s door with orders to return with Dol Amroth’s healer. Imrahil handed Galador over to two guards, whilst the third ran to Faramir’s side, thinking the prince of Gondor was hurt. Faramir looked up. “It is Damrod. Help me lay him down.” Instead, the knight picked the wounded warrior up and placed him gently on Imrahil’s settle. Faramir knelt at his side. He moved Damrod’s body and found the dirk still imbedded in the warrior’s back. The blade effectively stopped the flow of blood.

Faramir nodded, still stunned, perplexed, and heart-broken by what had occurred.

Imrahil insisted that Galador remain. The guards seated him and tied him to the chair; they stationed themselves on either side. The Swan Prince wanted the man to see the injury and damage that his deed had caused. For one very brief moment, he looked at the lord in wonder; then quickly strode to Faramir’s side. “How fares he?”

At that moment, the healer entered the room and walked, at Imrahil’s command, to Damrod’s side. He did a quick assessment of the wound; then sighed. “He will be well.” An assistant stepped into the room carrying a satchel. He knelt at the healer’s side and opened the bag; then he went to the fire, took the hot water boiling there for tea, and poured it into a bowl. He brought it to the healer’s side.

“Lord Faramir, I believe?” At Faramir’s nod, the healer continued, “The wound is deep but has missed any vital parts. He has hardly bled. I will clean and stitch him now. If you would move and give me a little room?”

Faramir swallowed hard, squeezed the unconscious Damrod’s hand, stood and walked to Imrahil’s side. The prince took his arm and forced him to finally sit. Pouring them both brandy, he sat next to his nephew. “My healer is very good, Faramir. Trained in Minas Tirith under Arciryas.”

Faramir nodded, cleaning his hands off with a proffered tea towel, then swallowed the brandy in one gulp; his eyes never left Damrod’s body.

Damrod’s eyes fluttered; a moan left him as he tried to move. Faramir was instantly at his side. “Be strong, Damrod. The healer is almost finished. Just a few more stitches.”

Damrod clutched Faramir’s hand, his panicked eyes devouring Faramir. “Are you safe?” he croaked.

Faramir smiled at his friend. “Again, because of you! Your medal lust knows no bounds, Damrod. The other soldiers will be vexed at the ease with which you earn them. They will think we are in collusion.” He broke down and sobbed, feeling Damrod’s hand crush his own.

The healer sped his work and quickly finished. He motioned and a litter appeared in the doorway. Damrod’s eyes widened. “Nay! I cannot leave my lord!”

“It is imperative that you rest. The wound was deep, never the mind that you escaped alive!”

He struggled against the healer’s hands until Faramir grabbed his once again. “You will lay here quietly. I will not make you break your vow to Boromir.”

The healer’s eyes widened in understanding. “I will leave my assistant with you. When you deign to return to your rooms, avail yourself of the litter, Lord Damrod. I beg you.”

The healer left whilst his assistant brought tea and helped Damrod drink. Faramir stood and found that he was shaking. He looked helplessly at Imrahil who took him in his arms and walked him to a chair by the fire. He called and the assistant came to him. “Faramir’s head wound is bleeding again. Will you look at it?” Faramir, soaked in sorrow, lowered his head and succumbed to the assistant’s ministrations.

“There is enough tea for you, my Lord Faramir. Please, stay seated and drink it. The wound has re-opened. I must send for the healer.”

Faramir groaned in frustration. At the noise, Galador looked, the first movement he had made since being secured to the chair. His eyes widened, but he said naught.

Soon, the healer returned and placed a few more stitches in Faramir’s wound. “Stay still yourself, my Lord. Do not push beyond your body’s endurance. You have a good blow to the head; it must be allowed to heal.” The assistant put fresh bandages on it. The healer handed Faramir the tea. “If you would, please drink this.” The Steward’s son sipped it. “Good. I have decided, Prince Imrahil, that my presence might still be needed here.”

Imrahil nodded in agreement and motioned for the man to take a seat. The healer sat next to Faramir, whilst his assistant sat next to Damrod.

Silence filled the room. Imrahil stood at the fireplace, his hand resting upon the mantle. ‘Denethor said Gondor is under attack from within. I did not believe it this serious. Lies and deceit. I see now how Númenor fell. The same could happen here, if we are not diligent, if we do not fight against it.’ He turned his back to those in the room and let his tears fall. That his own beloved nephew, whom he swore to protect, should be attacked in his palace!

Nerdanel entered, assessed the room, and walked to his side. “My husband.” Her tone carried warmth, love, courage and strength.

He took her in his arms. “Thank you for coming! Faramir needs you now. His wound is not grave, but Damrod’s is serious.”

“I know not of what you speak, Imrahil. I came because I heard the news of Míriel’s death. What else has occurred?”

He held her away from him. “Míriel’s death?” he whispered. He heard Faramir’s gasp. “What say you?” He turned towards Galador. “What is this news?”

“Hirgon. Well met. I needs must ask you one question before we continue. How many missives did you receive asking you to report to me?”

The lieutenant looked wonderingly at his Steward. “One, my Lord. I received it today, left the Causeway in charge of one of my men, and came here straight away. I suppose it was nigh unto four hours ago.”

Húrin nodded. Denethor motioned for the lieutenant to sit. “I need a captain for my errand-riders. Húrin has shown your records to me. Coupled with your fine showing when I visited Captain Faramir, I have decided to make you captain. I have a missive of the utmost importance for Captain-General Boromir, one that I will only send with someone I trust. He is stationed at Cair Andros. You will leave within the hour.”

“He is a traitor, my Lord, as you surmised. I have signed statements from his men. He deliberately sabotaged Arthad’s governance of the riders. I have since found that four of his own men, over the past two years, were found murdered: two the first year, one at the beginning of this year, and one when Arthad took over his duties. Long hours have I spent investigating these accusations. The evidence is irrefutable. He personally executed each one of them.” The former captain of Osgiliath spat. “I cannot believe any would wound us so deeply.”

Denethor read the statements. “Give the order. Have the military tribunal meet today. If they find him guilty, and I do not doubt it, I want him executed before morning.”

“It will be done. My Lord, I have five companies from the Tower Guard and three from the Third Company prepared and ready to join Boromir against the Easterlings. Shall I send them forth?”

“Send them now. I want them in Cair Andros tomorrow morning. I want them fully outfitted, Húrin. I know not how long they will be away.” Their luck, if one would call it such, had Boromir winning his battles quickly and decisively. “The Dagorlad lasted seven years. I will not have that happen now. Unless Mordor sends out His beasts from hell, we should prevail.”

Húrin nodded. “My Lord, all know of your foresight. Do you think… are the enemy’s forces such that Boromir will be so tested?”

“I think not. I am sending my best men. What disturbs me, makes me reconsider the battle before Boromir, is the fact that the Easterlings just launched a full-scale attack this spring. It is not their way to fight like this. Not time after time. They should still be in Rhûn licking their wounds. It is as if they are totally under the thrall of the One we do not name. Their subjugation must be stronger than I imagined. And that does not bode well for Boromir nor Gondor.

“Give the men marching orders for ten hours a day. They should make Cair Andros by tomorrow evening if they hurry. They will not wait for their supply wagons. Order full battle gear and extra weapons. Who do you have as their captain?”

“Ragorn. He has served under Boromir before; in fact, they battled a mûmak together.”

The errand-rider reached Boromir almost five days later. After reading the missive, Boromir motioned for Arthad and Anborn to join him. He read the note aloud, then said, “The Easterlings will be upon us shortly. I deem our forces too small to battle them here. I will call a retreat. We will head back to Cair Andros for more men. Denethor is sending a battalion and then some. We will meet them there.” His shoulders hunched in defeat. “If only we had known sooner!”

“I have another missive,” Captain Hirgon said. “It is from Captain Hador.”

Boromir took the missive and read it. “Hador has ordered three companies from Amon Dîn and three from Cair Andros to join with the Steward’s men. That will make our army two battalions strong. Denethor states there are at least that many Easterlings. It will be a battle to remember.”

Imrahil knelt before Galador. He tried to take the man’s hands in his, but Galador drew back with a sharp hiss. “What tale is this, Galador? Nerdanel, tell me what you know.”

“I know very little, my Prince. A rider came from Galador’s home with a missive. The rider was distraught. The missive was open. I read it. It only said that Míriel was dead.”

The man tried to stand, fury contorting his face, but the bonds held and he fell back – defeated. He screamed, then pointed a finger at Faramir. “He did it! The one who would steal his own brother’s wife. He killed her!”

“He has been here all day,” Imrahil gently spoke to Galador. “Was Míriel murdered?”

Faramir gasped and made to stand. Nerdanel went to his side, put her hand on his shoulder, and bid him sit.

“She was wild. She said he promised to come to her tonight. When he did not, she stamped… her little… foot,” the man sobbed brokenly. “When he did not, she rode out across the cliffs.” The man stared at the floor for a moment. “I followed her, but she has always been a better rider than I. I could not catch up with her. She was headed here. To confront him!” A shaking finger pointed again towards Faramir.

“She fell. One moment she was in front of me, the next she and her horse were gone. My soldiers caught up with me and we searched the cliffs. There was no sign of her. At last, I heard a shout and I knew. I knew I had lost her, lost the love of my life, my own, my precious daughter. They brought her to me, laid her sweet body in my arms. It was broken.” Sobs pierced the room. “She did not wake. I called her.” He raised his eyes to Imrahil. “I have lost the only thing I have ever loved.” He slumped in the chair, bereft of the comfort of hiding his face with his hands, and sobbed.

Imrahil sat back on his heels. “Bring the errand-rider from Galador’s company to me.”

The guard nodded and left. The room fell silent. Nerdanel held Faramir’s hand. He wept. The rider entered. Imrahil stood and took him to a far corner, spoke with him for a few moments, then dismissed him. He walked to Faramir’s side. “It is as Galador stated. She is dead. They have taken her to her mother.”

Faramir nodded; grief overwhelmed him and he leaned into his aunt, burying his head in Nerdanel’s skirts.

“Lord Galador,” Imrahil pulled a chair in front of his councilor. “As your liege lord, I need you to listen to me.”

Galador looked up. He blinked a few times, then straightened himself in his chair.

Imrahil continued. “You must listen to me. Your oath requires it. You know I do not lie.” He raised a hand to stay Galador’s response. “In Minas Tirith, Míriel behaved abominably. She let all who would listen know that she was most unhappy with Captain-General Boromir as her spouse. Even he, to her shame, heard her ask what would happen if he died. Could she have Faramir in his stead? I did not tell you, the shame for me was so great. Faramir did naught to garner such thoughts from her. Nerdanel or I were always with her during her visit. Faramir conducted himself as a brother, never giving Míriel cause to think that he had affection for her other than as his brother’s wife nor did he have designs upon her. I had warned you at that time of her behavior and forbade her to approach Faramir. You agreed.

“However, when Faramir arrived here just this afternoon, she accosted him in my sister’s personal garden.” He noted Galador listened and raised an eyebrow when he mentioned her trespass. “As your liege lord, I will tell you what happened here today. There were witnesses.” Galador swallowed hard. “They had not met whilst he made his way to Dol Amroth. She breached my sister’s personal garden and accosted Faramir,” Imrahil reiterated. “In his attempts to distance himself from her, he sustained a head wound. She left and he was taken to my healer for stitches. He has been there until just an hour ago, when his aide brought him to me.” Imrahil sat back in his chair.

The fire sputtered and one of the guards put another log on it. Faramir remained seated, but another guard pulled a chair up next to him and Nerdanel sat. Tears coursed down her face as she held her nephew’s hand.

“I did not know,” the Swan whispered. “She said he promised, told her that he loved her, would take her from Boromir, would…” He choked.

Imrahil let him ponder his words. At last, he leaned forward again. “Boromir and Faramir are Knights of Gondor. Is this the behavior of a knight? What she told you? They are sons of the Steward. Do you imagine that either would incur the wrath of Denethor by shaming him in this way? He signed the betrothal agreement himself. Would Faramir dare aggrieve his father in this manner? Would he dare disobey the Steward?”

Imrahil stood and walked to the fireplace. “It is not my place to deal out judgment. You have impugned the loyalty of Lord Faramir. You have impugned the Steward, intimating that he does not command his sons’ loyalty nor abides by his agreements. Lastly, you would murder a Knight of Gondor. The son of the Steward. I must return you to Minas Tirith. Hand you over to Denethor for sentencing and punishment.”

“Nay!” Faramir stood. “The guilt is mine also.” Nerdanel took his arm and tried to force him to sit, but Faramir gently loosed her hold and stood next to Imrahil. “She was young and infatuated. I should have seen it. I did not know, not until the betrothal ceremony. I tried to befriend her; she misunderstood. I cannot let her father die because I did not stand firm.”

“Faramir. Her father knew, was ordered to keep her from you. When she returned to her home this afternoon, he should have severely chastised her for her stupidity and willfulness, ordered her to her rooms and locked the doors. He is culpable, not you.”

Faramir knelt before Galador. “My Lord, I am sorry. I would that I lay at the bottom of the cliffs, if that would have saved her.”

Galador stared at the Steward’s son. “My Prince rightly speaks. It is my shame that I now bear. I loved her so.” He choked. “I knew she was willful. I knew she wanted you, not Boromir. How could I see my only daughter unhappy? I am to blame.” He looked up at Imrahil. “When will you send me to Denethor? I would fare well my wife.”

“Uncle,” Faramir cried, “Banish him! You spoke of it before. Send him to Athrad.”

Imrahil’s brow furrowed. “All your long life, Galador, you have served Belfalas and the Swans, my father first, and now me. Faithfully. A madness came upon you for one moment, spurred by a father’s grief. Should you die for that one moment? Still, the Steward should judge you.”

Imrahil rubbed his forehead with his fingers. The creases in it were deep. “I cannot release him.”

“It will be done. Damrod needs at least a few days to recover from his wounds.” Imrahil suddenly stopped. “What do we do for her funeral? Her father cannot attend. You, Faramir, you could not. There might be a scene. Her mother will undoubtedly be distraught. I cannot attend, if it is known that I hold her father under arrest.”

“Our family does not have public interments, Prince Imrahil,” Galador said apologetically. “Yet, I would attend. She is my only daughter.”

“She is the Heir’s intended. She should be embalmed and a state funeral held. I do not know how we will manage this.”

“Damrod will attend as Denethor’s representative,” Nerdanel offered. “Faramir has a head wound. He cannot attend.”

“Galador,” Imrahil motioned for the man’s hands to be unbound, “you will be allowed to attend but only with guards surrounding you. I will have the interment here in Dol Amroth, so that none of your knights feel compelled to exact revenge or try to free you, but it will be private, as your family requests.”

The battle was not going well. They had fought into the night and still neither side prevailed. As the moon rose, both sides paused to regroup and claim their dead. Boromir sat in his tent, his head in his hands, weeping silently. He had lost another mount, but he was becoming accustomed to that misfortune. He had not allowed himself to love a horse in a very long time. His father had warned him and he, foolish child that he had been many long years ago, did not believe him. After the loss of Tarannon, he had found another stallion, one with fire in his hooves and great battle sense. Boromir had loved it dearly. He could not now remember which battle he had lost it at. A succession of horses quickly followed.

Nay, this time the loss was more profound. A sob tore from him and he bit his lower lip to stifle it. His men did not need to know his grief; they needed him strong. He swallowed as Egalmoth, his newest aide, entered.

“The pickets are set and the men rest. Is there aught you need before I find my own bed?”

Boromir smiled at the weariness in the man’s voice. “Nay. Sleep now. Wake me before dawn. We must needs discuss some of your duties before we return to the battlefield.”

The man saluted and left; Boromir stood and left his tent. He walked slowly amidst the camp, noting how his soldiers slept, how the cooks even now were beginning to prepare for the breaking of the fast, how the horses, what were left of them, nickered and whinnied as they tried to settle their nerves for the night. He walked over to the hobbled horses, rubbed their noses, and spoke gently to them. At last, he found Arthad’s and laid his head upon the horse’s shoulder. He wept bitterly.

Presently, morning birds began to sing; he patted the horse on its hindquarters and walked back to his tent. There was no sign of Egalmoth and Boromir grimaced. He drew fresh water and washed his face and neck and pitched the dirtied water outside his tent. He took off his shirt and put on a new one and still Egalmoth did not come. He heard the noises of the camp rising and pursed his lips. He walked slowly towards the dining tent, greeting awakening soldiers on his way. The cooks scrambled to bring food to him as he sat near the large tent’s flap. He wanted his men to see him as they entered, to gain confidence from the fact that he was with them in all things. But he found himself tired beyond belief. He loved a battle, loved the sounds and smells of battle, but could never reconcile himself to the losses. He would hold in his anguish until they returned to Minas Tirith; there, in the dark recesses of the Tower, he would hide and grieve for Arthad.

Egalmoth ran into the tent a quarter of an hour later, just as Boromir was finishing his morning tea. In his panic, he did not note Boromir’s presence. He ran to Captain Hador who was standing in the mess line waiting for his dish to be filled. “Captain Boromir is missing. His tent is empty. He has not slept in his cot.” His voice rang loud throughout the tent and soldiers looked up in alarm.

Hador looked straight at Boromir and grimaced. “Captain Boromir,” he said loudly, “seems to have done well without your attention. He sits yonder, already finished breaking his fast. Personally, I would not break my own fast until I had at least acknowledged his presence.”

Egalmoth’s face reddened. He turned in the direction Hador pointed, discovered where Boromir sat, squared his shoulders, and walked to his captain. “Forgive me, Captain Boromir. I o’erslept.”

“Indeed you did and if you had slept any longer,” Guilin said through clenched teeth, “you would have slept through the battle itself.”

Boromir put his hand on Guilin’s shoulder and the captain quieted. “Get some food and eat. I will see you in my tent in a quarter hour.” He waved the man away. “Guilin. He is young and tired. We do not know how the fighting in his part of the battle went. We will give him the benefit of the doubt and hope he was sore-pressed to stay alive and is just exhausted, not addled.”

Guilin chuckled dryly. “I would not be so tolerant, Boromir. He will cost you your life if he is so inattentive on his first day of duty! I remember when first I became an aide. I did not sleep for three days. My captain finally had to order me to rest.”

Boromir gently chided the captain. “You did not become on aide on the battlefield. He will learn.” He finished his food and rose. “I will meet with you and Hador when you are finished.”

Boromir walked back to his tent and laid himself down on his cot. Putting his arm over his eyes, he fell asleep.

Denethor paced the parapet. Naught was going well this day. He had seen a funeral cortege leading from Galador’s home to Dol Amroth. This did not portend well. If Galador was dead, he would have to postpone the wedding. He would wait until his errand-rider arrived. He should receive word within the week of what was happening in Dol Amroth. Faramir was due to return shortly. He hoped the lad would bring him a full report. He smiled, despite himself. The report would probably be twenty pages long.

As for the Nindalf… The battle had been joined, of that he was certain. The last time the globe would let him see that part of his lands, the Easterlings were still camped. The lack of any further viewing only meant that Boromir and his troops were now on hand and probably battling them. Did he send enough men? Was Boromir rested from his dealings with Orcs from the Emyn Muil? Were there enough supplies to sustain a longer battle, if one occurred?

The man turned and ran off as Denethor strode towards the Great Hall. He sat in his Chair and waited. His hands were tied; he could do no more until he knew more. Hirgon entered and Denethor motioned him forward. ‘Where is the Chamberlain?’ he wondered.

“My Lord Steward. There have been no reports from Boromir nor Faramir in the last two days. Shall I send riders?”

“You take your duties seriously, Hirgon. I am impressed. Yes, send riders to Dol Amroth and Cair Andros. Do not go yourself. I would speak with you, once the riders are sent.”

The never-ending queue of supplicants, sycophants, and scroungers came forward, one by one. He dealt with them, hating every moment wasted here while Gondor suffered grievous injury in the north. If ever he wished he were once again only the son, not the Steward, it was at times like this. He wanted to be at Boromir’s side. He wanted to wield his sword again in mindless combat, feel a horse under him, relish the wind in his face. Now, all he felt was disdain for the people who stood before him. They had fallen so far, so very far.

Baranor stepped forward, last but one in the line of supplicants. Denethor leaned towards him, immediately sensing the man’s inherent goodness. He motioned and Baranor came even closer to the Chair. “Speak, Captain. What is your need?”

Baranor saluted. “You honor me greatly by entrusting your esquires to my care. I would do my best for them, my Lord Steward.”

“I would not bring this matter to you, my Lord Steward, unless I deemed it important. The esquires’ armory needs replenishment. The swords the esquires receive at their commissioning are not of the best quality. I would ask your benevolence upon these men as they go out to serve Gondor. Some parents cannot afford a good blade or strong armor to gift their sons.”

Denethor looked upon the man, stalwart and brave in all his long years of service to Gondor, and he would have smiled, if he did not fear his people would think he had weakened. It was refreshing to find a man concerned for Gondor and not himself. ‘Too rare nowadays,’ he thought ruefully.

“Chamberlain,” he called and the man came forward. Húrin entered the Hall at the same time and Denethor motioned him forward. “Húrin, swords and armor are needed for our esquires. The foundries in Osgiliath are producing quite a number of good pieces. Procure enough to suite Baranor.” The swords and armor made in the City were of the finest quality and only to be given to those who had earned such weapons. Húrin nodded, took Baranor by the arm and led him from the Hall, their heads bent in deep discussion.

A woman stood before him, head bowed low. The Chamberlain looked guiltily at Denethor. “She has waited for almost a week, my Lord Steward. I have told her over and over that you will not see her.”

Denethor looked long and hard at the woman before him. Finally, pity stayed him and he motioned her forward.

“Nay, my Lord Steward,” the woman cried as she spoke but did not wipe the tears away. “My son was a traitor, as all now know, though I myself and his brother did not. His punishment was right and just. I only ask a small favor.” She continued in a rush. “The law states his family must be banished. My other son is loyal to Gondor, my Lord Steward,” she gulped frantically. “I will leave, if that is your will, but please, his life is serving you, serving Gondor. Please let him stay.”

“Come with me, gentle lady.” He held his hand out and she, with eyes dazed, took it.

“There is a lieutenant here from Amon Anwar. He said he is to report to you. He is called Belegorn.”

“Ah, finally! Tell him to come to my private study after the daymeal. Now. Dismiss the people.”

The Chamberlain did as he was asked, pounded his staff upon the floor; the room quieted and Denethor left, leading the woman out the back of the Hall, down the narrow pathway to his own study.

“There are ugly rumors. I cannot even think where they come from, but they are directed mostly at the Steward.” Imrahil’s face burned with shame. The interment of Míriel had been accomplished with nary a hitch, but the aftermath of rumors and whispers filled the city.

“There is naught you can do about them, my love,” Nerdanel held his hand as they looked out over the Bay. “It is as a summer storm, swift and violent, but gone within an hour’s time. They will forget when something else comes along.”

“I know your love for Faramir, Imrahil. He is strong and will survive this. His company leaves tomorrow?”

“At first light. I think Faramir would prefer to leave in the dead of night. The rumors are ugly.” He gritted his teeth.

“That is a harsh thing to say, my wife. Bitter was that time. Are the rumors the same? That Faramir murdered Míriel?”

“Why would they not be? Those who speak them are the very same that spoke them about Denethor. Narrow-minded, vicious people. What will you do with Galador whilst Faramir returns to Minas Tirith?”

“Faramir assures me that Denethor will allow my will to prevail. I am not so certain. Denethor was livid whilst we were in the City; her behavior was detestable. His love for his oldest is deep. If he feels this is an affront to Boromir, he will be less malleable.”

Nerdanel laughed. “I do not ever recall Denethor being malleable. Much as I love Faramir, I do not give this endeavor much likelihood for success.”

“The man tried to kill my nephew,” Nerdanel spoke softly. Imrahil knew enough not to anger her with platitudes and excuses for the man. She stood as Faramir entered the garden.

“Please, Faramir, sit.” He motioned to a small seating area and a servant brought tea.

Nerdanel poured. Faramir sat with his hands clenched. Imrahil stood and walked to the edge of the garden overlooking the water. At last, Faramir spoke. “I would ask you, Uncle, to send Galador and his family to the outpost at Ras Morthil.”

“Malicious ones. Packaged with the notes have been daggers, poisons, and other… She wishes me dead; I believe she is asking me to take my own life,” he said, painfully. “I do not blame her, but once I am gone, I am afraid she will send the same to you, Uncle. Her grief is great. She will share her thoughts with others and more rumors will fly. Mayhap, she would even want your death. I would spare you this, but I cannot.” He put his elbows on the table and rubbed his fingers over his brow. “I cannot believe all this is happening.”

“Give it no further thought, Faramir,” Nerdanel said quietly. “Others have been so maligned and have survived.”

Faramir shivered. “When Naneth passed, I was too young to understand things I heard. So father was smeared in this way also? Did people actually believe he would kill his wife? His beloved?”

“There are small people in this world, Faramir. No matter what the facts are, they will dispute them. In their little, ugly minds, they will twist anything to fit their small-mindedness.”

Faramir hung his head. Imrahil walked to him and placed his hand upon his most-loved nephew. “I have been maligned many times before, Faramir. It comes with my position. Fear not for me. I will, however, do as you ask. They will be sent to Arthad. I will not make the order a banishment; I will assign him to the coast guard at Andrast. When your father makes his decision… If he decides that Galador should die, I will bring him myself to Minas Tirith. If he decides to let him live, then Galador will serve Denethor at that outpost for the rest of his days.”

“There will be no state dinner for your farewell this night, Faramir,” Nerdanel sighed. “The period of mourning must be kept. However, your uncle and I wish you and Damrod would join us.”

“Thank you, Aunt Nerdanel. We will.” He stood, bent and kissed her gently, and walked away.

Imrahil walked to his wife’s side and took her in his arms. “As would you for our own sons. You are wise, my beloved; you know they will always be burdened in some fashion or the other. Our love will sustain Faramir. I will go to Minas Tirith for Yáviérë, if I do not need to go there for Galador. I will speak with Denethor about this unfortunate situation. I know Denethor will not hold the lad responsible.”

Denethor offered the woman a seat. She took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “Forgive me, Lord, for my weakness. I have already lost my husband to war and now my youngest to his own folly. I would save my eldest.”

“The law is unequivocal. The family of a traitor must be banished. I believe my hands are tied.”

She sobbed quietly. “Hirgon loves you, my Lord. He loves Gondor. His father instilled that love into him when he was but a babe. When Tarostar was born, Berelach served you in the Great Hall. He did not have the time to raise our youngest; I raised him by myself. Tarostar was only fifteen when Berelach died and was a sickly boy. In my grief at the loss of his father, I spoiled him. I should be banished, but not my son, not my Hirgon.”

Húrin walked in after two unanswered knocks. He stood by the door and listened.

Denethor sat heavily in his chair. His eyes filled with tears. “I did not know. I… that year, my sister Indis died in Rohan. I do not even remember the battle.”

“Berelach saved my life when an assassin tried to strike me down. I promoted him to captain and gave him Cair Andros.” He held his head in his hands. “I hanged his son.”

“He murdered four men and put Gondor itself at risk, Denethor!” Húrin’s voice rang hard and furious.

The room grew deathly still. Finally, the woman’s sobs began again. “Berelach would die for you again. He loved you, my Lord. I do not hold you responsible for Tarostar’s death and neither would Berelach. But have pity on Hirgon, I beg you! He knew not of his brother’s anger. Tarostar held you responsible for Berelach’s death. He was but a boy. He turned to deceit, thievery and other things, things I did not know of. I could not control him. At last, Warden Húrin came to me; he took Tarostar and made him an esquire. Soon after, I thought he had changed. He was happy and made lieutenant. But he lied to me, as always, and hid his dishonorable nature.”

“I will banish neither you nor your son. Berelach was a hero and... He was my friend. I did not know he died. I ask your forgiveness; I abandoned you and your sons.” He turned towards Húrin. “Why was I not told?”

“They do not know him well, yet, my Lord. He was stationed at the Causeway Forts. You just promoted him and then immediately sent him out with missives for Boromir at Cair Andros. Mayhap his own men know not that they were related.”

Denethor’s jaw clenched. He turned and pulled the bellpull, ordered the guard to fetch Hirgon, and walked to the woman’s side.

“I would not have you here when I tell your son. Where…? Forgive me, my Lady, what is your name?”

“Unsuccessfully, I deem. With both your sons in my service, you would be hard pressed to keep it yourself. Have you family besides Hirgon?”

“Nay, my Lord. My father was a guard. He died a long time ago. My mother died of fever. Berelach’s parents are long dead.”

“Húrin, find suitable rooms for her on the Fifth Level. Continue Berelach’s pay; send it to her.” Taking a ring from his right hand, he turned towards Zámin. “Take this. If ever you are in desperate need, send me this and I will help you. I am sorry.” He swallowed hard, took her hand in his, and led her to the door. Gently, he kissed her brow. “Your husband was beloved of me.”

“My Lord Steward. You have the rosters.” Húrin’s face was bright red. “Would it have made a difference? Would you have done otherwise, knowing he was a murderer and a traitor?”

“I saw how he was growing up. I thought that being a knight would help him. Would give him the discipline he needed. His mother smothered him. It was a mistake.”

“It was not. Forgive my displeasure. At least you tried to help him. Berelach never once mentioned that he had family.”

“He was Thorongil’s aide. I… I was concerned when he returned alone to Minas Tirith. I watched him, for signs of disloyalty, and saw only a man of courage and honor. A stalwart knight, if ever I saw one. He was always there for me. When Boromir…” Denethor stopped and shook his head. “Boromir almost drowned when he was but five. Berelach rode to my side, helping. I must be away from here.”

He strode to the door, flung it open, and walked furiously across the Courtyard and to the parapet. He stood, leaning against the embrasure, watching the mountains in the distance as the fires of Mount Doom glowed behind them. Húrin walked up behind him. “Ever the Nameless One taunts me,” he whispered. “Ever He spreads His lies and we believe Him. My people believe Him. Mayhap He dwelt in Tarostar’s heart.”

Denethor turned and sat heavily on one of the marble benches that lined the escarpment. “I once said the same thing to Indis, but I was wrong. He sends out His lies as wisps in the wind and they settle upon weak ears. Our people grow foolish, Húrin. They once were proud and strong; now, they are easy prey.”

“You are doing all you can to combat those lies, Denethor. Did not Boromir almost lose his life to fight those lies in Rohan? Is not Faramir away from us doing the same in the southern realm? The people will listen to you. They know your strength and your worth. They will change.”

At last, Denethor stood. “I believe my newest aide is waiting for me. Thank you, Húrin, for your words. I will heed them.”

He walked to his study and nodded to the young man standing next to his guard. “You are Belegorn from Amon Anwar?”

“Have you eaten yet?” At the ‘nay,’ Denethor led the man into his private dining chamber. Hot food was arrayed on the sideboard. “Help yourself.”

Beregond, Hador and Guilin stood outside Boromir’s tent. Guilin swore quietly. “No aide in sight!”

“He left the mess tent some time ago,” Beregond shrugged. “I will find him.”

“I deem it wisest if we meet with Captain Boromir and not go scurrying about trying to find a wayward aide!” Hador said. “I would the onus fall upon Egalmoth for his dereliction of duty and not upon us for tardiness.”

Guilin laughed. “I agree. Captain Boromir,” he called quietly. There was no answer. The men looked at each other, nodded in silent agreement, and entered the tent. Boromir lay asleep on his cot. Guilin swore under his breath, “Exhausted.”

Hador strode forward and touched Boromir’s shoulder. “Captain Boromir. It is almost dawn. The battle will begin again shortly.”

Boromir was instantly awake and sat up. Beregond offered a cup of hot tea. Boromir smiled and took it. “Beregond. You are no longer an aide nor a lieutenant. You are a captain in the service of Gondor; you should not be bringing tea to your captain.”

“Noted, my Lord,” Beregond smiled. “I have still to thank you for my promotion.”

“‘Twas my father’s doing, Beregond, but well deserved. Now,” he turned and unrolled a map. “Here is where we met the enemy yesterday. The terrain is too rough. I would have our men surprise them, come over this outcropping and attack them here. Have my scouts returned from their morning surveillance?”

“They have, my Lord Boromir,” Guilin said. He pointed to the map. “The Easterlings settled for the night here. It will be easy to draw them here.” He pointed to where Boromir planned their attack. “I agree. The terrain is better suited to our way of fighting.”

“Good. Then let us away.” He stopped as he was putting on his belt and sword. “Has anyone seen my aide?”

They shook their heads and he laughed. They joined him. “Well, mayhap he will show up in time for the battle. Beregond, forgive me, would you bring my horse?”

Boromir threw back his head and laughed loud and long. “I wish that I could take back the promotion and have you as my aide!”

The men about the tent were smiling as Boromir came out; they had heard his laughter, Hador told him, and were heartened. He saluted them, looked up at the sun, and smiled. “A good day to finally finish this! Hoy, my lads. We go to battle and we go to win!”

The men cheered. Scurrying, they geared themselves and strode forward to battle. It was quick, this day, for Boromir’s moving them to easier terrain proved propitious for Denethor’s forces. The battle went well and swiftly. By nuncheon, the enemy was routed, what was left of them, and Boromir stood, in the midst of the carnage and smiled. “At least I did not lose my horse. Nor my aide. Balrog’s breath! Where is Egalmoth?”

Guilin strode forward, his hand held high in jubilation. “Well done, Captain-General, well done indeed. Hardly any of our men lost!”

“He never made the battle,” Beregond smiled broadly. “He spent his time in a ditch being sick!”

Boromir put his hand to his head. “I was not very kind. Making him my aide was probably too much for the boy. Let us be away from here. Beregond, the men of Amon Dîn are good men. You will find your time there worthwhile. As your first command, if you need counsel, send a rider. I will come.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Beregond blushed. “I will do my best. I will make you proud.”

When the meal was over, Denethor insisted that Belegorn sit and eat, but the man was constant. He cleaned off the table, rang for Denethor’s manservant, and asked to be excused. A quarter of an hour later found him back at Denethor’s side with the newest dispatches from the riders. He stood at attention. At last, irritated beyond belief, Denethor insisted that the man at least stand at ease. Belegorn nodded his head and relaxed just the slightest. His Steward sighed. A moment later and there was a knock on the door. Belegorn came back from answering. “It is Captain Hirgon. He says he has an appointment?”

“He does.” Denethor shivered imperceptibly. “Give me another moment and then let him in.” Denethor walked into his bedchambers and looked out upon the Pelennor. ‘How do I tell him? How?’ Another moment passed and Denethor walked into his study and motioned for Hirgon to sit. Belegorn stood by the door. “Please leave us.”

“I cannot, my Lord.” Belegorn’s face contorted, offended. “I was told of the…”

“My Lord Steward. There is naught that we could not discuss with your aide here at your side. It is his right and duty.”

Hirgon’s face turned red. “You know I live and breathe the laws of Gondor, my Lord. That is why you gave me the captaincy of your errand-riders, is it not? By right, your aide should be at your side at all times, whether or no you trust the person you are with. I give not advice, my Lord Steward. I remind.”

Denethor would have smiled had the seriousness of the upcoming discussion not pained him so. “I deem you are correct in this; however, it is the Steward’s right to decide for himself.” He hefted a great sigh. “Hirgon, I have news to tell you that is heinous.” He carefully watched the captain’s face. “It is about your brother.”

“I have not seen him since I returned from Cair Andros. What has he done now?”

Hirgon’s face bled white. His mouth opened, his tongue lifted and touched the roof of his mouth. He swallowed hard. “He will be – hung?”

“I am sorry, Hirgon. I did not know he was your brother nor that you were Berelach’s sons. He was tried and hung a week ago.”

“Hirgon. I cannot banish the son of one of my dearest friends. I have moved your mother into a house on the Fifth Level. You will not be punished, nor your captaincy taken from you.”

“It is the law, my Lord Steward. You cannot thwart the law.” The man’s eyes appeared red. His hands shook.

Hirgon fell to his knees. “I must once again pledge my loyalty, my Lord Steward!”

“Nay. The oath was taken upon your commissioning. I will not ask for it again. Hirgon, you have shown yourself a trusted warrior of Gondor. Do not push me on this. I have decided and made it so.”

“Yes. My aide will tell you exactly which house is now your family’s. Hirgon, once you have visited her, come back here. I would share a… Come back here.”

Denethor waived him away. His aide entered. “I am sorry, Belegorn, there are things that must – ”

It was quite late when Hirgon once again stood before Denethor. The warrior knelt as soon as he was admitted and Denethor had to force him to stand.

“It is not. Its owner abandoned it many long ages ago. It needed someone to care for it. As for your farm on the Pelennor, I want you to know it is still yours. If you need to go there to care for it, now and again, let your captain know you have my permission.” He acknowledged Hirgon’s gratitude. “Now, will you share a glass of brandy with me?”

After they sat and drank for a bit, Denethor asked him, “My son Boromir, how fared he?”

“Well, my Lord, though he seemed angry at the contents of the missives. Nay, not angry, frustrated.”

“He did. He sent me off with the missives I brought back and they broke camp that very day.”

“Tell me a little about your father. I only knew him as a warrior; I did not know he had family. Did you always live on the Pelennor?”

They talked long into the night, sharing stories of Denethor’s friend and Hirgon’s father. At last, Belegorn coughed discreetly.

Denethor smiled. “Go now, Captain Hirgon, and take a well-deserved rest. I am waiting for missives from Faramir. When they come, please bring them here, no matter the hour.”

“I will not hear it again, Captain. I owe your father my life and perhaps Boromir’s life. I have been remiss these many years. Go now.”

The Palantír was cold to his touch. It had been days since he had last looked, but he could stand the suspense no longer. The fields north of Cair Andros were clear; there were no signs of Easterlings or battle. Denethor groaned in frustration. No sign of Boromir, of course. But he had at least hoped to find something. If, however, he was ‘allowed’ to see the area of the Nindalf, then the battle was over. If Boromir had been defeated, there would have been bodies strewn about. The Easterlings would not have bothered to bury them. Unfortunately, there were no burial mounds at all. ‘Is this the present?’ Denethor had to wonder. There was almost no clear delineation between the past or the present or even the future. How was he to know what he was looking at? ‘Ah, of course,’ he sighed, ‘only by the landscape. If it is the present, I should recognize it. Before the Battle of the Dagorlad, the marshes were not so wide spread. What I see is at least…’

He moaned in frustration. He could stand it no longer. Anor was rising; she would creep over the mountains within the hour. He must get some sleep before the duties of the day began. He covered the globe and walked slowly down the stairs. Belegorn met him at his quarters, a deep scowl upon his face.

“I cannot guard you, nor aid you as I would, if you continually keep me from your side, my Lord Steward. Have pity on me, I beg you. I spent my nights here, watching and waiting, pacing your floors.”

“From now on, Belegorn, I promise, the only time you will not be at my side is when I visit the upper chamber. There, none may enter. Upon pain of death.”

Denethor took it from his hand and walked quickly into his study. He read it standing, for it was very short, obviously not from Faramir.

Within moments, the Warden of the Keys stood before Denethor. “Come, help me break my fast.”

Húrin grimaced. “You did not sleep again. I can see it in your eyes. What am I to tell Boromir when he returns and wishes to cut my throat?”

Denethor chuckled. “Tell him we spent the night playing Noddy or some such. I know not. Just sit, please, I have had enough strain for the nonce. I would speak of lighter things.” Denethor’s face contorted in grief. “By the all the Valar, there is hideous news from Imrahil. Míriel is dead, Damrod has been wounded, and Galador has been banished to Ras Morthil”

“I know not the details. Imrahil promises to send a full report immediately. He thought it imperative that I know at least a little before any rumors began. Have you heard any?”

Belegorn brought over a small glass of brandy and handed it to Húrin. The Warden looked up in surprise. “Thank you,” he said bemusedly. He turned to Denethor. “I cannot remember the last time one of your aides gave me brandy.”

“Belegorn is quite good at his duties. I think I will keep him.” The smile was strained. “I am afraid for Faramir. There must be a connection with Faramir’s visit and Míriel’s death, but for the life of me, I cannot fathom it.”

Denethor bit his lip. “Perhaps that is how Damrod was wounded.” His mind whirled in a thousand directions. His aide stepped forward and refilled his glass, then stepped back.

“We must call a Council meeting. One is past due. I believe it should coincide with the feast of Yáviérë. Imrahil will come for that. If Faramir has not returned by then, I will pry the details out of the Swan Prince if I must. I do not like the brusque way it is written. There is more here than meets the eye.”

“I agree, Denethor. Would you want me to go to Dol Amroth? The feast is still more than two months away. I can be there and back before then.”

“Nay. If there were danger to Gondor, Imrahil would have brought the missive himself, or at least instructed Faramir to return immediately. Since Faramir is not here, and neither is Imrahil, I must surmise we are not in mortal danger. Not yet.” His brow furrowed. “I need further tools. I cannot govern Gondor without knowing more.”

“They have, Denethor. The Causeway should be finished by next spring, if the winter is not too harsh. I have already started plans for the Harlond. That should be next, though it is well tended. The storehouses, those homes that we altered, are still not full. The burning of the Anórien fields has greatly crippled our attempts to stock extra supplies. The people, I am afraid, may yet this winter face rationing of foodstuffs.”

“When the invitations for the Council meeting go out, make sure there is a request for an inventory of all the fiefdoms’ food supplies. Also, while we are about it, I want to know their weaponry. An inventory of those also, Húrin.”

“Good thought, my Lord.” He sighed. “I would have them list their plans for housing for the possible refugees. Though I truly dislike even thinking of an evacuation.”

“As do I, Húrin, but it must be dealt with. I agree with that listing too. I believe we should consider scheduling two days for the meeting, what think you?”

“I agree. The lords will strongly protest, but I think the agenda is already full and who knows what tidings Boromir may bring from the north.”

“Wisely said. Two days then. That means accommodations must be prepared for those lords who have no second homes here. With Arthad gone, whom will we command to handle these affairs? I do miss the man. He was an excellent organizer.”

“Boromir may return in time – early enough for Arthad to be commandeered again and used. I do like the man myself. Not many have the enthusiasm and organizational skills that he does.”

“Then it is settled. It will be held two days before Yáviérë. Sign the missive. I do not need to see it. If you find someone you think can help before Arthad returns, use him. I wish Indis were here. She would love to prepare for this.”

“She would have loved to prepare for Boromir’s wedding. I still do not understand and it troubles me greatly, Denethor, the news you have had from Belfalas.”

“Let us not be concerned with that until we learn more, Warden. Now, it is time I meet with my people. Is the Chamberlain ready?”

Boromir stayed at Cair Andros for another fortnight. The captains, rare that they were able to meet with their Captain-General for more than a few hours or a day at most, were grateful for the opportunity to spend time with him. Maps were brought out and updated, rosters were discussed, though the filling of them depended entirely upon Faramir’s attempts to wrangle more men from the reluctant lords of the southern fiefdoms, and battle strategies were discussed. In between, they practiced new techniques that they found had helped them in this last battle. Always, the enemy had created some new armor; many lives were lost until someone could determine how to overcome it.

When it became nigh unto time to leave, Boromir found himself strangely reluctant. Egalmoth lit the brazier in Boromir’s tent and proceeded to make his morning tea. Boromir dunked his hands in the washbasin and quickly pulled them out again, sputtering in shock. “It is freezing! Did you not heat it?”

“Of course you were.” Boromir stayed his tongue. “Would you heat some water so that I may at least lave my face?”

“Right away. Here, I brought this from the captain’s quarters.” He moved forward with a pot of boiling water, tripped on the main post of the tent, and fell forward. Boromir just missed being severely scalded by stepping off to the side.

Just then, Beregond entered the tent. The smile froze on his face as he looked from one man to the other. Boromir’s look told Beregond that his Captain-General was very close to cutting off his aide’s hands. “I beg your pardon, Captain Boromir. I have some things I wished to discuss with you regarding Amon Dîn. Might I have a moment?”

“Yes.” He waved for Egalmoth to leave them. Swearing under his breath, he went to the brazier. The lad had failed to light the charcoal and the brazier was cold.

“Let me, Captain.” Beregond expertly lit the charcoal and used some sticks from a faggot nearby to complete the task. Within a moment, the fire filled the tent with warmth. “I will return in a moment.”

Boromir sank back onto his cot. ‘When I return, Míriel will be there and I will have to spend time with her.’ His thoughts were interrupted as Beregond brought in a pot filled with hot water.

“I decided to borrow some from the men’s fire. They were glad to share it with you.” He smiled. “It is an honor being here with you and they are most grateful.”

“I owe them much. They are good and stalwart men. I trust them. I wonder how many other captains can walk into battle with the knowledge that their men stand behind them, ready and able to do their part?” He turned at the groan from Beregond. “Is something amiss?”

“I do not know if I can do this. Being a lieutenant was not difficult, but being a captain?” He swallowed hard.

“They only did so because they are good men, as you have stated. They would have followed a… a mûmak.”

Boromir laughed roundly. “But one has to watch where one walks when following a mûmak!”

Beregond joined in Boromir’s laughter, then sobered. “I do not think I should have been promoted.”

“I am sorry, Captain. All my life I have spent as a lowly soldier. I was not pleased when I was raised to lieutenant last year. I know Gondor needs captains, but there are so many others who are better equipped to carry that load.”

“I am not ungrateful; I just do not feel I am what Gondor needs. Demote me. Let me be your aide. I beg of you. That is work I am suited for.”

“Beregond, your father has been a great captain for Gondor. As his son, it is only right that you continue your family’s proud tradition. I have every faith in you, as does my father. Else, he would not have promoted you. I cannot do this.”

Beregond stood up. “I will lead the men to death! Do you not understand this? I have neither the wit nor the courage to do what Gondor asks of me. If you persist, if you do not demote me, then I must do something to earn demotion. Disobey an order, defame the Steward, something!”

Boromir stood in alarm and grasped the man’s arms. “You risk hanging,” he hissed, “and disgrace for your family.”

“Boromir, if I make a mistake, if I make a wrong decision, I can lose a whole regiment.”

“Sit,” Boromir motioned and sat himself. “I know the fear you speak of. It is ever with me. I have lost more men than I can remember. But Beregond, Gondor desperately needs good captains.”

“I am not one, Boromir! In the month’s that I have served as captain, I have discovered that failing.” The man fell to his knees. “Please. Take me as your aide. What greater service is there for a soldier than to care for his captain?”

Tears filled Boromir’s eyes, as he finally understood. “You would do this for me?” When he had finally caught his breath, he said, “Egalmoth is not that bad. I cannot let you do this. Please, do not ask again.”

Beregond stood, shoulders sagged. “Let me at least help you prepare for your journey. Your aide is not about, again.”

Boromir nodded, his mind still awhirl at the level of loyalty and love he felt from Beregond.

Boromir groaned. “Yester eve, I asked Egalmoth to take it to the smithy so that it would be sharpened for my ride home. I see he did not.”

“If I demote you, what excuse do I use that would shame you and your family the least?”

“From my men then. I have been with you all morning. It was my duty to be with them, help them prepare for the journey back to Amon Dîn.”

Boromir smiled warmly. He placed his hands on Beregond’s shoulders. “You do not have to do this. It will remain on your record.”

“Have I not pledged all for Gondor? Shame is naught if I can serve you. I will explain a little to my father. He will understand and agree. My Captain, do it now, here in the field, then I will serve you till I die.”

“Hirgon. I served with him at the Causeway. He is ready. Or Galdor. He serves here at Cair Andros under Captain Hador. He could be sent today! Ask Hador what he thinks.”

“Very well, But I will have you know I do this under duress. If not for the need of a sharp sword…” He smiled and hugged Beregond. “Welcome, Aide. Now, send for Captain Hador. I hope he does not object too strenuously.”

Beregond poured Boromir another cup of tea, saluted, and left the tent singing a bawdy tavern tune.

Boromir kept his face still. “Thank you, Egalmoth. I have some good news for you.”

The ride to Pelargir lasted overlong, in Damrod’s estimation. They stopped at every town, hamlet, village, and settlement that happened to be within ten leagues of the road. Damrod knew why. The Steward’s son did not want to go home. The news of Míriel’s death had to have reached Denethor by now; going home would make no difference. Except for the grilling that the young man would have to endure. But Damrod felt certain the Steward would understand. None of this was Lord Faramir’s doing. As they sat around a fire one evening, when meeting and greeting another Lord of Gondor had seemed too much for Captain Faramir, Damrod had tried to reassure the man. However, the captain would have none of it. Looking into Faramir’s gray eyes, Damrod’s loyalty seemed to reach new bounds. Faramir was one of the bravest men he had ever served under, even, in his own way, braver than Captain Boromir, yet to be afraid of one’s own father. He clenched his teeth and kept his tongue.

“I know you do not understand,” Faramir finally spoke. “The Steward is a wise man and, if it was anyone but me, would accept my report, backed by yours. However,” he paused, trying to put his feelings into words for he felt he owed this man, of all men, an explanation. “I have made some mistakes in my dealings with those Lord Denethor deems ‘suspect.’ Nothing that would harm Gondor, only myself,” his self-deprecating smile endeared him even more to his underling, “but which makes my fa – makes the Steward question my judgment.”

“And judgment is the key in this situation. I foolishly accepted the Lady Míriel as a friend, because of – well, it makes no difference why.” He did not want to bring his uncle’s hearty approbation for the woman to mind. If Imrahil had not been so enthusiastic… But he could not lay blame upon his uncle. As soon her intentions had become clear to him, he should have run the other way. Instead, he was involved in a rendezvous with the woman in his mother’s private gardens. How to explain this to his father? No matter how hard he had tried in the past, his father could read his mind, of that he was certain. Yet, he was innocent. She had waylaid him. “Orc’s breath!”

“Captain. There is naught anyone can do when a woman sets her claws into a man. Your father… The Steward is not a farm boy. He knows the wiles of women. Do not be concerned. Tell him the details and he will accept them.” Much to his chagrin, Faramir would not listen. He tried again, “The Steward will know from your reports that you have appointed yourself well on this trip. Do you not have o’erwhelming pledges from the lords for men and coin? Is that not why you were sent on this mission? It is a success.”

“Míriel is dead and naught will be worse than the telling of that affair.” Faramir shook his head at the ill choice of words. “It is past time. We should return to Minas Tirith. Tell the men we move out in the morning. We stay in Pelargir for two nights and then leave on the third morning.” His aide stood to leave. “Damrod. I do not know what I would have done if Boromir had not sent you with me. Thank you.”

“It is my duty, Captain, naught more.” But the man left him with a smile upon his face and Faramir saw it.

A measure of peace came to him. If men such as Damrod listened and obeyed him, even offered their life for him, perhaps the future that so daunted him was not as bleak as he imagined. He entered his tent and pulled the covers over his face.

In the morning, they broke their fast before the sun broke the sky. The road to Pelargir was well tended, not like so many others they had crossed on their journey. Faramir had made a listing of those roads in dire need of repair. One of the many reports that Faramir would be presenting to Denethor. The list of reports had grown long as their journey progressed. Faramir ticked them off as he rode, not watching the road, but letting Damrod lead them.

By nightfall, they were only a day’s ride from Pelargir. A company of soldiers had been sent out to meet them and a camp was already set. Faramir gratefully sank into the cot prepared for him. He smiled. The captain of Pelargir, what was his name? Gwinhir. That was it. Gwinhir had sent him a luxurious tent with a cot covered in furs, fresh fruits, wines and meat, and new clothes to replace his travel worn outfits. Faramir shook his head. The man was naught but organized. He chafed at the expense, but was too tired but do aught but luxuriate in the feel of it. He slept immediately.

In the middle of the night, he awoke, screaming. Damrod was at his tent door immediately, calling in after him. “I am well. I am sorry, Damrod. A dream, only a dream.” He sat up and shook until his teeth chattered. He had had this dream before, many times, but never so vivid. The wave crashed and rolled, climbed over beautiful, lush, green lands, over hills rampant with sheep and cattle, across great rivered valleys, and inexorably over even the tallest mountain. He saw people running, screaming in terror, as the darkness unescapable, came and covered them. He saw them drowning, trying to fight there way to the top of the crest, but all in vain. They died, screaming, their faces distorted in terror. He sobbed. “Father!” he whispered brokenly. “We are drowning.”

“The tent is from Lord Amandil. He hopes it served you well. He asks for an audience sometime during your stay at Pelargir. At your convenience,” the man intoned.

Faramir sat in wonder, his tea held loosely in his hand as the servant of Amandil bowed low. Damrod stood by Faramir’s side. “Once I arrive at Pelargir and have my schedule before me, I will contact your lord. Please thank him for his kindness.” The man bowed and left.

Faramir turned to Damrod, amaze writ upon his face. “I do not know why the old lord would want to see me. I have wracked my brain, but there is naught I can do for him.”

“Amandil is a member of Denethor’s Council. He knows well that my father rarely grants me any favor. I have no sway over the Steward’s will. Well, be that as it may, let us be off. I want to reach Pelargir by early evening. Tell the men and the cooks we will eat nuncheon as we ride.”

“I am very grateful that we do not have to strike this camp, that Amandil’s servants will do that. The tents are large and there are so many. ‘Twould take half the day to pull everything down and pack it. I must admit weariness over such things.”

Laughing Damrod saluted and left to prepare their departure. Whether or no they were striking camp, still much needed to be done before leaving this camp.

Anor was setting as they approached the city of Pelargir. Captain Gwinhir stepped out of the garrison’s gates and motioned for them to stop. “Lord Faramir. Welcome to Pelargir. You have been missed. However, much as I would wish you to bivouac here at the fort, Lord Amandil has procured a house for you, near the breezes of the Anduin. He begs you to accept it whilst you stay in Pelargir. This guard will take you there, if that is your command.”

“Only one more. That I have been invited to your house for the daymeal, less than an hour from now. Will you be ready by then? Have washed the campaign’s dust from you?”

At that Faramir smiled. “It does not take much to wash if there is a tub, which I am assuming this house has. I think I would like a bath very much! So, I will accept Lord Amandil’s gracious offer and see you there at the twelfth hour. In the meantime, would you make sure my men are cared for? Damrod, come with me.” Faramir saluted and turned to follow the guard.

They rode easily, for the first time in months, for his father was not expecting him back for at least another fortnight. Boromir’s mind was ill at ease. Some sense of impending doom. He cursed quietly and rubbed the wound. It still ached, especially after a long day’s ride. If his father every knew… At that, he paused. There was little one could hide from Denethor, but this he must. He had not rested as he had promised. Every day had been filled with either riding or battle. And the cold nights spent on the ground wrapped in a too-thin blanket had not helped. His wound definitely ached, but it was closed and there was no sign of ill health.

To take his mind off the pain, he began to count the duties he would have to face once they reached the City. The beacon-hills must be reassessed; defense plans made against siege towers; repairs to the Rammas; new weaponry; and so much more. Oh! He had forgotten the trebuchets. Add to that – Míriel.

“It is, my Lord. The Chamberlain will handle the details. There is not much you need concern yourself about.”

Boromir’s jaw dropped. “I fear not that night. I fear the years that stretch ahead of me.” He dismounted as the company halted at his command.

“Say naught more, Beregond. It is known about the Citadel that I am not her preferred companion.”

“I cannot understand why the Lord Denethor insists you wed at this time. There are so many details that must be attended to from the Rammas to the beacon-hills.”

“You read my mind, Beregond. However, my father’s will must take precedence to mine. He is the wiser one; I must obey.” He handed Beregond his reins. “Have the men set up camp. I am going for a walk.”

Beregond took the reins and began to shout orders. Controlled chaos reigned as Boromir trudged northward.

After walking a half league or more, Boromir paused, brow furrowed at the sight of wagon marks well away from the road. He walked further, almost a full league, and stopped in horror. Two smashed wagons lay toppled on their sides; soldiers’ bodies, fly-covered, lay about; horses, half-eaten, were strewn everywhere. The smell was beyond endurance. He covered his mouth, walked a few yards back the way he had come, leaned over and lost what little was in his stomach. Would his body ever stop betraying him like this? He tore a piece of cloth from his shirt, covered his mouth and nose, and walked back to the carnage.

Two wagons. It was Orcs, of course. He wondered where they had been bound. The men of Gondor seemed to have been attacked at least a fortnight ago. There were nigh unto fifty bodies, another twenty horses. How many had been taken captive to serve as food when the foul creatures were once again hungry? He swore again, this time shouting out the words, but naught eased his heart. At last, not being able to find any recognizable features on any of the men, he turned back to where his own men camped. There was no risk, at least at the moment, for his company. His father would know where this sad group was heading and which captain had led them.

Beregond saw him walking and ran to his side. “Is something amiss, my Lord?”

“Supply wagons attacked about a league from here. Send a burial detail. I recognized no one.”

“Yes. Though no signs of torture; I am certain they have carried off some of our men.”

“Thank you, Beregond,” Boromir whispered and walked slowly to his tent. The men parted as he passed, but he had not the heart to speak with them. As he prepared to enter the tent, he paused and looked back. Twenty men were saddled and heading north. He pulled in a breath to stop the tears. Weariness closed in upon him. Pulling the flap behind him, he lay on his cot, arm flung over his eyes, and wept.

The house that Lord Amandil had procured for him was spacious to say the least. It was on a small hill overlooking the harbor, close enough to enjoy the cool breezes during the summer, but far enough away to keep the smell of the city from causing discomfort. Faramir sat on the terrace overlooking the Anduin and at last let himself relax enough to ponder the last month’s events. Damrod had been correct; he had done everything in his power to lengthen their journey. And it was not for Damrod’s sake, though he was most grateful that his aide was healing, and well. The truth of the matter was - he did not want to meet his father’s scrutiny over the death of Míriel. He was at once embarrassed and disheartened. The glass of wine in his hand was untouched, his brow furrowed, and that is how Lord Amandil found him.

“My dear Lord Faramir,” the man exclaimed loudly, “you will spill your wine if you do not pay more attention to it. Is it not to your liking?”

“It is most excellent. However, my journey has been taxing and I am enjoying the view and the comfort of your benevolence. This house is spacious and most comfortable.”

“I am glad you approve. I had a few properties that I perused before deciding upon this one for your stay here. I am disturbed to discover from your aide that you only plan to spend two days in our fair city. There is so much to see and discuss. I had hoped we could examine the armaments and perhaps inspect the men?”

“And what else would you have of me, Lord Amandil?” Faramir was weary beyond endurance and had not the strength nor the heart for subterfuge. He had been unable to discover what Lord Amandil wanted and it irked him.

“My Lord Faramir,” Amandil fairly bristled, “I have only the weal of Gondor ever in my thoughts. We, the entire city, rejoiced at the news of your coming. A banquet was planned for the night after next.”

“My Lord Amandil. Forgive my brusqueness. I found the journey wearisome. I was taken with fever for a time and I do not believe I have quite recovered. Give me a night’s rest and I will listen to your suggestions for Pelargir. Are the plans for the banquet complete?”

“I did not know,” the man apologized profusely. “I will leave you. The banquet can be canceled. If there is aught you need, do not hesitate to ask the servants. Your word is mine. Shall I send my personal healer?” Faramir declined and the man nodded and left.

“I am beginning to think I have not recovered. My head aches and I feel chilled. Unfortunately, they have prepared a banquet. It would be wise if we should stay for an extra night.”

“Of course they have. Have we not endured many feasts on this trip? I am tired of the rich food; it will be good to return to Ithilien and simple meals. I fear, though, it should be off to bed with you before I risk the ire of your father. I am ready myself for a good night’s sleep. The beds are soft and clean.”

“Ah,” Faramir smiled, “soft and clean. What more could a man ask for?” He stood up. “Damrod?”

“Do you know what Amandil wants? Have you heard aught since we arrived this afternoon?”

Faramir’s groan turned into a soft curse. He nodded and left his aide. The bed was soft and clean, yet his heart was pounding. “I will not listen. I will suggest he meet with father at the Council meeting. There must be one planned soon. There must be.”

Fury and utter helplessness roiled through him as Boromir recounted the carnage he had seen. “The enemy knew!” the Steward’s eldest shouted, his voice grown hoarse, “knew that Amon Dîn was short-staffed, knew that we were north in battle against Easterlings, knew our wagons were on the road, knew we were helpless…” He screamed the last and pushed hard against his desk. A heavy crash and the desk overturned. Sudden silence filled the room. Boromir looked on in horror as papers gently wafted to the floor. At last, he whispered, “We have no hope.”

“There is little hope, but what we have, we will guard,” his father answered quietly.

Boromir snorted in derision. “The king. What need have we for a king who comes when all of Gondor is lost? The kings we had were weak. So were the Stewards before you. There is no hope.” His voice had grown flat and hard.

“Come into my chambers. Let your man clean this up. We will sit and drink a little brandy and mayhap speak with the wizard.”

“Of course. And they will read poetry and discuss Elves and all will be lost.”

“You did not see, Father! You did not see what I have seen these past months.”

“I have seen such sights before, Boromir,” Denethor’s tone was gentle. “All my life I have seen such sights.”

“And my children will see the same. Father, I cannot wed, not now. Mayhap never. I cannot leave such a legacy.”

Denethor drew in his breath. He had forgotten in the fury of Boromir’s pain. “Come into my study now, Boromir, as I had commanded you to an hour ago.” Denethor turned and strode from Boromir’s chambers. His son nodded to his manservant in apology and left.

As he entered Denethor’s study, he was surprised to see Húrin and Siriondil there. He nodded to the Master Healer. Boromir so missed Arciryas that it was difficult to look his replacement in the eye. “Warden. It is good to see you again. Is your son well? He is stationed at Linhir, is he not?”

“Ah, yes. I have not seen him in over a year.” Boromir found he could no longer speak in a courtly manner, so he closed his mouth and sat heavily on Denethor’s settle. Húrin’s brow rose, but he said naught.

Denethor entered from his bedchamber, a rolled missive in his hand. “I must read you something, Boromir. But first I must ask Siriondil to look at your wound.”

“I saw you flinch just now when you tried to stand. And I noted you held your stomach after you attacked your desk. Do not try to hide things from me, Boromir. Siriondil,” he motioned and the healer went to Boromir’s side. With barely suppressed anger and some chagrin, Boromir stood, took off his tunic, and lifted his shirt. The healer’s hands pressed and a stifled moan escaped the young lord’s lips.

“A week’s rest at least, my Lord Steward. Else I will have to move him to the Houses. The wound is not infected, but it is tender. It should have lost that tenderness by now, if Captain Boromir had obeyed my orders.”

Denethor nodded. “Thank you. You may go.” He waited till the man left, then turned to Boromir. “I will not chide you, but I do not like you disobeying me. Remember that.”

“Please sit and listen. Húrin, would you pour Boromir a brandy? And yourself one too.”

Húrin nodded and filled three glasses, giving one each to Denethor and Boromir and finally settling himself in an armchair to the right of Boromir. He slowly sipped the drink and waited; he knew the missive that Denethor carried.

“My Lord Steward,” Denethor read, “I have the unfortunate duty to inform you of a grave matter.”

“Nay. Sit now and listen,” Denethor’s voice was crisp and firm. “It is from your Uncle Imrahil. It is about Faramir but there is naught to fear; he is well. Now, let me continue.” He waited until Boromir sat once again.

“I have not had to write such a hard report in a very long time. I beg you to know that your son, Faramir, had naught to do with the happenings, except to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Boromir made as if to stand, but Denethor’s withering gaze stayed him. “There was an accident. The Lady Miriel is dead.” Denethor paused.

This time, Boromir stood slowly. He walked to his father’s side and put his hand on Denethor’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Father.”

“You know of her fondness for Faramir,” Denethor continued. “She assumed it was returned. When he did not meet her at a time she appointed, she rode from her home to Dol Amroth. The road is treacherous in part and she was distraught. She rode too close to the cliffs; her horse fell; she fell with it. Lord Galador was in pursuit and saw the accident. He came to report it to me. I will tell you that we had her mummified and buried in state in the crypt at my palace. After an appropriate mourning time, Faramir left. He is continuing his journey and will pass through Pelargir before he turns north for Minas Tirith.

“Please accept my deepest sympathies for the loss of your future daughter-in-law. Please extend these sympathies to my dearest nephew, Boromir. Other circumstances surrounded her death, but I will make haste to personally bring you those tidings. I leave within the week. Respectfully, Prince Imrahil.”

Boromir turned towards the window and looked, with unseeing eyes, upon the Pelennor. “I should be sorry. I am not. Nay, I am sorry for her mother and father. It is a terrible blow. We expect men to die, for battle wages all around us. But to have such a young and vibrant woman…” Boromir rubbed his face with his left hand. “It is not right.” He sighed wearily. “Would you have me go to Dol Amroth and offer my condolences to her family?”

“Nay. Imrahil has done our duty for us. When the Council meets on Yáviérë, you may extend your sympathies to her father. Besides which, my Master Healer has ordered you to rest. I need you here in the City, Boromir.”

“Nay, Boromir. I deem it not well for you to be alone at this time. Húrin was about to give me his reports on the Rammas. I thought you would be interested.”

Boromir woke with a start to hear whispers coming from his father’s dining room. It had been a very long time since he had fallen asleep during a meeting. He wondered, briefly, what his father would say, but of more concern to him was the fact that Anor was setting; the Pelennor was almost black. ‘My men!’ he thought. They were to meet for the daymeal and here he was. He rose and heard his name called. “Yes, Father, I am awake.” Walking into the outer chamber, he stopped in surprise.

The smile on the wizard’s face gave away the remark for the jest it was, but Boromir, nonetheless, was disconcerted. “Forgive me. I spoke rashly.”

“Boromir,” Denethor interrupted. “Beregond was here and took a message back to your men. You will meet in a tavern, he said, on the Fourth Level. That is not the ‘Three Fishermen’ by any chance, is it?”

Nodding his head and not taking the bait, Boromir sat at table. Immediately, Denethor’s man brought out a salver filled with food. “What were you two discussing when I entered?”

“The Rammas. Your father thinks he should let the North Gate alone until the rest of the changes have been made. I disagree.”

“You yourself, if I am correct, know of the attacks to the north. I deem it unwise to wait.”

“He has a point, Father,” Boromir spoke between bites. “The wagons were attacked with impunity.”

“You listed the reasons they were attacked, Boromir. Those reasons will now be corrected. Never again will I leave Amon Dîn so poorly manned.”

“That will help,” Boromir conceded. He took a long drink of wine and then stood up. “If you will forgive me, Mithrandir – Father – I would bathe before I meet with my men.”

Mithrandir’s laughter rang throughout the room. “You would eat with us unwashed and yet meet with your men bathed. Have they not endured your stench these past few months?”

Denethor put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “The wizard teases you, Boromir. Go now and attend to your needs. I would meet with you on the morrow. There will be a Council during Yáviérë; the schedule is already filled for two full days.”

“Thank you, Father. I will break my fast with you tomorrow.” Surprisingly, his father took him in a warm hug.

Boromir returned the embrace. “I will.” He nodded to the wizard and left them.

Denethor looked closely at him. “He is. Again, I find myself perplexed. You know more than I give you credit for.”

“I only watch. He grimaced when you embraced him. I do not think it was from discomfort at your show of affection.”

Denethor laughed heartily. “You are wily. I think we can now continue our game.” He strode to the study and pulled out the drawer that contained their ‘Kings and Stewards’ game. “I believe it is my move?”

The wizard sat across from him. Lighting his pipe, he continued where they left off. “Rohan will guard your borders only until they are attacked somewhere else. I deem it unwise to leave the North Gate last for refitting.”

Denethor’s brow furrowed. “I see a friend in a spiral of decay. I see a great and courageous mind lost to confusion and… poison? I see him trusting a wizard’s pupil.” A slight chill ran down his back, but he stayed the urge to shudder.

“Are you the only wizard in the land? I think not. Though I believe my son listens to you with unbridled devotion.”

“Faramir is your son. He thinks for himself, though he deigns to give an old man respect.”

At this, Denethor shivered. “I value your opinions but I will not obey you just because of who you are. You are right in saying I see much. I have seen things which cause me to question your motives.”

“If you speak of my relationship with your father, then you are correct. I deemed your father wiser than you. However, you have grown in wisdom since then.”

Giving a low chuckle, Denethor moved a piece. “I begin to question. I do not accept what you say without balancing it against all I know.”

“Your son questions you and for that you deem him my pupil. Do you not wish, Lord Denethor, that you had questioned Ecthelion?”

Denethor drew in a sharp breath. “Yes. I do wish that.” He shivered again. “But I would still obey him.”

“Not always. Not always.” He grew silent and did not note when Gandalf moved his knight.

Denethor looked down at the board in surprise. “Will you be here for the Council meeting?”

Denethor smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “Yes.” He lay his king down. “I fear I have lost.”

Faramir sat at Amandil’s table and tried to hide the grimace. Not only had Amandil a granddaughter, but also a niece. He was telling how his own daughter had been considered as a mate for Denethor before Prince Adrahil offered Finduilas. The man’s tone was harsh and bitter. Faramir had all he could do to contain himself. The effrontery! To speak of his grandfather in such discourteous terms was bad enough yet, the man did not stop there. The tone he used when he spoke Finduilas’ name held only contempt. Faramir at last could stand it no longer. “Thank you for inviting me to your home and the wonders of your table. I must prepare to leave though. I have extended my stay two days beyond my original plan. My father awaits my reports. You know it is not wise to keep the Steward waiting. As for your proposal, I will carry the missives to the Lord Denethor. I will ask him to make time to discuss them after the Council meeting.”

Amandil sputtered and Faramir knew the man was furious at the early leave-taking, but it could not be helped. If Faramir stayed any longer, he was afraid he would gut the man with his dirk. Damrod saluted and stood between the two.

“All of Pelargir will be sorry to see you leave, my Lord Faramir. My thanks for sharing my table. Nerwin, Mithrellas, offer the Lord Faramir your thanks for spending time with us this evening.”

Both women bowed their heads. Nerwin giggled and Amandil sputtered even louder. “The girls will be coming with me to Minas Tirith for Yáviérë. They have not been to the City before. Perhaps you could arrange an escort to show them about?”

“Of course. I will see to it. Again, my thanks for your hospitality. Come, Damrod.” He saluted, followed the servant out and left the palatial home quickly behind him.

“I think you can stop running, Captain. None seem to be following us.” Damrod started laughing.

“For all intents and purposes, Captain, you are running. I can hardly keep up.”

“Nay, Faramir, but the laughter is too much to continue at this pace. You should have seen your face when he brought those women into the room. I thought I would have to pick you up off the floor.”

“He said naught about presenting his granddaughter and niece. I was taken unawares.”

“You almost chocked to death on your wine. He could have warned you,” his aide grinned.

Damrod started choking. He stopped and bent over. Faramir shoved him. “Stop it now!”

Faramir stopped and leaned heavily against a wall. “I am definitely doomed. I will not take them around the City. I have learned my lesson.”

“Thankfully, it is your brother’s hand that Amandil seeks for those he loves. You are not worth much as of yet.”

Damrod joined him and the two men leaned on each other as they made their way back to their quarters, laughter causing them to stop many times on the road.

“It is time we began the preparations for the Council meeting, Húrin. We have the agenda already set, but we must prepare as many reports as possible to present to the lords. I want no arguments this time. I want everything made clear to them so they do not question me.”

“A good and sincere thought, Denethor, but do you truly think the lords will not question you?”

“Imrahil. I did not hear the call. Send him in. Send him in.” He rang the bell and his manservant entered. Quickly he gave orders for food and wine, then turned to Húrin. “Did you hear his horns?”

“I know not. Ah! Imrahil,” he stood and embraced the Swan Prince. “Welcome. Did you not bring an entourage? I heard no trumpets.”

“Only a small company, my Lord Denethor. I must return to Dol Amroth. My stay will not be long. In fact, if I have my way, I will leave tonight.”

Denethor looked in surprise at the man. “Come into my study.” He led the way, offered a chair to Imrahil, and sat behind his desk. “You come to give me report?”

“I will not beguile you with words of comfort. A wanton act of treachery occurred in my city. I have come to beg your forgiveness and to ask your will in the matter.”

Denethor sat back. His servant entered and Denethor nodded that Imrahil be served first. The prince declined. Denethor waved the man off and sat forward. “Is there a written report?”

Imrahil told the whole tale, evincing every detail. At the end, Denethor sat back. “So my son is an idiot and your cousin is a wanton woman!”

Imrahil stood in fury. “Say naught about Faramir. He appointed himself well. As for my cousin, I bid you speak not ill of the dead.”

“My son would now be buried in your vaults if not for his aide. I will speak of her as I will. Galador has been banished to Athrad, you say. I want him here, in Minas Tirith, for trial.”

“My Lord Denethor,” Mithrandir spoke up and Imrahil started to see the wizard sitting in a chair by the fire. “As Prince Imrahil states, it is a delicate matter. If you bring the girl’s father here, put him on trial, you shame your line.”

“I want the man dead,” Denethor hissed. “He dared to touch my son, my son!”

Boromir strode into the room. “Your shouts can be heard down the hall, Father.” He turned and walked to Imrahil’s side. “Uncle.” Imrahil stood and was enveloped in Boromir’s arms. “It is good to see you. I am sorry you come with such disturbing news. How fares Faramir? What is this that father speaks of?” He motioned and Imrahil sat.

“Lord Galador lost his mind in the grief of his daughter’s death. He attacked Faramir, but Damrod took the blow instead.”

“He does. The wound was not deep. However, Faramir took injury earlier in the day. He has had a difficult journey. Before he reached Dol Amroth, he was afflicted with a fever that left him weak. Míriel surprised him in your mother’s gardens…” He stopped as he heard Denethor’s indrawn breath, then continued, “He fell against one of the marble benches and was concussed. I do not want to live through another day like that one.”

“I sent him to Athrad at Faramir’s request. The man’s wife has become unhinged. She began writing missives, nasty things, to Faramir. He was concerned for my welfare.”

Boromir sat next to his uncle, took a glass of wine for himself and insisted that Imrahil take one too. “You still have authority over the man? You can bring him back here, to Minas Tirith?”

“Then, Father, if it is truly your wish to hold a trial, we have not lost the man. It is easy enough to summon him here. Mayhap you would wish to wait to hear what Faramir has to say?”

“I know what your brother would say. He would bid me have mercy upon the man. If news of this treachery is found out and that I have done nothing to punish the man for his act of treason, then all of Gondor suffers. Yes, I put my anger and pain first, but I deem it unwise to let this matter drift into oblivion. For it will not. Rumors already abound. There must be some retribution made. The man’s actions call for his hanging.”

“And yet mercy would not be unwelcome by your people. What would you do if Faramir had actually died? Would you hold your anger in check? I speak foolishly; your mind is greater than Galador’s. Faramir’s mercy should be yours, Father. It would benefit Gondor.”

“Well spoken, young lord,” Mithrandir said quietly. “He speaks rightly, Lord Denethor. The people would understand a ruling of mercy along with banishment.”

“Banishment. Yet the man still serves me in the guard. This I will not tolerate. Imrahil, when you return to Dol Amroth you will carry a proclamation from me stating that Galador and all his heirs and close kin are banished forever from Gondor’s soil.”

Imrahil stiffened, but nodded his acceptance of his liege lord’s will. “It will be posted on the city’s gates.”

Denethor sat wearily. “Faramir? Has he completely recovered? Where is he now?”

“He went to Pelargir to complete the task you set him. However, I had expected him to be here.”

“I have received a few reports from him, brief ones, but nothing from Pelargir. Nor from Dol Amroth.”

“Forgive my outburst, Imrahil,” Denethor said quietly, “and accept my hospitality. Stay at least another day, until Faramir arrives. It would much hearten the boy to see you.”

“I will, Denethor. I would speak with him. See how he fares. I was concerned for him. I knew not if he had recovered from his other wounds. Then to be assailed with fever, a concussed head, and a guilt-ridden heart…”

“Guilt-ridden? What had he to be guilt-ridden? You say the woman threw herself at him.”

“Father,” Boromir gently chided. “You speak of Faramir. Of course he would be guilt-ridden.”

Denethor turned towards the window. ‘He carries Finduilas’ weakness.’ His face burned in shame and sorrow.

“Belegorn!” Boromir rose in surprise and hugged the man. “It is good to see you! What are you doing here in the City? Does not Mardil keep you chained to him? I did not think he could captain Halifirien without you!”

Belegorn smiled and returned the embrace. “No one can say nay to the Lord Steward of Gondor. I am now your father’s aide and this is most embarrassing.” He tried to pull away from Boromir, but the heir would not allow it.

Boromir turned to Denethor. “Father! This man was one of those who saved my life! I owe him much.”

“Nay, my Lord Steward. I am content to be your aide. Please let me continue. Lord Boromir, I am happy to serve your family in this way. Do not interpose your will upon your father.”

“Aye, Belegorn. I will not. Father is desperately in need of a good aide. I am grateful, as will my brother be. Thank you!”

“Nuncheon is ready,” Belegorn quipped and Boromir laughed. “Father, may Belegorn join us?”

“Nay!” Belegorn held the wanted shout down to a gentle whisper at the same time that Denethor said, ‘yes.’

“Sit with us this day, Belegorn. Afterwards, you may again pick up your duties. I would hear more of the daring rescue of my son.”

A/N – 1) Noddy – a card game for 2 players. Though commonly credited to the invention of the 17th-century English poet Sir John Suckling, cribbage clearly developed from an earlier game called noddy… http://www.britannica.com/eb/topic-417074/Noddy

2) While Linaewen and I were discussing fires and such, she sent me this link. http://e-charcoalmakingprocess.blogspot.com/ It seems plausible that a place like Cair Andros and the other garrisons of Gondor would have a storehouse of charcoal for starting fires.

3) Faramir’s dream taken from ROTK: Book 1 - Ch. 5: The Steward and the King - “Yes,” said Faramir, “of the land of Westernesse that foundered and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it.”

4) Regarding above charcoal information - On the road, it seems it would have been different; they probably would not have carried charcoal, if the two passages in FOTR about faggots are any indication. In Bree, the Hobbits use faggots (bundles of sticks) to get their smoldering fire started again. FOTR: Ch. 10. Strider - “It was not until they had puffed up the embers into a blaze and thrown on a couple of fa ggots that they discovered Strider had come with them. And, of course, the famous line that Boromir speaks as they head towards Caradhras. FOTR: Book 2 - Ch. 3: The Ring Goes South - “When we leave here, where there are still a few trees and bushes, each of us should carry a faggot of wood, as large as he can bear.”

5) The twelfth hour is based upon the time used in ROTK: Ch. 1: Minas Tirith - “About the eleventh hour, released at last for a while from service… It was the sunset-hour…”

Two days later, Beregond ran to Boromir’s side. “He should be at the Harlond within the hour!” Excitement tinged his voice.

Boromir quickly thanked his sparring partner then turned to his aide. “Help me get this off. And send someone to draw a bath. And tell Imrahil. And Siriondil. I need him with us.”

Beregond laughed. “As soon as we relieve you of this armor. I am only one man; I can do only one task at a time.”

Impatiently, Boromir worked at the clasps. At last, he was free of the heavy armor. He ran to the baths, tore off his mail, shirt, leggings, and under things and plunged in. The attendant had stopped trying to help him after the first moment. However, he did bring the soaps for washing. He poured a pitcher full of water over Boromir’s head and lathered his hair. In the meantime, Boromir was quickly washing himself. At about the same time the attendant poured the rinse water over him, Boromir was done. He took the proffered towel and hastily dried himself. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he ran to the dressing rooms, threw his clothes on his half-dried body and strode outside. Imrahil and Siriondil waited for him. He clasped their hands.

“Thank you for your haste,” he said as they quietly walked down through the circles of the City. “Siriondil. I want him examined thoroughly, though he will complain - and loudly. His wounds from the ambush and his head, especially his head. And make sure there is no sign of fever.”

The Master Healer of Gondor nodded. “Of course he will complain. Am I not used to the sons of Denethor complaining?” He smiled at the flush that crept across Boromir’s face. “I will be gentle, but thorough, Lord Boromir. I did learn my trade from Arciryas himself.”

Boromir laughed gently. “And he is with Amma, if the scholars tell it rightly.”

“Our fondest wish,” Imrahil interjected, “that those we love and have lost dwell somewhere together in peace and happiness.”

“Yes. Now, Uncle, what should I look for? Was he distraught, desolate when he left Dol Amroth?”

They reached the First Level and went through the Great Gate. Their horses were saddled and ready. A company of Gondor’s Knights sat in readiness.

Boromir paled, but accepted the escort. After they were mounted, he gave the signal to move out.

Imrahil leaned over. “You did not seriously think your father was not aware that Faramir approached? Or your response?” He laughed quietly. “Be grateful he did not join us.”

In fact, Denethor waited for them at the gate that opened from the Harlond onto the Pelennor. A small smile of delight that he had surprised Boromir shone from his eyes. “Is your look of chagrin due to the fact that I arrived first? Or did you wish to greet Faramir privately?” Denethor paused. “Ah! You are concerned at the reception I might offer.” His demeanor changed. “I would have thought that you, above all men, would know that I would greet him with joy. It saddens me, Boromir, your ill-regard for me.”

Boromir slid from his horse and handed the reins to Beregond. Imrahil and Siriondil had stopped many paces back, as soon as Imrahil recognized who awaited them.

Boromir embraced his father. “It is not ill-regard, Father. My concern is for Faramir’s health.”

Boromir sighed heavily and stepped back. “How do I say this to you, Father? I care not for myself. You know me and love me and I am well aware and gratified by your love. However…”

“He has been on the road for months after having endured ambush and wounding…”

“You do not have to continue, Boromir. I am well aware of the trials that have beset your brother.”

Denethor’s face blazed. “My son,” he spoke through clenched teeth, “knows my love for him. He will expect me to judge him fairly. However, my suspicious son, I did not come to the Harlond to question him; I came to welcome him home.”

“There is naught to forgive. Why did you bring the healer here? Do you expect the lad to strip and endure examination on the docks?”

“Do you not think it would be wiser to have Faramir examined in the Houses?”

“I am concerned, Father. He had a fever before he left Minas Tirith, albeit from the poisoned arrows; yet again, Imrahil states he had a fever at Tarnost. I am concerned,” he repeated lamely. “My own wound is slow to heal. I would have Faramir examined sooner than later. Here, he cannot say, nay.”

“At least he has the strength to wind it well.” Denethor motioned and Imrahil and Siriondil joined them. “Why do you not show Siriondil where he is to meet Faramir? He can set up his instruments and be ready. Imrahil and I will wait here.”

A quarter of an hour passed and Faramir’s banner could be seen. Boromir had returned and stood anxiously, almost on tiptoe, waiting for the first sight of his brother.

The look of discomfiture at his presence would have made Denethor smile if not for the pallid skin and sweat evidenced upon his youngest’s brow. He stepped forward and waited. Faramir slowly dismounted and found himself enveloped in his father’s warm embrace.

“You were missed,” Denethor whispered. “And not just by Boromir.” He started to shake in alarm as he felt Faramir sway in his arms. “You are not well?” he whispered.

“Damrod!” Denethor called but Boromir was at his side and gently took Faramir’s arm and held him upright.

“Siriondil awaits.” He pointed and Denethor and he walked Faramir to the Harbor Master’s quarters only a few short paces away.

Siriondil helped him to a bed in a corner of the room and knelt, feeling his head, then his pulse. “Boromir, help him take off his upper clothing.”

Boromir nodded and helped his brother undress. Damrod took the shed clothes and mail and placed them on a nearby chair. Then, he bent and loosed the clasps on Faramir’s boots and took them off.

Siriondil helped the boy lie down. Boromir and Denethor stood back, waiting. After a few moments, the healer said, “Send for a stretcher and a cart.” He turned back at Faramir’s cry of protest. “I do not know how you stayed ahorse as long as you did. Your fever is high. Damrod, when did this begin?”

“About a week ago. It spikes in the afternoon, quite high. A week’s journey out of Pelargir.”

“Ah! Near Tarnost. We stayed in the town for a fortnight whilst it raged unchecked. In the mornings he would be almost himself, but by afternoon the fever brought him down. I wanted to send for you but Faramir refused. It finally passed. Prince Imrahil had him thoroughly examined when we reached Dol Amroth. He was found fit.”

“There was not,” the prince stated. “He was examined thrice whilst he was with me. Once the day he arrived, the day he received the head-wound; once as a follow-up to that, to make certain he was healing; and again before he left Dol Amroth. I would not have allowed him to travel if I thought aught was amiss.”

Siriondil shook his head and turned to Faramir. “Did you experience fever whilst in Dol Amroth?” he asked gently.

“Of course. I had hit it hard on a marble bench. The ache has never left me.”

“I did at first. But afterwards did not. He said I had a concussed wound. I expected pain.”

Faramir made to protest but the healer would have none of it. “Have you any boils? Seeping wounds?”

“Good. That is fortunate for us, but I must examine you myself to make certain. Sometimes, before they open, they are not readily seen.”

He moved Faramir’s arms and examined the armpits, then moved his legs, and finally rolled him on his back, examining every part of him. At last he sighed. “I think we have caught it in time. I see no seeping wounds. You may help dress him, Boromir. Faramir,” he turned again to the lad, “before you arrived in Tarnost, where did you stay?”

“Did you touch any farm animals? Did you drink any milk or perhaps ate local cheeses?”

Faramir held his hands to his eyes and rubbed them. “I ache,” he whispered as Boromir buttoned his shirt. “Damrod?”

“I am here, Captain. Siriondil, we were offered goat’s milk at a farm at the beginning of our journey. I did not take it, but Faramir did.”

“What is wrong with him?” Denethor at last could stand the suspense no longer.

“I believe he has undulant fever. It can be treated. It is not acute, not yet. I will need special medicaments though. I have some in the Houses. Faramir, we must begin treatment immediately. You have had this for sometime. The longer we wait, the more difficult it will be to treat it.”

Faramir nodded as they brought the stretcher in. He meekly let the men put him on it, take him from the room, and place him in a cart. He closed his eyes, but opened them as he felt someone sit next to him.

Boromir never left Faramir’s side. The mornings were pleasant and the brothers shared tales of their last trips in between Faramir’s naps. Denethor’s youngest was most interested in the new armor the Easterlings wore and his oldest was most concerned about Amandil and his retinue of female kin. The fever caused extreme fatigue, besides all its other manifestations, and Faramir slept most mornings away. But when afternoons came, Faramir was consumed by fever. At these times, Siriondil himself would attend the lad, using cold compresses to mitigate the damage. The two teas he used, from taheebo and chinchona bark, were given to Faramir four times a day. By the end of the second week, Denethor began to question his healer’s competence.

“I have seen such fevers before; it is written in the archives as is the treatment. We are doing what is specified. There have been no wounds and that means the teas are reducing the affects of the ailment.”

“Could it not be malaria? Mayhap you are treating the wrong sickness?” The Steward wondered.

“Even if my conclusion was incorrect, the teas would still heal him. This is a dangerous ailment that Faramir has contracted. If he is not tended rightly, serious damage will occur to the rest of his body. I know I am correct in saying this is undulant fever, Lord Denethor. Please trust me.”

Denethor nodded and went back into Faramir’s room. It was near to the time the fever usually worsened. But today, at last, Faramir rested. Denethor smiled at Boromir as the man stood and let his father take his place. “Well, you are looking a tad better, my son.”

Siriondil smiled and sat at the side opposite Denethor. “Then what is the shiver for?”

“I have not given my report.” His voice whispered out the statement in horror.

“Never the mind, Faramir. Damrod handed them to me at the Harlond. Húrin and I and my captains have been studying them. Recommendations will be made at this month’s Council.”

“The one on Pelargir was only thirty pages. I assumed you would add any further knowledge once you recovered.”

Faramir’s brow knit. “I cannot seem to recall what was in the report. I am dreadfully sorry, Father.”

“Nay. I teased you, Faramir. The report was complete. Was more than complete as is your wont with all your reports. Do not trouble yourself.”

“Nay. We meet in a fortnight. I do not think you will have recovered enough to spend two grueling days with the likes of the Lords of Gondor. Boromir will attend and report back to you.”

“The fever seems to have broken. This is very good,” Siriondil sat back, pleased with himself. “We will continue the regimen of teas. Another four weeks or so and you should be released from the Houses.”

“Four weeks!” Faramir tried to sit up, but Denethor gently held him down. “I must be off to the Causeway Forts. I was to oversee the repairs to the Rammas.” He put his hand to his head and pushed against the pain that suddenly assailed him.

“You are going nowhere. I need you here to keep Mithrandir company. He begs daily for a game of ‘Kings and Stewards’ and then soundly thrashes me. I need respite from him.”

“Years ago, it seems to me,” Denethor smiled warmly. “He has oft asked after you.”

Faramir cringed. “I did not ask him to come for my sake, Father. Remember? You ordered me to send for him.”

Denethor’s eyes misted at the look of fear on his son’s face. “Be not concerned, Faramir. I well remember that it was I ordered him here. He is researching some things for me. I would have you help him, when you are better.”

“Since you are not assailed by the fever this afternoon, I think we should not assail you with things of Gondor, Faramir. Rest now.” He placed a kiss on Faramir’s brow. “Boromir. I would see you for the daymeal? Húrin will be present. I would like to review the list of items for the Council meeting.”

His son began to protest, then nodded. “Damrod,” the ever-present soldier stepped forward. “Will you stay with Faramir tonight?” The aide smiled and nodded. “I will leave you now, brother. Do not do anything foolish until I return. I would devise some scheme against father for the fright he just gave you.”

Denethor looked in mock surprise. “I will leave you to your devising.” He stood and embraced his oldest. “Do not leave him yet. Join me at the daymeal.”

Boromir nodded and returned the embrace, then took his father’s seat at Faramir’s side. “You are not quite rid of me yet, little brother.”

Loud shouts could be heard coming from the Council chambers. Denethor held his temper in check, but watched, as many times during the two-day meeting, Boromir stood and addressed those present. Denethor’s heart fairly burst with pride. He had never seen his eldest so animated, so ready with his reports, and so easily at command of every rebuttal. By the end of the second day, he knew Boromir could, if need be, take the Stewardship. A soft glow lit his face as he left the chambers, oblivious to the chaos that surrounded him. He wanted to share this moment, to share it with his Finduilas. As he walked slowly back to his own rooms, he wondered if he dared take a moment and look at the past in the stone. If he could not speak with her, he could at least see her, perhaps when she was in the garden, holding Faramir in her arms, with Boromir asleep in her lap. He clenched his teeth as unimaginable pain pierced his heart. Loss mixed with love for her and pride for Boromir assailed him. He stopped and held the wall for a moment.

“Faramir? Are you allowed out of your bed?” Concern washed across his face as the remembered moment with Faramir in Finduilas’ arms crossed his mind.

The smile that lit Faramir’s face was reflected on Denethor’s. “He did well. Did you see the last parry with Amandil? The man never knew what hit him.”

Faramir’s smile turned downward. “He only showed him the folly of his thoughts. Boromir did not speak in anger or vindictiveness. Lord Amandil was left his dignity.”

Denethor stood back a moment and looked at his youngest. “He has no dignity. He only cares for his fiefdom. He has no concern for Gondor. One day you will learn this, Faramir. That none but we, your brother, you and I, are the only ones who care for Gondor.”

“Lord Amandil does have dignity, my father, in his own way. I did not think Boromir was unkind in his words.”

Just as they reached the door, it opened and Boromir stepped forward, embracing his father. “Did you see that? Did you see how they finally agreed with you, Father? It was incredible. I have never felt so alive, even during a campaign. It was incredible,” he repeated, his eyes shining with joy. “Faramir!” He embraced his brother. “Were you there? Oh! I am sorry. I did not see you. I wanted you so much to be there, to see all that we had practiced. It worked perfectly. They did just as you thought.” He pulled back from the embrace. “You are wonderful! I could not have done this without your help. They would have never agreed, if I had presented your reports the way I wanted to. I can see that now! Thank you.”

He held his brother again as Denethor looked on, first in bafflement and then, in anger as understanding dawned. “Come into my chambers. Both of you,” he shut the door behind them firmly, more firmly than he wanted to as Boromir and Faramir looked at him in surprise. “Sit and tell me of what you speak, my son.”

Faramir went to the sideboard and poured the wine. He brought one to Denethor and then handed one to Boromir, sitting next to his brother in peace. It had been a wondrous exhibition of statesmanship. Boromir was right; everything had gone as they had planned. But the joy of the moment was overshadowed by waves of… He knew not what he felt from his father, but he knew Denethor was disappointed in some way. What it could be about, he could not fathom.

Just at that moment, Imrahil was shown in. Mithrandir followed. Imrahil strode to Boromir’s side and lifted the young man into a warm embrace. “Excellent! Truly excellent. Not only did you speak well, you carried yourself well. I am most impressed.” He turned to Denethor. “Well, what have you to say about these sons of yours? Are they not a force to be reckoned with? When Boromir becomes Steward and Faramir his Councilor, all Gondor will know they are almost as formidable as their father. You must be proud; I know I am.”

The wizard, too, patted Boromir on the back, then turned and smiled warmly at Faramir. “Your reports were well written, as I have said before. They gave Boromir a strong foundation to use. Not to abuse the Councilors but to open their eyes.” He turned towards Denethor. “To think that the men and coin that had been promised to Faramir during his recent journey has been doubled is a feat that was well worth the hours we spent together devising a rebuttal to their concerns. Indeed, as Prince Imrahil states, you must be very proud of them.” The eyes that met his were angry and Mithrandir drew in a sharp, albeit silent breath.

“I am proud, as I always have been, of both my sons. It has been a tiring two days, along with the weeks before in preparation. Mayhap we might rejoice tomorrow. If you do not mind, we can speak as we break our fast together? At the third bell, then?”

Imrahil and Mithrandir both raised eyebrows at the coolness of the Steward, but both nodded and made to leave. Imrahil stopped and looked back at Faramir. “Your reports were excellent. Congratulations! And to you also, Boromir. You held yourself well against your seniors.”

Both boys smiled as their uncle left the room. Boromir stood and walked to the sideboard, pouring himself another glass of wine. He looked to Denethor, but his father shook his head. Boromir turned to Faramir. “I do not think, little brother, that you should have anymore. In fact, I think you best get yourself back to your bed before the healers come searching for you. Are you well? You look tired.”

“I am fine. I would not have missed that last moment for all the tea in Harad! But I am tired. Father,” he turned towards Denethor, “by your leave, I would retire.”

Faramir looked quizzically at Boromir, who shrugged, embraced him and shooed him out the door.

Sitting back on the settle with a fresh glass of wine, he waited. He was familiar with this mood that was upon his father, but could not surmise the why of it. All had gone as they had planned. “The Councilors saw the incontestable logic of what we presented. They had no choice but to accept. Is this not what you wanted accomplished?”

“It is. It is. I am tired, Boromir. The festival is tomorrow and I would spend some time tonight in peace and rest. If you do not mind, I will see you on the morrow.”

Boromir emptied his glass, watching his father over the rim. At last, he stood and embraced him. “Rest then, Father. If you need me… Well, I will see you at the third bell.” He stepped away from the unreturned embrace, turned and left the room.

Denethor could see his son’s shoulders slump, and he wanted to say something; however, the feeling of betrayal sat in his stomach and made him nauseous. He waited until Boromir left, then turned and walked to Finduilas’ garden. Despite the early autumn heat, he pulled his cloak tightly about him. A shiver ran through him as tears fell.

He saw before him another meeting in the very study he had just left, the study that had been his own father’s, Ecthelion’s, before he died. There stood his father, Thorongil, Adrahil, and Mithrandir. All talking animatedly about a Council just adjourned. He stood in the background, as was his wont when these men met. He felt a third thumb. They did not include him in their excited talk of the victory they had just won. They had not listened when he had addressed them before the meeting, airing his concerns about the proposal. Now, they did not even acknowledge his presence. He bit his lip and walked quietly away. None noticed.

He held his sides, weeping in disbelief. The same had now happened. His own sons had aligned with the wizard against him. Nay, he shook his head. It is not the same. My sons love me, unlike my father. They would not betray me nor collude with the enemy. They did what they felt they needed to do to attain his goals. He kept telling himself that, over and over, until his head ached, but his heart only felt the pain of that meeting so very long ago.

At that time, he had had Finduilas to turn to for succor and support. He needed her so desperately. Though she was now gone from him these past thirty years, the pain of her absence still ran through his veins. He left the garden and strode towards the upper room.

Húrin stepped into his path. “I am sorry to disturb you at this late hour, my Lord Denethor,” the Warden of the Keys began, “but Lord Amandil has taken ill. Siriondil requests your presence in the Councilor’s quarters.”

As they walked, Húrin’s enthusiasm flared. “I have never seen Boromir so animated. His thrusts and parries against all naysayers were astounding. Did you grill him beforehand? You must have! Very good idea. You must be proud. I, as a member of the House of Húrin, am!”

Denethor grumbled and Húrin knew better than to speak again. They reached the quarters assigned to Lord Amandil and the guard opened the doors.

Siriondil met them as they moved towards the sick man’s room. “I am not quite certain of what the matter might be. He does not seem as ill as he says he is. Mayhap something he ate tonight? I am baffled. In fact, I might even say he was…” the healer blushed, “faking an illness.”

Denethor’s brow raised and a small smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Faking? Well, I will let you know. Stay here and I will see him alone.” He strode into the room and sat on a chair next to the bed. Amandil made as if to rise, but Denethor motioned for him to remain still. The obvious show of weakness was not lost upon the Steward. However, he bowed his head. “I am most distressed to hear of this sudden illness, Lord Amandil. You looked well enough at the Council meeting. My Master Healer thinks you are quite ill though. If there is aught I can do for you?”

“My Lord Denethor. It does my heart good to see you here. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your concern. It is only a little thing,” he coughed gently. “I am getting on in years, you know. The trip was long, perhaps more tiring than I had thought. Another week or maybe even a fortnight of your hospitality should help.” Another gentle cough.

The man closed his eyes and missed the smirk on Denethor’s face. “A fortnight at least, my Lord Amandil. And your granddaughter and niece will stay also. Nay!” he put up his hand to stay the protest. “I cannot let them travel home alone, without you as their escort and chaperone. It would be unseemly.”

“I had not thought of that, but I see you speak wisely, as always,” the man acquiesced.

“Then it will be done. You will remain here in Minas Tirith along with your young charges for the next fortnight at least. It is a shame, however, that Boromir will not be available to show the women our fair City. He is due to leave tomorrow for an inspection of Osgiliath. Ah! How I wish I had known earlier that you would be staying; I would have arranged his schedule differently.”

The old lord’s obvious disappointment tickled Denethor, but none looking at the sorrow on the Steward’s face would ever know it. “If you would permit my Warden, Húrin, to accompany the women during your convalescence?”

Amandil closed his eyes in consternation. “As you wish it, my Lord Steward. However, I am beginning to feel better. The teas your wonderful healer gave me seem to be dispelling the illness. I think we will leave in the morning after all.”

Denethor had to clench every sinew in his body not to burst forth in laughter. At last, feigning distress at Amandil’s decision, he bowed and left the man. He waved to Siriondil and, without a word, left the old lord’s chambers. Once outside, he strode rapidly to the parapet and leaned upon it. Tears filled his eyes and a great shout exploded from him.

Húrin, who had run after him in concern, stepped forward. “My Lord Steward. Is the news that dire? Is Lord Amandil near death?” Again another shout ripped from Denethor. His shoulders began to shake as the laughter finally found an escape. Húrin misunderstood. “Oh, Denethor. I did not know you were so close to Amandil. He is dying then?” He sat on a nearby marble bench and bent his head in sorrow.

“Nay,” Denethor gasped between silent laughter. “He is well and a curmudgeon. He thought to trick me into giving Boromir to one of his family. He feigned illness! I am still astounded at his effrontery!” He sat next to his Warden. “When I was young, I do not know if you remember, he wanted me to marry his daughter. His political needs have yet to be fulfilled. He is well, Húrin, and will be returning to Pelargir with his whole entourage tomorrow. But thank you for your kindness towards him. You are too good.”

Húrin lifted his head. “I am not. My only concern was for you, Denethor. I love you as a son.”

Denethor stared at the man. True, Húrin was older than he was, and related, but he had never felt anything towards the man, except respect for his knowledge of Gondor and its needs. “Thank you, Húrin. I will remember that. I thought I was tired before; now, I am exhausted. I will see you at the third bell.”

Húrin nodded as the Steward left. He sat back, sadness still filling his eyes. ‘He looks older than I do.’

“Nay.” Boromir’s tone was quiet, hurt, angry, frustrated; he felt defeated.

“He is on his way here now. His assignment begins tomorrow. I waited until you returned from Osgiliath.”

Boromir took in a deep breath. “I do not want to be here when you tell him. I will leave you alone. He should learn it without my doubt filling the air.”

Boromir shivered and it broke Denethor’s heart. “I have never been strong when you send him… He is still a boy, in my eyes.”

“As you both are in mine. Yet, it cannot be helped. What am I to do, Boromir? It is the way of a father. Encourage his sons, teach them everything he can and then… send them out.” He shivered himself.

“You said he would die if given the captaincy of Osgiliath. Yet, he did not.”

“There was the ambush in Ithilien, Dol Amroth, and then the fever… he still lives.”

“Are you listing how many times he has been saved? The odds makers would not look kindly at such a wager.”

“I myself should not be alive, if one looks at odds, Boromir. Why are you so distraught? He is well trained. You had a hand in that, not only with the lessons you gave him, but also with choosing the best masters in each discipline. He is second only to you. I can no longer best either of you.”

“He was to be my Councilor, not my Captain-General. Mithrandir says that if you have a great jewel, you should guard it with your life.”

“I have met with him. And with Faramir. He is looking for something in the library. Spends most of his time there.” Boromir looked up in surprise. “Do not change the subject, Father. I am not one of your lackeys, witless to your wiles.”

Denethor’s eyes blazed. “You are my Captain-General. This order has been expected. In fact,” and Denethor paused for a moment, “you will give the order. It is only fitting.”

Boromir stood and roared. “Now you give me leave to order the men about! Now you deem me the commander of your armies! Now you… Ever have I asked for the full authority of my station and ever have you denied me.” His hand clenched upon his sword’s hilt. “I will give the command. I will give the promotion to Faramir. I will watch as he rides to what will likely be the place of his death, but you will not have me command him any further than that. I swear by the Valar, I will not send him to his death. I will send Damrod and Mablung with him to shadow him, whether he likes it or no. I am the one who will die, if one of us must; I will not let Faramir die.” He saluted Denethor and left the room.

Faramir was just coming up the steps. Boromir took his arm and led him away. The younger man saw the rage in his brother’s eyes and stilled any questions. They would be answered in due time.

Boromir walked to the stables and ordered two horses saddled. He sent a boy to the kitchens; by the time the horses were ready, a pack filled with food was brought to him. He hitched it to the back of his stallion and jumped on. Silently he nodded and Faramir mounted the second horse.

Slowly, they made their way to the First Level. At the Great Gate, the last password was given and Boromir spurred his horse into a gallop before the gate was fully opened. Faramir shook his head and followed, trying to catch up to the fury that rode ahead of him.

They rode hard for a quarter of an hour, then Boromir pulled back on his reins and slowed the horse. Faramir waited, hoping that whatever had caused this flight from their father would be explained. But no such explanation was at hand. At least, not yet. Boromir indeed slowed his horse to a walk, but he refused to answer any of Faramir’s questions.

Faramir saw Boromir’s shoulders square and realized that his brother had come to the end of a long and difficult battle within himself. A small sad smile crossed his face. He loved his brother beyond any thought or reason, but knew him too well. Either another marriage was in the offing, probably to one of Lord Amandil’s kin, or Faramir was to be stationed… A quick sudden shudder racked his body. It was about him! He was going to be stationed somewhere and Boromir was afraid for him. For a moment he wondered. Osgiliath? Nay, that had already been discussed and Boromir had not reacted this violently to such a posting. Henneth-Annûn. So he was being sent to the secret fortress in Ithilien. He pulled his horse up. He would not let Boromir suffer needlessly.

His brother turned in surprise when he realized Faramir was not riding next to him. “I did not order a halt.”

His voice was taut and gruff, as if he had been… Faramir shook his head. “It is useless, Boromir. I know what father wants of me. Let us sit and spend some time together. It may be the last for a long time. I do not want my last moments with you spent looking at your back.”

Boromir lowered his head in defeat. “Ride just a little further. There is a stream nearby. I thought we might share our meal there. Once, we fished there, just you and I.”

Faramir could see that Boromir was miserable. He rode with him for another quarter hour and then turned off the road as Boromir led them to a stream. He smiled as he recalled where they were. “I think this is the stream I fell into when we fished it,” he chuckled quietly.

Faramir shrugged at the non-committal reply. “What have you got for us?” he asked once he dismounted. Boromir handed him the pack. Faramir pursed his lips. So, his brother was going to be tight-lipped still. He rummaged through the victuals and found two honeyed biscuits. He broke one in half and popped it in his mouth.

Faramir smiled. Good! If anyone knew how to make Boromir laugh, he could. “I refuse to fall into the water again, just to give you a laugh.”

Boromir merely sat by the stream’s edge. He shook his head in dismay. “There is no time for laughter today, little brother.”

“You continue to call me little brother and yet we are the same height, though you might be broader by a tad. I think you should call me Faramir from now on.”

Sorrow engulfed Boromir and he hung his head. “You will always be my little brother. It has nothing to do with size.” The elder brother held his chin in his hands, his elbows dug into his knees.

At that, his older brother looked up. “It is Orcs I have faith in. Shall I tell you of the last battles I saw? Shall… Never mind. You have seen the same.”

“I will make you a promise, big brother.” Faramir smiled and changed his tactics. “When we fish, how often do we catch one?”

“We can fish whole days and never catch one. I will be like those fish, Boromir, I promise. I will watch and not take the bait offered. I will hide in eddies and pools, hide in their shadows so none can find me. I will listen to the voice that you have put within me and focus on where I am and what I am about. I will not fail you.”

“Oh, Faramir! It has naught to do with failure. Do we speak of a dead warrior as having failed because he is dead? Nay. I would not think such of you. I need you. It is as simple as that. I need your friendship and your love and your support. I need to know there is someone who waits for me and hopes I will return.”

Boromir shivered. “There are times… Father has succumbed to Gondor. I think he only loves her.”

“It is because I am a great warrior who will take over the Stewardship when he dies. The one who, he hopes, will save Gondor.”

Faramir was silent. “I will help you, Boromir. I will keep the enemy harried in Ithilien. They will be so busy fighting my Rangers and me, they will not have time to put a plan into action, nor listen to - ”

“Say it not, Faramir! Father says the Enemy sees more than we will ever know. I think it best not to challenge him.”

“I will not, Boromir. But I will not make it easy for him. Let us vow to meet once a month, if possible. Perhaps at Osgiliath? What think you of that?”

“A fair plan, if father does not put obstacles before us. The last day of Hísimë?”

“A good date. I will see you in Osgiliath then. And I expect a bottle of one of father’s choicest wines.”

A/N – Sorry for the long author’s notes… but the disease Faramir has contracted, though rare, is known. The below notes about acute brucellosis were not exhibited by Faramir. I used the symptoms that are most common and also highest – 80% or above. He was a healthy young man and the disease was diagnosed and treated before other symptoms could occur. Thankfully!

Onset of brucellosis (undulant fever) is usually insidious, but the disease course falls into two distinct phases. Characteristically, the acute phase causes fever, chills, profuse sweating, fatigue, headache... Despite this disease's common name… few patients have a truly intermittent (undulant) fever; in fact, fever is commonly insignificant. It may be observed if the patient goes without treatment for a long time. Fever is the most common symptom and sign of brucellosis… intermittent in 60% of patients with acute and chronic conditions and undulant in 60% of patients with subacute brucellosis. Fever can be associated with a relative bradycardia. It is associated with chills in almost 80% of cases. Constitutional symptoms… fatigue, weakness, and malaise and are very common (>90% of cases). Bone and joint symptoms include arthralgias, low back pain, spine and joint pain, and, rarely, joint swelling. These symptoms affect as many as 55% of patients. Neuropsychiatric symptoms are frequent despite the rare involvement of the nervous system. Headache, depression, and fatigue are the most frequently reported neuropsychiatric symptoms. Gastrointestinal symptoms, present in 50% of patients, include abdominal pain, constipation, diarrhea, and vomiting. Neurologic symptoms can include weakness, dizziness, unsteadiness of gait, and urinary retention. Symptoms associated with cranial nerve dysfunction may affect persons with chronic CNS involvement. Respiratory symptoms of cough and dyspnea are present in as many as 19% of persons; however, these symptoms are rarely associated with active pulmonary involvement. Though this disease is rare in the United States, it is well-known in other parts of the world. http://wrongdiagnosis.com/b/brucellosis/book-diseases-7a.htm

Pau d'arco, or the inner bark of the Tabebuia avellanedae tree… Preliminary laboratory research… is beginning to suggest that the traditional uses may have scientific merit. Such laboratory studies have shown that pau d'arco has pain killing, diuretic, anti-inflammatory, anti-infectious, anti-psoriatic, and anti-cancer abilities. Taking this early data, combined with information collected about traditional uses, herbalists may recommend pau d'arco to treat or prevent a number of conditions, including candidiasis (a yeast infection of the vaginal or oral areas), herpes simplex virus, influenza, parasitic diseases such as schistosomiasis, bacterial infections such as brucellosis, and inflammation of the cervix (cervicitis) or the vagina (vaginitis). http://www.taumed.com/content/adam/browse.jsp?pid=33&cid=000268 and Taheebo tea - http://www.pau-d-arco.com/

"Quinine is derived from the bark of the chinchona tree. In the early seventeenth century, Jesuit missionary priests in Central America were known to chew the bark of trees as a way to distinguish between them. The bark of the chinchona tree was noted to relieve the symptoms (fever) of malaria, which was endemic to that area… By the 1670s, the bark was being used throughout Europe. In the mid 1700s, the French explorer De la Condamine identified the tree and named it quinquina (the word comes from quina, which is Peruvian vernacular for chinchona). In 1852, a Dutch expedition succeeded in transplanting chinchona seeds and plants to Java in the Dutch East Indies. By the end of that century, 90 percent of the world's supply of quinine came from Java.1,2..." http://www.accessmedicine.com/content.aspx?aID=3002922

A/N - Hísimë would run between 22 October and 20 November.http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/h/hisime.html

Denethor’s hairs stood on end. “Did he say aught to any of what he found? Of where he was going?”

“Nay. I thought,” Húrin’s look of puzzlement grew, “that he would fare you well. He did not?”

“Nay.” Denethor sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, brow furrowed. What was the old wizard up to? What had he found? And where had he gotten himself off to? Was he with Faramir at Henneth-Annûn? His brow crinkled. Faramir had spent weeks sequestered with Mithrandir in the vaults of the Great Library. Neither gave hint as to what was looked at. Or what age was looked at for that matter. A chill ran down Denethor’s spine. ‘What secret thing have you discovered, Mithrandir, for you would not leave us so abruptly if you had found naught. What are you hiding from me?’ He stood and walked quickly to his desk. Writing the first missive, he sealed it and then began a second, which took a bit longer than the first, and sealed that one. “Send for Faramir and have this given to him.” He gave Húrin the first of the missives. Húrin nodded. “Send Hirgon. I want to ensure the missive is delivered.”

“Send for Boromir also. Have this missive delivered to him.” He gave Húrin the second missive. “I would speak with him. He has been gone too long, though he is much needed upon the borders. The Enemy has decided to give us no rest. Ithilien is Orc-infested and the northern plains are filled with Easterlings. Haradrim run wild and unchecked in the south.” He shook his head in dismay. “Glad am I that the feasting for Mettarë is over and done with.”

“Mithrandir joined in the festivities, Denethor. At that time, did he say he was leaving?”

“He did not. He found something, Húrin. Something of value. I would discover what it is. And I think Faramir will be able to help me.”

Mettarë passed as well as Yestarë. Boromir soon despaired of ever meeting with Faramir. Attacks had been so frequent upon all outposts of Gondor that he rode between garrisons until he thought he would fall from his horse. Exhaustion, the like of which he had never known, slammed into his body each evening and he would find himself asleep before he barely had his boots off. Beregond was beginning to show the strain, too. His usually unflappable aide was caught snipping at the cooks!

At last, Boromir knew they must return to the City, if only for a fortnight. His thought was confirmed when an errand-rider brought a missive from Denethor. When Beregond heard the news, the light in his eye was such that his captain had to smile. “Do you have a woman waiting for you that I do not know about?” Boromir teased.

“Only the one who has suffered as my companion and helpmate these last twenty some years. I doubt she will remember who I am; my son will have found another to call ‘father.’”

“I am sorry, Beregond. I had never thought we would be gone this long. I will find another aide, for a time, if you would stay with your family for a while?”

“Nay. I am a soldier and Aerin is a soldier’s wife. There is naught for it. Separations are part of a soldier’s duty. What of your brother? Have you heard aught from him these past months? I have seen no missives.”

“I have not. I receive word from father now and again. His missives have dealt with where the enemy is attacking next and how I best be there before he does!” He chuckled dryly. “I do not know how he knows, but have we not seen evidence of his great foresight? The enemy is always there, a few days after we arrive, and we are thus able to battle them effectively. I wonder if he will tell me the secret some day? As Captain-General,” his tone took on the familiar frustrated quality to it that Beregond had listened to these past four months, “I should at least have a tenth of the knowledge the Steward has.”

“When the time is right, your father will give you all the knowledge you will need. Suffice it to say now that we are sore pressed enough with the little knowledge we have to effectively fight the enemy. Boromir,” he sat on the end of his captain’s cot, “we need more men.”

“That we do, but where we will obtain them, I know not. The coin that the lords pledged has hardly matched our needs. I wonder how the reinforcing of the Rammas goes?”

“I think…” The cup of tea he held in his hand stayed. Boromir slept. Beregond knelt and pulled the covers over his captain and blew out the lantern.

Henneth-Annûn was bitterly cold this time of year. Faramir rued the fact that he had not brought the warm winter cloak that his uncle had given him two Mettarë’s ago. Though the clime in Belfalas was warmer than Ithilien’s, the sea-going winds that blew a man about on the forecastle of one of Imrahil’s ships could be as cold as the winds that now rushed through the cave. He pulled a blanket about him, blew on his hands for warmth, and continued writing his latest report.

“Another line of Haradric warriors wends northward. There are at least two hundred men.”

“Nay. Archers and lancers, besides their swordsmen. They wear warpaint too. The likes of which I have not seen before.”

“Father’s last missive stated they were coming. And I swore he wrote of a mûmak! How does he know, Damrod? The scouts further south cannot be that expert. He knows the number and their direction and whether they have eaten that day.” He laughed deprecatingly.

“It does seem he knows much. Does he not tell you nor Boromir what his sources are?”

“Nay. At least, he does not tell me. I think… Yes, I think Boromir would tell me if he knew father’s secrets. Of course, that is why they are called secrets as my old nanny used to say.”

Faramir laughed at that. “No one ordered you to take a knife for me at Dol Amroth.”

Both men bellowed their laughter. The morning noises in the cavern quieted and then laughter joined theirs. “I believe the men would like to join in our conversation. I have only a few more lines to write, then I can send this to father and be done with another week’s report. Have an errand-rider stand by, Damrod. I would have this out before noontime. After that, we will discuss the upcoming battle. We must stop this latest group from reaching the Black Gate.” Damrod nodded and left him.

Faramir stepped from behind the curtain that covered his little alcove. He finished putting on his tunic and wrapped his cloak about him. “Bring him here, Mablung.”

“Then the missive is from the Steward.” He fingered the seal. Nodding his dismissal, he walked back into the alcove.

Hesitantly, as he always did upon receiving a missive from Denethor, he took a deep breath. Someday, he would have to ask his father to put some sign on the front of a missive that carried grave news. A sob escaped him. ‘If aught ever happened to Boromir…’

“Did you speak with Mithrandir before you left for Henneth-Annûn, Faramir?”

It was not the greeting Faramir had expected. Boromir looked at their father in surprise.

“I did. We spent much time in the Great Library whilst I healed. Towards the end, right before I was appointed to Henneth-Annûn, he had found a scroll of unimaginable age. Though kept in one of the sealed pots, it was very dry and fragile. He spent long hours pouring over it.”

“It was in ancient Quenya. I could read some of it. Mithrandir thought it was written by Isildur.”

“It seemed not to contain much of import. He told me a little about the Battle of the Dagorlad, about Isildur’s giving the Southern Kingdom to his brother, and about the provisioning of Isildur’s troop for the march North. It was one of the larger scrolls; there were many others in the same jar. When last I saw him, he was still pouring over them. Is aught amiss?”

“He is gone. With nary a word of farewell nor a thank you for the free room and half board.”

“He did not tell me of what he found, Father. Mayhap if I had stayed with him.” His brow furrowed in concentration.

Denethor bowed his own head. “I will accompany you to the Great Library. You will show me the jar and the scrolls.”

There was no answer; Denethor was already leaving his study. Faramir and Boromir raised joint eyebrows and quickly followed.

“You did not return as quickly as I had thought,” Denethor said as they walked down to the library. “What kept you from obeying my orders?”

“The Haradrim, Father. There were full two hundred men that we needed to stop before I came. You sent the missive with the details. My scouts found them and we attacked. I could not leave that number unassailed. I thought that is what you wished. If I had known you wanted me here immediately, I would have come.”

Denethor’s lips pursed. “The missive stated I wanted you here. Did I need to give you a timeframe? Could not one of your captains have been placed in charge of the battle?”

“I am surprised at you, Faramir. And yet, more and more I find you chose your own council over mine.”

Faramir led them to the third level of the library. One of the archivists fetched the key and opened the door for them. The stench of dust and long neglect hung in the air. Denethor choked and steadied himself. There was some evidence of recent activity.

“We sat here at this table,” Faramir pointed. “The scrolls Mithrandir was interested in were along this wall. You can see the ones he had opened. Did he find something, Father? He had not yet, not by the time I left for Henneth-Annûn. Was it important?”

Denethor did not speak but summoned the Chief Archivist. Within moments, the man appeared. “My Lord Denethor. I have not seen you here in ages. Is there aught I can do for you?”

The archivist nodded and began to pull down a jar. Boromir stepped in. “Point them out to us, and Faramir and I will bring them down.”

“Hale and fit you may be, but when one has willing hands one should use them.”

The old man nodded, accepting each of the five large jars that he pointed out. He broke the thick wax seal that stopped them. “Would you like them brought to the upper study rooms?”

Denethor motioned and Faramir pulled scrolls from the pot that he last saw Mithrandir studying. “Here is one of the scrolls that might be Isildur’s. Do you recognize the writing, Father? Is it truly the old king’s?”

“I have studied only copies of these originals. I am not familiar with Isildur’s hand. The writing is indeed old Quenya. It would take more time than I have today to translate them.” He bent his head over the old parchment. “We will have the archivist put scribes to that task. Bring me that one,” he pointed to the largest jar. When Faramir unrolled the scroll, Denethor leaned over it, running his finger lightly over the lines until, with a gasp, he pointed. “I do not know this tongue.” He shivered as he ran his hand over the lines. “Yet the very sight of it turns my blood cold.” An odd thought crossed his mind. “Can you read them, Faramir?”

“I cannot, Father. I did not see this scroll opened whilst I was here. Obviously, from the markings on the jar, it indeed has been opened recently. It must be Mithrandir’s work.”

Another shiver ran down Denethor’s spine. “I have seen this writing somewhere. I do not now recall where.” His brow furrowed into deep wrinkles. A shudder of great fear ran through him as he realized where he had seen writing like this before. When he had looked into Mordor. “Let us be away from here,” he whispered hoarsely. “Have the archivists bring these to my personal study and set five archivists upon them. I want them translated before Tuilérë.”

The errand-rider stood before him, bloodied. "Húrin. Send for a healer. Come man," Denethor turned to the rider. "Sit here. Drink this." He quickly poured some whiskey. He waited until the man finished the glass, then sat behind his desk.

"I have no written missive, my Lord. I was sent in haste. Osgiliath is under attack. We battled fiercely but the losses are many. The city is held."

"Nay," he was interrupted by the healer's entry. "Exam this man." The healer nodded and began.

Again, the healer interrupted. "My Lord, he should be in the Houses. The shoulder wound needs stitches."

"Very well. As soon as he is able to return to duty, send word to Captain Hirgon. Soldier," Denethor turned towards the man. "You did well. If I must needs speak with you again; I will send for you."

Denethor wrapped his cloak about him and headed up the stairs. The room waited. It waited. He unlocked the door, took a deep breath, and went in. The globe answered immediately. He looked eastward. Osgiliath was still burning. The forge! He groaned as he saw the remains. There were bodies still lying about, smithies and workers and such, but the forge itself was totally destroyed. Not one stone, it seemed, stood upon another. He looked towards the bridge. It was filled with dead warriors. He watched as those left alive tended to the wounded. They would need a few more healers; he must remember to send more. He gasped as he watched bodies floating down the Anduin. There were few, too few of the enemy and too many of Gondor's finest. He flinched at the spectacle. 'Dead. So many dead.'

Pulling himself away from the River, he sent his sight further east and saw no activity. His gaze turned northward. There was desolation all around Cair Andros. They had been attacked! A vile curse crossed his lips. Men lay dead everywhere. He scanned quickly for life, but found none. His breath held, he looked across the River towards Ithilien. There were no signs of men nor Orcs. Looking west, he at last spotted a contingent of men heading towards Amon Dîn. He watched in wonder. 'Sending for help?' He moved back towards the island garrison. At last, after making the stone bring the image ever closer, he saw movement. There were men alive, but so few. He shuddered. The moon was high.

Stepping back for a moment, he took two or three deep breaths. Then, he placed his hands back upon the globe. He moved his vision south towards Pelargir. All seemed quiet. Life moved normally, even at this early hour. At some whim, he turned his sight towards the road from Dol Amroth. There was much activity. Companies of Swan Knights marched eastward. He brought his sight further up the road. The moon waned.

A trumpet's blast brought his head up. He left the stone and went to the window. It was the call of the Prince of Dol Amroth; he was here at the Great Gate. Denethor turned back to the stone. It would be at least an hour before Imrahil entered the Hall. He looked back again and swept the southern fiefdoms. Nothing. A moment later, he gasped. Linhir was decimated. They must have come across Lebennin and entered the city at night. He swore prolifically. 'That is why Imrahil is here,' he thought. 'Good man. Comes to warn me.' He covered the stone and left the room, hurrying down the stairs.

He barked to the guard at his chamber’s door, “Have a message sent to the guard at the Great Hall. Tell him to have Prince Imrahil escorted to my private study as soon as he arrives. And have Húrin join us.” The guard nodded and Denethor continued on his way. He reached his own chambers, ran into his dressing room, flung off his cloak, tore off his tunic and shirt, laved his face, and pulled on a new shirt and tunic over his mail. By the time he reached his outer room, the guard was knocking. "Enter."

"Send him in." He strode towards the bellpull but stopped halfway there. Belegorn had entered.

"Send for food and wine and then send for Captain Hirgon.” He paused as the Swan Prince entered the room. “Imrahil!" he shouted and hugged the man tightly. "You bring grave news."

The Prince's eyebrow lifted. "I do. Linhir was attacked three nights ago. I was on a fishing trip on the Gilrain with my sons when the news came, hence my timely arrival here. The losses were many. There was no warning.”

"I should have known. I am sorry. I would have sent word if I had heard of the enemy's approach."

"I do not fault you, Brother. I came only to warn you and to ask for your help. It has been many long years since that city was attacked. Before my father's time, even. I would have troops follow the culprits, they must be Corsairs, and slaughter them, but I cannot step onto Lebennin's territory without your permission."

"I will not give it." He held up his hand to stay what he knew would be Imrahil's furious rejoinder. "I will send my own troops. They will leave before noon. I will also send riders to Pelargir; the garrison there will send four companies, a battalion, to scour the river area. They will be found and destroyed, I promise you." Denethor walked to his desk and began writing. In a few moments, he had sealed four missives. "You must be weary, Imrahil. I have a meal waiting. Would you break your fast with me? Are your sons with you?"

Imrahil shook his head in frustration. "I will obey your wishes. I will keep my knights in Belfalas." He walked into Denethor's dining chamber and sat heavily upon one of the oaken chairs. "I was foolish to even ask for permission."

As they were near finishing their meal, Húrin entered and Denethor bid him sit.

"Lord Tarcil," the Steward continued, "would not have been pleased to see your troops on his land. And rightly so."

"They are. I sent them to my house on the Sixth Level. They are weary from the ride."

Húrin waited patiently. He knew his Steward would explain what he missed. The coffee was good and hot and strong. He waited.

Denethor sat, after escorting his brother-in-law from the room. "Osgiliath has been attacked." He paused, his brow furrowed. "Cair Andros and Linhir also."

"Is it the beginning? You have always said there would be a final attack, one which we would be sore-pressed to win. Is that time now?"

"I think not. Though there have been heavy casualties and much damage, I believe these were mere sorties to test our strength. I am saddened that the forge has been destroyed. Of all times, this is when it will be needed most. It seems we lost many of the workers too, those experienced in the making of steel and weapons. They are difficult to replace."

"Only a company, my Lord Steward. The roads are treacherous. We lose a rider a month."

"Húrin. Rouse Boromir and ask him to come here, and take his guard. The man was once an errand-rider. We will need him. Hirgon, I have four missives that I need sent immediately. One to Osgiliath, one to Cair Andros, one to Linhir, and one to Pelargir. There will be more. Have your riders rested and ready. Hopefully, the Enemy has withdrawn for a time."

Boromir woke with a start. Hard pounding on his door meant it was not his guard. As he pulled his leggings on, he tripped towards the door.

"My Lord, Boromir," Húrin was panting from running up the stairs as Boromir opened the door. "An attack upon Osgiliath."

Boromir dragged the man into his bedchamber. "Continue," he barked as he fetched a shirt and tunic.

Several curses greeted the unwanted news. After a moment of pacing, Boromir bent and pulled on his boots while he tried to quell the fear that rose in his heart and his gut. "Where is my father?"

"He awaits you in his private study. Prince Imrahil is with him. He arrived only an hour ago. There was an attack upon Linhir three days ago."

Boromir grasped his sword and scabbard and his horn, and ran into the hall. "Where is my guard?" he asked, irritated.

"I sent him to your father. Errand-riders are needed; he was one before he was stationed here; we have not enough riders."

"So I lose my personal guard," Boromir said wearily. "The new recruits from Lossarnach have yet to arrive?"

Nodding, Boromir buckled his scabbard on, sheathed his sword, and flung his horn over his shoulder. He could hear Húrin breathing hard as the Warden tried to keep up, tried to follow him down the stairs, but Boromir's entire being was focused on the why of it, for it was not often the Warden of the Keys was sent to wake him. Something more was about than a simple attack.

“Uncle!” He had to stop himself from running into the Swan Prince who was hurriedly leaving Denethor’s study. “I heard you were here. It is good to see you. Are Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos with you?”

“They are. Please stop by our home if you have a moment. They would be very sorry to have missed this opportunity to see one of their favorite cousins.”

“Well, and so does your aunt. However, Gondor does not; your father will explain. For now, my orders are to get some rest. I hope to leave for Dol Amroth tomorrow morning. Please visit us before then, if you are able?”

“I will give you my whole afternoon, if I am allowed.” He hugged his uncle tightly then turned and entered the room. He found it crowded. Lords of Gondor, along with captains and soldiers, all filled the room with voices raised in fear. "Boromir!" he heard his father's voice above the din. He stepped into the room and waited. All had turned towards him, it seemed, in expectant hope. "My Lord Steward." He strode forward and the shouting quieted.

Boromir took his father in his arms. Denethor tensed in surprise. "I would know what you know." His whispered voice was hard. "Where is Faramir?"

Faramir and his Rangers approached the city warily. The smoke could be seen for miles and the stench now filled their nostrils. Sadly, there was only silence, which meant the battle was done and those who had been wounded were probably dead, if their comrades had not picked them up. Buzzards flew high, diving now and again. The Rangers were too far away to see their target, but it was not hard to imagine. Another sign that they were probably too late. He sighed. If only they had seen the smoke earlier, but the attack was done at night, he was sure. 'Is that not the way of the Enemy? Use the fear of darkness to aid them.'

Faramir stopped in horror. Long had it been since any had attacked West Osgiliath. It could not have been a full attack but a sortie in the dark. Yet, the smoke was intense. "Send three patrols. Stagger them. Have one come from the east. Too hard is this to believe. That the enemy should be so bold. How did they cross the River?"

Mablung stepped up next to him. "If the city is indeed breeched then we are in grave danger. Should the men wait for the patrols to return?"

"Nay. The birds would not be about if the battle was still underway. Let us hurry ourselves."

They approached the eastern city and found it to be deserted. Orcs, though, lay dead hither and thither. 'Must have been wounded in the battle and retreated; only to find their wounds too grievous to continue.' Now and again he heard a scream as a live Orc was found and dispatched. He shuddered. The patrols returned with news that, indeed, East Osgiliath was totally deserted, the bridge was still intact, and West Osgiliath reeled from a night attack of great magnitude.

Faramir drew his captains to him. "I believe the battle for Osgiliath is over, but I want caution, nonetheless. We will cross the bridge in groups. The first group will reconnoiter then give the all-clear signal; then the second group will cross and so on. I want the bridge emptied for at least a quarter hour between groups, unless we are approached by the forces stationed there."

He did not need to tell them to keep silent, nor to watch their backs, nor a thousand things that they had learned over the years. He did, however, tell them: "You are Rangers. The best of Gondor. Our comrades in the city are depending upon us to help them. I know you will not fail them, nor me."

They nodded and left. The men moved forward just as Faramir had instructed them. Damrod returned to Faramir's side whilst Mablung relayed reports between the front companies and Faramir. Within moments, the Steward's youngest learned that East Osgiliath was quiet. He ordered the men across the River as one.

"Captain Faramir!" the heartfelt cry and warm hug of welcome from Captain Isilmo was accepted. "As you can see by the carnage on the bridge, you have come too late. We were attacked in the night by at least two hundred Uruks. They were cunning and quiet. They killed the sentries easily and destroyed the forge. It seems to have been their target. We lost many."

"We have moved all those able to hold a sword to the River. The bridge, as you can see, is now well-guarded."

"Have all been moved to the garrison buildings. It will take many days to remove the dead. They are spread out across the city."

"Send a rider to the Houses and request at least five more. Then, see to yourself. You look haggard. Get some sleep. My men will spell some of yours. I will make up the rosters."

Boromir felt his father’s tension and would have recoiled if Denethor had not tightened his grip.

“Do not question me.” Denethor’s whisper sounded like thunder in Boromir’s ear.

Denethor took him by the arm and turned him to face the room. “Boromir will report on what he has seen to the north these past months before we discuss the events of the last few days.”

Boromir quelled the anger and fear in his heart and dutifully reported of the Orc and Easterling attacks. He finished thusly, “Never have I seen such fury nor planning. These former enemies have come together as allies and work well together. Too well, for Gondor’s sake.”

“Then that explains the precision of these latest attacks,” Húrin watched the Steward.

“Sit, Boromir.” Denethor motioned and two servants brought forth strong, Haradric coffee, fruits from Lebennin, and cheeses from Lossarnach. He turned towards his lords. “Though the news I have to impart is not conducive to good digestion, I bid you all eat. We will be here for a very long time. We have much to plan.”

While they ate, the Steward told them of the latest attacks. Many had fork halfway to mouth and then sat in stunned silence as the magnitude of the attacks was revealed.

At last, Denethor sat at his desk. “The Enemy has discerned that we are weak indeed. Though Faramir received pledges of more men and coin from you and my other fief lords, yet both are slow in coming. I pulled errand-riders from my own and my son’s guard to use in this crisis.” His voice was low and soft, but all in the room heard the menace. Boromir heard the despair.

“If Gondor falls, the onus will be on each one of you.” The Steward did not need to point; they understood. “I want your promised men here in one week’s time. I want your coin today.” He motioned and his aide stepped to his side. “Belegorn, bring my maps.” He turned to the captains and lords assembled. “Follow me.”

As they entered the dining chamber, the servants were clearing off the table. Belegorn placed one of the maps on the table and unrolled it. The men crowded about. It was a detailed map of Osgiliath, both east and west. They spent the next four hours pouring over many maps, not only of Osgiliath, but of Cair Andros and the area around Linhir.

They finally stopped for nuncheon. Boromir bided his time and Denethor gazed at his son with unfeigned regard and humor. The boy was clearly angry and frustrated. A light tingling sensation told him someone else observed. Turning his head, he tried to find the one who watched him! ‘Imrahil.’

The Prince had just entered, a sad, half-smile on his face. “You did not stop to see the boys. Nor did Boromir.”

Denethor ushered him into his study, motioning to Boromir to join him. He offered brandy, but Imrahil declined. Denethor noted the Prince’s clenched teeth and taut jaw line. “I spent the morning in conference. I had hoped to see you and my nephews,” he emphasized nephews, “but the gravity of the attacks…”

“I understand, but the boys have not seen you for well over a year. I had hoped. And if not you, then Boromir.”

“My love for my cousins is great, Uncle, but my love for Faramir is greater.” He turned towards Denethor, his face livid. “Where is Faramir?”

“Nay, nay,” Denethor held up his hands. “He is stationed at Henneth-Annûn. I expect he is still there.” He turned with slight scorn towards Boromir. “I have received no report stating otherwise.”

Boromir took in a long, shuddering breath. “Forgive me, Uncle.” He turned fully towards Denethor. “I know you know beyond the norm. I know you see things, Father. Do you see him?” His voice broke. “Does he yet live?”

“If I could see your brother, I would,” the Steward’s own frustration rang in his voice. “I do not see him, Boromir. I am waiting for his weekly report. I have not yet received it.”

“Boromir, your concern for Faramir outweighs your sense! Osgiliath has been attacked; Cair Andros has been attacked. You think one man can ride in without being discovered?”

“More than one would bring scrutiny. I will be back before the week’s end.”

“You have no need of me here. You are Captain-General, not I.” His anger and frustration finally released.

Boromir looked at his uncle and swallowed hard. He bowed to Denethor and then left.

The Steward sat heavily upon his settle; Imrahil joined him. “The boy is correct, Denethor.”

The Lord of the City sighed. “I have not enough men, Imrahil. If I did, the Captain-General would be here in the Citadel as my counselor and my right hand. It is what I wished for Boromir. However, and you know this well, my captains are the first slain in battle. I have had need of him on the northern borders. Though I rue the loss and the added burden to myself, I cannot use him as I will, nor as he would.”

“Imrahil,” Denethor’s voice rang sharp. He gentled it. “If my will was my own, he would be in Minas Tirith. The Enemy allows me no such favor.”

“Of course. He is needed here, but I think it best if you take him to your sons. Let him have a moment’s peace; remember what we fight for.”

The Prince nodded his head, stood and left. Denethor sat in silence for many moments, then returned to the dining chamber and the clatter of dishes and hearty appetites. He almost retched at the sound of the lords filling their faces whilst he offered his son as sacrifice.

“I have held my tongue since I was ten, since Naneth passed,” Boromir reiterated to his uncle as they walked towards the Sixth Level. “I will hold it no longer. I only hold the title. He keeps information from me; I think he listens to my suggestions, but then he does not act on them; he does not let me command my men. If he did not want nor need a Captain-General, why did he fill the post?"

“Because he respects you, and Gondor must have a Captain-General. However, I believe his insight is greater than yours.”

“I am at my wit's end. I have beseeched before; I have told him I know not what happens in the army I am called Captain-General of. I have fought on the northern borders for over a year now, yet I know nothing of Belfalas, Lebennin, Pelargir. The farmers of the realm know more than the Captain-General of Gondor’s army.”

“Whilst you are on the borders, he cannot send errand-riders to you with reports. You know that, Boromir. What has made you so frustrated? He fully expects to share the last months’ reports with you. He always does.”

Boromir turned towards him. “The war goes ill for Gondor, Uncle. I see it every day. I cannot envisage how we will ever win against the Enemy, not without some great weapon. And there is none to be had.”

“There is, Boromir. There is always hope. You must believe that your father does all in his power to save Gondor… and his sons.”

“Where is Faramir? He says he does not know. And yet, he knows how many hairs are on an Easterling that attacks me. I begin to wonder at his veracity.”

Imrahil stopped and turned Boromir towards him. “The men of Gondor never lie, Boromir. Remember that.”

Boromir embraced his uncle. “You speak the truth, Uncle. I am sore-pressed at the death I see about me. I have lost so many men, I cannot remember the count. I see a new man enter my service and try not to remember his name, knowing full well he will probably be dead on the morrow.”

Imrahil held him tight. “I will ask your father to keep you in Minas Tirith for awhile, Boromir. Spend some time in the Houses, helping the soldiers who recover. You need to see there is hope.”

“Boromir!” the shout of greeting surprised them both. Neither had realized they had reached Imrahil’s house.

“Amrothos!” Boromir looked the young man up and down. “It is good to see you. How you have grown!”

Boromir shuddered, but hid it, the best he could. “Captain. And what is your ship’s name?”

“Limlug. It is a fair ship. I would love to have you sail with me one day, as you did with Elphir.”

“I do not think I could manage the riggings anymore. I have lost my sea legs.”

Amrothos smiled broadly. “They come back right quickly, especially when a Corsair ship appears on the horizon.”

“Have you seen battle then?” Boromir looked at his young nephew in surprise.

Shouts of joy covered the answer. He turned and looked to Elphir and Erchirion. “Glad am I to see you both. I had thought we would have to wait till the summer festival. How fare you?”

Imrahil watched in joy as his sons and Boromir walked into the atrium. All four were now men, full grown. It was difficult to remember when this had happened. He walked into his own study, sat with his head between his hands, and silently lifted petition for them to the Valar.

They found Denethor alone in his dining chambers, maps strewn all about. “It is good you have returned,” he said without looking up. “I have need of my captains.”

“I require a captain for Osgiliath. Our need has now become desperate. I will take you from the northern borders and place you as captain there. I know you will hold it for me.”

There was nothing Faramir could do in Osgiliath. All that remained was burial for the dead. Every fiber of his being wanted to run back into the high country, the foothills of the Ephel Dúath, and kill anything and everything that walked on two legs. He took a few deep breaths; how could he think such a thing? He was more tired than he thought; more disheartened by the death that he had walked through to get to the garrison’s office. It would take days before all the dead would be buried. He would leave his men here to help.

He would go to Minas Tirith, speak with Boromir if he could, and regroup. He knew riders had already been sent. His shoulders shook in helpless, bitter laughter. Denethor did not need riders! His father knew; his father knew everything! Denethor might want… ‘Might what?’ he thought miserably. The last time he had been home, his father’s tongue had been acid-filled. Denethor was sure that Faramir knew what the wizard had found and was keeping it from him. His heart ached at the thought.

He wondered if the scrolls had given their secrets up. ‘Mayhap, if father has some sign as to what Mithrandir had found, mayhap he would be disinclined to look at me with less anger, more with love.’ He leaned his elbows on the captain’s desk and held his fingers against the inner corners of his eyes to stay the tears that threatened. ‘Morgoth’s breath! I am beyond tired. I know father loves me as I love him. If only there was some way we could go beyond the wizard. If only he would accept me as I am.’

“Damrod,” he swallowed convulsively and controlled himself as he motioned for his aide to enter.

“Nay. I will go to Minas Tirith and meet with the Steward.” He sighed. “I will not ride alone, will I?”

“All right then. Meet me at the gate in two hours’ time. And ask Captain Isilmo to attend me.”

“Your horse will be ready. The captain will be with you in a moment. After he leaves, Faramir,” the soldier’s voice took on a tone of concern, “I would hope you would sleep? You just arrived from Minas Tirith and then had to turn around and ride to Osgiliath’s aid.”

“I will. I can hardly hold my head up. You will do the same, once the orders are given. I do not want you falling off your horse as we travel home.”

“It is not I that usually falls from his horse, if memory serves me.” He ducked as the tankard missed his head by a fraction and left the room, reveling in the laughter that followed him.

Before he took another step, Damrod ran into the garrison’s acting captain and kept the door open for him. He spoke a word to him, then ushered him into the room. “Captain Faramir, Captain Isilmo.” He saluted and left.

“Captain.” Faramir stood. “I am leaving my men with you to help with the burials. Mablung will stand in my stead. If there is anything you need my men to do, they are yours to command.”

“Nay. The kitchens are finally up and running. I have asked for food sent here. Enough for the both of us. Would you join me?”

“I think not a man in your father’s service would say or think such a thing, Lord Faramir.”

”You have ridden long and hard to Osgiliath’s defense. We are grateful. The men, when your company came across the bridge, cheered. Did you not hear?”

Faramir shook his head. “I did not. I only heard the cries of the dying. Too late we came, I am sorry to say.”

“You came and that is the important thing. The living know of your valor in coming to aid us. I need the men I have left to feel hope, and you, my Lord Faramir, have brought them that hope.”

Faramir shook his head. “They are good men. Make me a list of those who appointed themselves well during the battle. Bring it to me before I leave. When I return, I am sure I will bring commendations from the Steward.”

A knock and their food arrived. Both men ate silently. At last, Isilmo rose. “I will leave you to your rest, Captain” He saluted and left the room. Faramir silently went to the cot, laid himself down, and slept. Once again, as after last year’s battle, Damrod stole into the room, removed his captain’s boots, covered him with a blanket, and stood sentry by the door.

“Make certain the beacons are ready, repair the Rammas Echor, repair and raise the Steward’s banners every morning, create new ones (for Osgiliath too), set the smithies to work day and night preparing new weapons, sharpening old ones, have the trebuchets inspected, set up scheduled practice runs for their crews, go over the evacuation plans for the women and children one more time, make preparations for defense against siege towers, check the water and food supplies, coin, men.” He sat back, looking at the list. Putting two fingers to the furrows between his eyebrows, Denethor rubbed vigorously. The pain did not go away. “I forgot. Show Húrin the tunnels to Mindolluin.”

“He already has much on his plate. I expect him to resign soon,” Denethor smiled. “Nay. He is a good man and puts up with me.”

“He is resting. I am sending him to captain Osgiliath. He will leave before cock’s crow in the morning. Once I finish these curséd lists, I must look over some maps and things that he will carry with him.”

“I have not. If he has seen the smoke from Osgiliath, I would venture to say he is headed that way. He will send a rider, when he has a moment.”

Denethor stood and walked to the window. The night was almost upon them, but there was a bit of light still about; torches were being lit on the escarpment. “Look!” he pointed and Imrahil joined him. Boromir sat with someone on the battlement.

Imrahil looked down and almost choked in grief. Boromir had his arm tightly about his brother. Their heads were bent as if in deep conversation. Once in awhile, Boromir would point towards Osgiliath and Faramir would nod. Imrahil cursed a particularly vile curse and leaned against the sill. “Why is Boromir so sure Faramir is in danger?” he demanded.

Denethor looked at him. “If either of my sons has the Sight, it would be Faramir, but I have not seen it in him. Except for his dreams. I tell you this though, Imrahil, ever since Finduilas died, Boromir has been protective of his brother. I think it has become an obsession with him. He cannot let go.”

Denethor shuddered. “I know not. I have seen both fall. But visions are fickle and not to be trusted.”

Imrahil clenched his teeth, put his hand on his sword. “It is our duty to protect them.”

“There is none left to protect any of us, Imrahil. The Valar have abandoned men. We will fight, even without hope; I will not go gently, nor will my sons.”

“Look,” Imrahil pointed. “Elphir and Erchirion. I am glad to see them.” The sons of Imrahil strode across the parapet and joined Faramir and Boromir. Though they could not hear, they knew there was much laughter and backslapping as the boys greeted each other. Amrothos ran up a moment later and was brought into the circle of love and friendship.

Denethor leaned forward, as if he could gain some measure of comfort from their camaraderie. “I will call them up. I have not spoken to your sons yet. I would hear their laughter.” A note of envy crept into his voice.

“I am glad they have each other. It could have been otherwise.” Imrahil’s brow furrowed.

Imrahil smiled and took Denethor’s hand in his own. “He said the same about you.”

Denethor looked at him in amaze. He shivered. “His daughter’s death was a harsh thing. He rued the day she met me.”

“I will. I must return to Linhir. After that, I will go home and prepare the men I will bring with me to Minas Tirith, when you call.”

“If not this year, then certainly next. I can see it in your eyes, Denethor. The end is near.”

The Citadel was quiet, too quiet. Faramir and Boromir, Imrahil and his sons, all had left early this morning. He had not felt such oppressive silence in a very long time. Perhaps it was the night of laughter and sharing just passed with the young ones that gave the silence such terrible weight. He always reveled in the times spent with his own sons, but Imrahil's sons' presence had put both his own sons at ease. Boromir lost the frustration that continued to grow within his heart, and Faramir abandoned, for the nonce, the sorrow of the men lost.

This morning, Boromir once again fairly bristled as he farewell'd Denethor. Until Denethor ordered him to return, once a week, to discuss Gondor's defenses. A smile finally broke and Boromir had hugged him fiercely. Faramir's eyes were again haunted as Denethor embraced him. They had said not a word of the wizard. "There is still hope," Denethor whispered to his youngest. Faramir nodded and mounted. Denethor knew his sons would spend a day together in Osgiliath before Faramir went on to Henneth-Annûn. Probably, Faramir would help Boromir distribute the medals of commendation for those who had proved themselves valiant in the latest battle.

Imrahil and his sons farewell’d the brothers and watched them leave, then the Prince turned towards Denethor. “I would stay for the Council, but the destruction you told me of last night precludes me dawdling here. I am astounded by your own scouts reports. None of mine told of such devastation. Give my regards to the lords and tell them I will see them at Tuilérë, if you will?”

Denethor embraced Imrahil. “Naught matters but that Linhir be rebuilt and refortified. Imrahil, there was the small garrison on one of the islands near the mouth of the Anduin. Have you heard aught of its men?”

“I have not. I sent a scout a fortnight ago, but have not heard back. I hope to have a missive when I return home. I will send a message to you.”

“If you know naught of our little band there, then there must be something wrong.”

“I will.” Imrahil kissed Denethor’s cheek. “Continue to hope. Belfalas stands behind you.”

Denethor returned the kiss and then embraced his nephews. He watched sadly as the little band rode off, then looked upon the Pelennor and saw, leaving the Great Gate, Boromir and Faramir riding towards Osgiliath.

Another sigh escaped him. In a few moments, he would meet with the Council. He did not look forward to this session. Besides the latest attacks, his list was added to the agenda. The Lords of Gondor would not be happy. Yet again, mayhap the recent attacks would validate his list of Gondor's needs and they would listen more attentively. He grimaced. Lord Hundor would sleep most of the session. Lord Brodda would fidget till Denethor would be tempted to draw his sword and cut off the offending tapping fingers. Lord Avranc's disdain had always irked him. Though the Belfalas lord's breeding was less than most of those who sat at table with him, the fact that he was of the line of Imrazôr and descended from Elves kept his chin tilted so high, he could not see about him. Lord Tarcil was clearly disturbed about something, but would not say what. The only lords who gave him any peace, any respite, any support were Angbor and Forlong. These two stood firm and strong. How he wished his entire Council consisted of men such as these!

Good, doughty men were dying as the Council met and yet Denethor knew the Council members cared more for their own fortunes than for those who defended those very fortunes. 'I will quickly end this meeting and spend time with Húrin. With their approval or no, the list will be attended to.' At least he had coin enough for some of the tasks. The lords had taken his threats to heart and, yester eve, he had received eighty percent of what they had pledged. He would remind them again this morning of the remaining twenty percent and of their promise of men.

A peregrine's screech brought him from his sour thoughts. He looked up towards the bird and spied the Tower window. 'I must also spend some time there,' he thought with some longing. 'Not once yesterday did I look.' From the moment he had seen the attack upon Osgiliath the night before last, his time had been taken in thoughts and actions towards Gondor's defense.

He pulled his shoulders back, adjusted his mail shirt, and walked purposefully into the Great Hall. The Chamberlain rapped his rod against the marble floor and all stood. He made his way to the Chair and sat. The next six hours were grueling. The topic mainly revolved around the Rammas. The southern lords, of course, wanted the wall by the Harlond fortified first, whilst the northern lords wanted the North Gate and the wall by it fortified first. There was none to speak for lowly Ithilien. Faramir was away and the fief lords of that land were weak and helpless. No property to use as leverage.

When they finally broke for a late nuncheon, Denethor felt drained. He made his excuses to the lords, but knew they would not miss him, as long as they were dined and wine flowed freely. His stomach churned. Lately, he had found he could barely contain the bile that rose as the Council fought him. Fought Gondor.

Húrin followed after him. "Lord Denethor. The Council members are concerned. You do not eat with them?"

"I cannot, cousin. My stomach turns at their apathy, their ineptitude, their avarice. I cannot look upon them without wanting to retch."

"Stay with them. Keep them content, for the nonce. We will meet again in two hours time. Then, I will send them back to their fiefdoms and their comfortable lives, and their disregard for Gondor. You and I, Húrin, we will go over the list this evening and we will decide what is most needed. The pledged coin has almost all been given; the men are due here next week. We will do what we can until Tuilérë, when the Council meets again."

Húrin nodded and left Denethor on the steps to the Tower. Denethor looked upwards and decided he did not have enough time to go to the Tower room. He would spend his time in his own chambers and try to quell the fury that recently engulfed him after every Council meeting.

Once he was in his own chambers, he sat at his desk, fingers steepled, brow furrowed. A heavy sigh escaped him and he smiled. ‘I need something to take my mind off this… loneliness.’ He choked. He had not felt so alone since Finduilas had left him. ‘By the Valar,’ he suddenly sobbed, ‘I am grown weak.’ He pushed himself away from the desk and strode towards the window. Naught he looked upon gave him surcease from the restlessness that assailed him, the loneliness that gripped his heart, the utter despair that washed over him.

He found his pencils in the cupboard and a few pieces of parchment specifically made for drawing. He pulled them out and sat again. His mind was blank, but he moved his hand nonetheless and the pencil drew a blank banner. He smiled. The White Tree flowed freely into the open space in the banner. A few more quick strokes and Boromir’s face shone out at him, superimposed over the Tree. He sighed again, but this time with joy. ‘Well, this will never do. I cannot put Boromir’s face on the Citadel banner.’ He laughed aloud. He drew another banner and then Faramir’s face filled the open spot. His brow crinkled. ‘A good son, but why…? No sense in questioning. He thinks as I would. Why should he not? But what has the wizard found and how does Faramir not know it?’

He relaxed the hand that had clenched and broken the pencil. He pulled another. He drew a few more designs for banners and found his whole body relaxed. ‘I should draw more often…’ A bell rang the hour. ‘Never enough time.’ He straightened the parchments and put the pencils into their box, then left for the Great Hall and the Council.

Húrin met him at the entrance. “They await you. The wine flowed freely. I am not sure how much sense many of them will make. Especially Lord Hundor.”

“I noted that. As did others. There is naught that can be done though. He has a fiefdom, little though it is, and he is due a seat.”

“The son serves at Nardol. I have heard naught either good or bad about him.”

Another two hours of agony followed. At last, Denethor thanked them all. They dispersed slowly.

“We have not discussed the road leading from Pelargir, my Lord Steward,” Lord Tarcil queried. “It is close to Linhir and has need of refurbishment.”

“Linhir is destroyed and will take some time to rebuild. The road from Minas Tirith to Pelargir is in good repair. The road from your city to Pelargir will be discussed once the Enemy ceases his attacks. I cannot spend coin nor release men to work on a road that is not needed at present.”

Lord Tarcil replied testily, “It would seem to me that a good road is much needed to help bring supplies and such for the repair of Linhir.”

“I believe Prince Imrahil addresses the problem of repairing Linhir. Mayhap you would like to discuss this with him. He regretted not being able to attend today’s meeting but thought it more important to return to Linhir himself. To ascertain Linhir’s needs. I will not o’erstep his authority. I am surprised that you would bring this to me.”

The lord blushed. “I agree with the Prince, of course. I will speak with him.”

As he watched the lord bow and leave, he snickered. “Little upstart. I would love to see what Imrahil says to him when he speaks of the road. All, of course, fully governed by his great concern for Linhir. Sot! He cares because Linhir is across the Serni from his own fiefdom and he would love to have the road developed to his city. A great opportunity, he thinks, to steer goods and trade from Linhir.” He turned in disgust and left the Great Hall.

Húrin followed behind. “My Lord Steward, it is possible that Linhir will not be functioning for some time. Mayhap the road could be bettered between Pelargir and Tarcil’s city?”

“Linhir’s merchants will make sure that trade is not disrupted, believe me! I will not let the greed of one of my people harm another’s whose city has been decimated. Linhir suffers already; why should it lose the trade it now enjoys? Nay. I will not refurbish Tarcil’s road.”

“Very well. I have a list of the trebuchets. The crews have been picked. Would you like to go over that listing?”

“Nay. I am tired and have… As a matter of fact, I have some new banners that I would like made and flown.” They walked into his study.

Húrin smiled as he looked at the pile. “Boromir and Faramir. Hmmm. Do you think we should hang one on either side of the Great Hall?”

Denethor laughed aloud. “My hand wandered. But these others. Take these to the banner makers and have them made. I want new ones sent to all the garrisons, the larger ones. I have noticed some of our banners are bedraggled. I want the Enemy to know we care even about such little things. It should send a message.”

“Naught. Spend some time with your family. I have some things I must attend.”

“Nay, but thank you. Give my regards to Beldis. Tell her I will sit at her table again soon.”

He watched as Húrin left him, then pulled out his cloak from the cupboard, wrapped it around him, and left for the Tower room.

On the scrolls: 1) 3017 - Gandalf visits Minas Tirith and reads the scroll of Isildur. ROTK, Appendix B, The Tale of Years: The Third Age. 2) The Great Library must have been huge and contained over 3000 years’ worth of scrolls and such. Pelargir founded SA 2350; Gondor founded SA 3320. 3) Denethor tells Gandalf, “If indeed you look only... for records of ancient days, and the beginnings of the City, read on!” 4) I’m using these thoughts and quotes as the basis for my belief that Denethor might very well have looked, after Gandalf departed, for the scrolls that held such import for Gandalf. 5) It seems to me that Tolkien believed the scrolls were still readable, even though they were centuries old. I figure they were in SEALED JARS like the Dead Sea scrolls… Resealed after Gandalf was done with them…. but again - it was written in ancient Quenya - so perhaps Faramir could not read it all AND he might not have been able to read THE line about the One Ring because that was written in the Black Speech. Though I personally don’t think Gandalf would have shared the contents of THE scroll with Faramir.

On room and (half) board – I researched this for I did not want to use the phrase if it was too ‘modern.’ However, I found this… “Food served at the table; daily meals provided in a lodging or boarding-house according to stipulation; the supply of daily provisions; entertainment. Often joined with ‘bed’ or ‘lodging’. c1386 CHAUCER . . . Sche wolde suffre him no thing for to pay For bord ne clothing. 1465 MARG. PASTON ‘Lett’. . . . He payth for hys borde wykely . . .” The OED says this sense of “board” developed from the sense of a table used for meals. It doesn't give an example with the exact wording “room and board.” http://www.phrases.org.uk/bulletin_board/15/messages/521.html http://search.oed.com.

On the attacks of 3018: Sauron is surprised at the strength of Denethor’s defenses when he attacks the bridge in June, 3019. The little test that Sauron uses against Gondor in these chapters, in my mind’s eye, caused Denethor to refortify many of his outposts, thus explaining why Gondor was strong in June, 3019.

On Boromir as Captain-General: Tolkien states that Denethor was lord of his own actions. He listened to his counselors and such, but then did what he willed anyhow. It has always seemed to me that a man so strong and brilliant would be hard-pressed to let Boromir have total control of the Army of Gondor. To that end, I think Boromir would have been highly frustrated. I could be wrong.

On watches: It is next to impossible to find information regarding what is termed watches in the military. I finally found this site that has naval watches – so I’m using that, in lieu of losing my mind with further research. Also, Tolkien does mention the use of bells to keep time in the City, and bells are another naval tradition. I really have to giggle over that, for I have made one of Denethor's unfulfilled dreams be of commanding a ship in Gondor's army. It never came to pass... sadly. Maybe if he had had one dream filled, he would have been able to... ah! but that is just conjecture.... http://www.awm.gov.au/atwar/structure/ran_stations.asp

On hope: 1) "What hope have we?" said Faramir. "It is long since we had any hope. The sword of Elendil, if it returns indeed, may rekindle it, but I do not think that it will do more than put off the evil day, unless other help unlooked- for also comes, from elves or men. For the Enemy increases and we decrease. We are a failing people, a springless autumn." (The Window on the West).
2) "It is a hard doom and a hopeless errand, Frodo son of Drogo. I do not hope to see you again on any other day under this Sun. But you shall go now with my blessing upon you, and upon all your people." (The Forbidden Pool).

Characters besides the usual (so far):
Aerin – wife to Beregond and mother of Bergil
Avranc – Council member
Beldis – Hurin’s wife
Belegorn – aide to Denethor
Beregond – aide to Boromir
Brodda – Council member
Hundor – Council member
Isilmo – acting Captain of Osgiliath
Oromendil† – Captain of Osgiliath
Tarcil – Lord of Lebennin

Tuilérë came and went. The Council met again and was as fractious as ever. After listening for two days, Denethor’s patience wore out. He summarily dismissed them. He felt their anger, their bitterness, but naught that he said could pull their clenched fingers from their heavy purse strings. Men had been sent, but so many less than promised. If he could have taken each member of the Council to the Tower room and shown them what he saw, then, they would blanch in fear, swoon in terror, and not gainsay him the pittance that he asked from them.

The winter passes were still closed to Rohan, but spring already graced fair Ithilien with its beauty. Denethor stood by the Tower window and looked eastward, remembering his love for that land, how Amdir and he had oft rode there just for a brief moment’s respite. But respite was no longer allowed him. He was consigned to the Tower for hours upon end, ever watching, for the Enemy moved its forces about, unrelenting, unaware that the fairest season of all was upon them. His chin shook for a moment, before he hardened himself. No time for weeping, nor for comfort, nor for love. He had troops to move again. Ever countering the Enemy’s movements, but never an offense.

He knew Boromir chafed at his tactics. The boy wanted to lead a party to Minas Morgul’s door and challenge the black things that lived there. As if he were Eärnur! If he could have, he would have taken his oldest and shaken him, tried to imbue some of Faramir’s sense into him! As it was, Boromir stayed as he was bid, in Osgiliath, and prevented the Enemy from making any headway further into Gondor.

Boromir’s last missive said he would return at Loëndë, but Denethor knew he must send for his heir shortly. The movement he saw in the globe could not be disputed. The Enemy was readying itself to once again attack Gondor. Great forces from Rhûn labored towards the Black Gate. Others from Harondor and South Harad were marching steadily northward. Men from Near Harad and Umbar even strode forward with beasts of all kinds, including the great Mûmakil.

Yes, it was time Boromir came home and they discussed how to destroy the bridge.

Only a fortnight later, Boromir stood before him, hand held carelessly on the pommel of his sword, legs spread in easy stance, face bedecked with a wide smile. “So you can hardly rule the land without me,” he laughed.

Tears stung the Steward’s eyes at the easy grace of his firstborn. The frustration that Denethor had noted in late winter had left him: Boromir’s eyes were bright, his face sun-darkened from long hours on patrol, his form a little more sculpted. He did so revel in combat. ‘Well,’ Denethor thought sadly, ‘he will have more than enough of it soon.’ He motioned for him to sit after they embraced. “Brandy?”

“Nay, my tastes have changed this last year. Ale would be fine. It is all the men have and I would hate to lose my fondness for the drink.”

Denethor nodded and rang. Belegorn entered and greeted Boromir warmly. “It is good to see you, Captain. How fares Osgiliath?”

“As well as can be expected. I am sure you have listened as father read my reports?”

“Father,” his son turned to him, “how fare the northern reaches? Have the attacks subsided at all? I fear for the men I left there.”

“The attacks have been sporadic, but I have watched closely and sent warnings to them, when I was able. Your men fare well, though I am sure they miss you.” His voice dropped as he turned away, “Who would not?”

“Naught. Naught at all. I have been tempted to show you something, my son, but I think the time is not quite right yet. Mayhap after autumn, when the Enemy usually rests. Yes, I think I will show It to you then. You will need to… Well, that will be for then.” He sat across from Boromir. “Now, the Enemy is calling more and more Southrons, Easterlings, and others to him. I expect an attack within the month. I know we are better prepared than we were this winter; however, I am concerned with Osgiliath. The attack on the forge was unprecedented. Does that mean he will attack West Osgiliath again? Yes, I believe so. Therefore, I think you should strengthen your forces in East Osgiliath. I would hate to lose that half of the city again. Though abandoned, it is strategic.”

Boromir nodded as he drank his ale. Belegorn stood behind him. “I agree, Father. It is easier to defend walls than to defend forests and fields such as Ithilien has. I would very much rue the day we lost East Osgiliath.”

“Sad as I am to consider it, Boromir, with the forces I see pouring into Mordor every day, I deem it a distinct possibility. Therefore, we must consider the bridge over the Anduin. If the east is taken, we cannot let them swarm across the bridge and take West Osgiliath. If we lose that part of the city, we face extreme danger.”

“I will further fortify the eastern city. It will mean lessening those forces on the west and at the Causeway, but it must be. How fares Cair Andros? Did you receive enough men to swell its ranks?”

“I did not. I have sent another two companies, but I had to send one to Amon Dîn and another two to Pelargir. That, unfortunately, is the extent of the men the lords of Gondor have deemed to send to us. May they rot in Mordor!”

“Father,” Boromir smiled, “I do not think it quite fitting to send our allies to Mordor!”

Belegorn chuckled. “Perhaps they should be fitted with gear and sent into battle themselves.”

Denethor grimaced. “What galls me the most, I think, is that most of these men had been soldiers in Gondor’s service. They know what needs must be done. Yet, they seem to have forgotten what it is like when your enemy’s forces outnumber your own.”

“I think Belegorn’s idea deserves some thought. Have them go into battle again, Father, let them see what they are missing.” Boromir’s smile broadened. “They would send more men to us within mere moments of the first attack they faced – and run as quickly back to their own lands as possible.” Belegorn joined him in laughter.

Denethor drank his brandy quickly. “They would never assent to such a thing. And I truly would not send them. Why lesson the chances for victory with that sorry lot? Or put our own brave warriors at further risk?”

“I think not. At least none do whilst they are in Minas Tirith for the Council meetings. Mostly, I see them gallivanting between each other’s houses. Most can barely walk home, so great have they imbibed. Mayhap I should place a ban on drinking whilst the Council meets?” Denethor’s brow furrowed. “Then Lord Hundor would have less of an excuse to sleep through the meetings. Enough of that. We still must discuss the bridge. It will have to come down, if the Enemy regains East Osgiliath.”

“I agree. There are a few engineers who are well versed in bridge construction. Belegorn, would you have Húrin join us? He will remember their names.”

“Not yet. But their numbers increase daily. Even with all our preparations, East Osgiliath would be easy for them to retake, much as it pains me to say so. When it falls, Boromir, we must destroy the bridge.”

“I did. It will be hard to see it fall, yet it never had the grace nor the beauty that the original bridge had. I only rebuilt a skeleton of that one, a sadly lacking reproduction. I suppose, in my heart, I always knew it would be destroyed.”

“Father. Our men are strong and brave. Unless an unimaginable force attacks, I can hold East Osgiliath, I am sure.”

“I would hope it would be as you say, Boromir, but the enemy has siege machines of immense size. I have never seen the like of these. One Mûmak itself could easily obliterate a whole company of even the bravest knights.”

Boromir lowered his head and looked at his hands. “Then, the bridge will be destroyed.” He looked up again with grim determination, “But not until the very last moment. When I feel no hope of saving it. Not before, Father, I promise.”

“Do not cut the time so short that you endanger your own life, my son. That I could not endure.”

Chuckling warmly, Boromir stood and grasped his father, hugging him tightly. “You have always known, or at least felt with your keen foresight, Father, that I jeopardize my life daily. As does Faramir. We have been blessed so far. I will continue to hope that someone is watching over us, over you.”

“Come. I have had nuncheon set out for us. My servants will be distressed if we do not avail ourselves of at least something. Húrin should be joining us shortly. The man has not had much rest as of late; the list…”

“The blasted list,” Boromir laughed. “I think it should be tattooed on every arm of the lords of your Council.”

Húrin entered a few moments later, sitting at Denethor’s motion. “An errand-rider brings a missive from Imrahil.” He handed the parchment to Denethor.

Sighing, Denethor put down his napkin and opened it. “Just as I suspected.” He looked up. “Our little outpost at the mouth of the Anduin has been destroyed. There is no sign of the men stationed there; neither Imrahil’s nor our men.”

Silence greeted this announcement. At last, Boromir spoke. “I am glad Elphir had taken another post. Though the men lost were good men, it would be difficult for my uncle to lose his firstborn.”

“Indeed. Well, we will abandon it for the nonce. Linhir and Pelargir will have to heighten their patrols. I will ask Imrahil to send more men to Linhir, to refortify that city.”

“It has. And the outwalls refortified. It should hold should another attack come. Húrin, I need the names of at least two bridge engineers.”

“Elatan is the best we have. He is well versed in all of the disciplines. Meneldil is another. Both are well known for their abilities. Shall I send for them?”

“I remember Elatan. I believe he helped with the building of the bridge in Osgiliath.”

“You remember rightly, cousin. Elatan was young then, as were you, and just newly finished with his apprenticeship. Meneldil is younger. He has only recently became an engineer, but Elatan speaks well of him.”

“Send for Elatan, Belegorn. I would speak with him as soon as possible. Have him bring the schematics of the bridge, if they were saved.”

“Nay,” Denethor put up a hand to stay Húrin’s exit. “Please, share a drink with Boromir and I. You have not stopped to rest since Tuilérë. I expect you have not seen Beldis in weeks?”

Húrin smiled. “I have been sequestered with many of the guilds. The list is long.”

“Morgoth take that blasted list,” Denethor fumed. “It seems under every stone lies a list!”

Boromir laughed. “I have never seen anyone with so many, Father. It would do you well to burn them all and start anew.”

Denethor could not smile; the list truly haunted him. It seemed not one item had been crossed off it in months. “The Rammas has been raised by the Causeway Forts. I have ordered it raised by Harlond next.”

Both Húrin and Boromir noted the strain in Denethor’s voice. “Father, might we talk, for a moment, of spring? It is almost past and I doubt if you have walked Mother’s garden of late.” He watched in sadness as Denethor shivered. “Please, Father. Let Húrin speak with Elatan about the bridge. He knows what must be done. You and I can walk for a time. I would speak with you.”

The Steward nodded. He apologized to Húrin. “When Elatan arrives, ask him to find the maps and schematics of the bridge. Do not tell him we are to destroy it. Tell him to return to my office tomorrow. We will discuss the bridge then.” He turned and left with Boromir. In a matter of moments, they were opening the doors to Finduilas’ garden. Both men stopped and smelt the rich fragrance of the flowers of Dol Amroth. “It is well we come here. It has been too long, Boromir. I would that Faramir were with us.”

“As do I. He carries a heavy weight. His garrison has not the amenities that even Osgiliath has. Will you send for him soon? Might he take leave for a while? Come home and spend time with you and I? Mayhap at Loëndë?”

“Yes. I will so order it. We will quietly remember your mother here in her garden.”

Elatan brought copious maps and rolled parchments along with another engineer, Melendil. "Warden Húrin told me exactly what you need, my Lord Steward. What would you have us do? Reinforce it? It will take a few months."

Denethor looked at the man; sadness filled his eyes. Obviously, Elatan was in love with his work. It would not be pleasant to tell him what they planned.

Boromir, just returned for his weekly meeting with Denethor, stood up, motioning the engineer forward. "Bring the parchments here, Elatan." He smiled as Meneldil followed the other engineer, as a pup follows its master. The Steward's son helped the two engineers roll the schematics out on Denethor's dining table. "Here, Father. I think this is the most detailed one."

Denethor stepped closer. "Ah! I remember this one well. I helped make it." He ran his hand lovingly over the drawing. He noted the engineer's smile of approval. There was no need to draw this moment out. "We are going to destroy the bridge, Elatan. I need to know the best way to do it."

Elatan sputtered, "But, my Lord. It is good and strong. It will endure another fifty years at least."

"It will endure until we demolish it. I will not discuss why it will be destroyed, but it will be. Boromir will captain the demolition company." He moved his hand over the schematic and pointed. "I think this is the best place to weaken the struts. What think you, Elatan?"

The engineer took a deep breath and leaned forward. "The traditional way to destroy a bridge is to burn it. That is the safest way."

"If we cannot burn it, we can cut through the struts, as you say; that will weaken it enough to cause it to fall."

Meneldil looked at his teacher. "Elatan, if we cut through these two struts…" he pointed to the parchment, "to about two inches from the end here, it would weaken the whole structure enough. Only a few blows to each one would severe the connection and the bridge would fall."

"Yes, Meneldil," Denethor looked at the younger engineer with appreciation. "Those two struts are key. If the old bridge still stood, it would take at least twelve hours to heat the stones sufficient to make them weaken and collapse."

"Nevertheless, this is a well-made bridge, my Lord," Elatan said quietly. "You commissioned it?"

"I did. A very long time ago. I even helped build it. We made it strong for it had to carry men and supplies for the old garrison at East Osgiliath."

"Father," Boromir pointed. "That only takes care of the eastern end of the bridge. What about the western?"

"As an added precaution, I think we must. The old Tower of the Stone in the middle of the Anduin will give our men a place to defend themselves once the eastern end is brought down. When the western end is close to being smashed, they can cross over it and escape. I think it wise to demolish both."

"Yes," Elatan sighed. "I agree with Boromir, my Lord. I understand, to a degree, what it is that is needed. You must destroy both ends. I will draw up an enlarged schematic of each and mark where the struts are that need to be cut. However, I would volunteer to oversee the duty, if I might? I hesitate to leave it to one who might cut the struts too deeply in the preparatory phase and endanger the lives of the warriors of Gondor."

"And I will join him," Meneldil stepped forward. "Elatan can supervise the work force on the eastern bridge, whilst I supervise the men on the western."

Boromir looked up in surprise. "I cannot allow it. Neither of you have been in battle before."

Elatan drew himself up and stared at Denethor. "We will not run nor cower in fear, I assure you, my Lord Steward."

"I accept your offer. Boromir, when you return to Osgiliath, prepare two details, one for each part of the bridge. We will begin demolition work on the first day of Lothron. That gives you a little more than a month to ensure that Henneth-Annûn and Henneth-Amrûn are well enough stocked. I will tell Faramir that Henneth-Annûn will receive its supplies from Cair Andros once the bridge is down. I am not sure where we can ship supplies for Henneth-Amrûn."

"Downstream to the river Poros, Father, and then north. It should not be too difficult. There is more enemy traffic in Northern Ithilien than Southern. With the noise the Haradric caravans make as they pass, they are easily avoided."

"Well enough. It will be done. We will begin preparations the day after tomorrow. I will ask Húrin to attend us." He turned towards the engineers. "Please hold these until three days hence. Then bring them here at the sixth hour. And make preparations to join Boromir in Osgiliath on the first of Lothron."

"Father, we still have not enough warriors. Some outposts must be closed. Some men must leave their farms and serve in the army."

"And which outposts would you close, Boromir? Which lord will you tell, 'We deem your lands unworthy of Gondor's protection?' What women and children will you tell, 'We deem your lives not worthy?' I think not."

"Father, we must. The people will understand. The fields of Anórien can be tended with fewer men. The Rohirrim and our garrison at Amon Dîn can send sorties out, now and again, to make sure the farmers live. Conscribe the remaining men into our army. Bring the women and children to Minas Tirith. It will be safer for them anyhow. The same can be done in Lossarnach. We cannot do without more men at Osgiliath, Amon Dîn, and Pelargir. Not with the enemy massing as it is."

Denethor stood up and walked to his window. The Pelennor stretched out before him, as it always did, faithful and pure and green. His heart stopped for a moment as the memory of a decimated field filled his vision. He shook it away. "I will do as you ask. I cannot close any of the beacon hills. Though we rarely use Calenhad and Erelas, if war comes, I must have them manned and ready. We will close the garrison at the Mering Stream and hope that Rohan, if it deems a threat imminent, will call for the lighting of Amon Anwar. I will send an order to that outpost to acquiesce to Rohan's demands, if that should come to pass."

Boromir handed Denethor a brandy. His heart twisted as he saw mixed emotions flit across his father's face. He knew this was a most difficult task. It almost seemed a defeat to close them. He quickly downed his own glass and refilled it. "There are the southern beacons."

"Yes. Amon Baran would be the most logical, in that range, to close. Green Oromet would be another."

"Nay. I will not do that. Boromir," he turned and looked at his son in frustration. "We count only ten handfuls of men with the closing of these beacons. Is this wise?"

"We must. I am tired, Boromir. Let us continue this after the daymeal. Would you share it with me?"

"You need not ask. Your food is much better than the buttery's, I must say. Is Faramir coming?"

Denethor smiled. "That he is. He wrote a fortnight ago, asking for permission to attend. He should be here in time for our meal. I think it is not the Council meeting that he is anxious for; he is anxious to see you again."

Boromir laughed. "And I him. I swear his is growing taller, though how that is possible, I know not."

"Mayhap it is the waters of the falls of Ithilien. Some have said they are magic."

"Magic or no, if he keeps growing he will be taller than me, and that I cannot allow." Boromir emphasized 'that' and laughed.

"Go then and leave me to some peace. When the two of you start chattering, I can barely think. I am too old."

"Nay, Father, it is not that. You are too used to the quiet. You should leave the Tower now and again and mingle." He raised his eyebrows on the word mingle and laughed again.

His son looked at him in surprise. "What about the Tower, Father? I meant your rooms here in the Tower. Is there something else? Should I know of something else?” Denethor shook his head, more to clear it than respond, but Boromir accepted it as a nay. "Well then, I will see you at the daymeal. Rest some, Father. You are beginning to look bedraggled again." He smiled as he hugged Denethor, then walked quietly out the door.

The Steward walked to the settle and dropped into it, weary beyond thought. 'I almost gave It away, and for naught. I must go there, though; too long have I been away.' But his legs felt like lead and his head suddenly ached. He felt tears prickling his eyes. "Boromir," he whispered, "my son."

"Yes. Boromir and Faramir will join me. Send a missive to Húrin. I would have him with us, too."

"Yes," Denethor smiled. "Pheasant and wild rice with some oranges from Harad, if Cook has any. And Chocolate Pecan pie for Faramir."

Denethor stood in his study and watched as the two engineers poured over the schematics for the last time. They would leave within the hour, headed towards Osgiliath and their appointment with Boromir. His jaw clenched. He had spent the last month daily looking into the Palantír from soon after the daymeal ended until Anor began to lighten the eastern sky. He had seen much; the Enemy would be upon them soon. He turned as Elatan’s voice rose in frustration.

“But you cannot cut here. It will weaken the bridge intolerably and the men, and you, will be lost.”

“Nay. Look at this strut here. It bears a substantial part of the load. Once it is cut, the bridge will collapse upon itself. It should be a sight. I am glad I am partaking in this endeavor. I have never seen a bridge this size destroyed.”

The obvious delight in the younger engineer’s voice flamed the anger in the elder’s.

Denethor turned to Elatan. “You cannot expect him to mourn that which he does not know.”

The engineer bowed low. “Thank you, my Lord Steward. I will endeavor to rectify that omission when we return to Minas Tirith.”

“Good. Your preparations are complete; your plans superior; your skills proved. Boromir awaits you; the detail has been formed. I want the bridge ready by the middle of Nórui, before Yáviérë at the utmost last.”

“It will be done, my Lord Steward.” Elatan bowed as Meneldil rolled up the parchments. The younger engineer bowed and followed Elatan from the room.

Húrin sighed. “I have always loved this month. The iris’ in bloom, the fields green with promise; it is good to be alive.”

Denethor’s eyes misted. “Indeed,” he whispered, thoughts of his sons overwhelming him. “How go the fields? Were the farmers in Anórien able to plant their crops?”

“The fields of the Pelennor are planted and growing strong. The fall crop will be good. I had to send soldiers from Amon Dîn to help with the spring planting, but all is well and growing.”

“Good.” He heaved a sigh. “Do you know that it will be a little over a year since Boromir was betrothed to Miriel?”

Húrin’s tone was worried and Denethor noted it. “Do not fear for me, cousin,” he smiled, “I only wish that now we were preparing for a wedding instead of a battle. A happy occasion would be most welcome.”

“I oft wonder, if things had been different, if they would have been happy.”

“Nay. Well, she may have been, but Boromir would not. It was a miserable match from the start. I erred dreadfully.”

“You wished another from Dol Amroth would fill the void. Finduilas,” Húrin spoke softly, “was a grace, a blessing. None live who could take her place.”

Denethor’s shoulders stiffened. “You think that is why I…” He paused to consider. “I suppose, in part, it was. I doubt Boromir remembers the date.”

Boromir remembered naught but that the Osgiliath he had wrested from the Enemy and saved was now going to be lost again. Frustration tore through him, ravaged his heart, and unraveled his thoughts. He rode across the bridge with a small contingent of men, bent on a last reconnoiter of the area leading into the eastern city. The Harad Road was still viable, the stones laid during an age well before his father’s fathers. He stopped the men with a gesture and dismounted. Looking to his left, towards Henneth-Annûn, he weighed whether or no he should visit his brother. ‘Nay, too much to be done. Faramir will return to the City for Yáviérë; I will see him then.’ He turned towards his right and rued the fact that Henneth-Amrûn had been abandoned. But there had been no further need for men there. The small company would be better utilized in the north. It had taken Boromir all of two days to convince his father to abandon the site. Faramir had agreed with him, which made it even more difficult. Boromir cursed quietly. The rift was growing larger; he must do something to remind the two he loved above all else that they loved each other.

“Nay. I have an appointment this afternoon. The Steward is sending engineers to look at the bridge. We must return by nuncheon.” He looked fondly at his aide. “You think me brave enough to spend the night here at the Crossroads?”

“One would wonder,” Beregond smiled, “if ‘twere bravery or something else.”

Boromir roared with laughter. “Folly. My favorite word. Yes, it would be folly to even sit here as we are doing, backs open to attack. Your wisdom is better than mine, for the nonce, Beregond. Let us mount and…”

The screams of the Orcs as they left the foothills and ran forward told Boromir the enemy was confident. Else they would have snuck up silently. ‘Yet again,’ his thoughts wandered as he quickly mounted, ‘they are stupid beasts and probably did not realize they had the benefit of surprise already. Though they began their charge too far away.’ He smiled as he drew his sword. A large number, larger than his company, but his men were on horses and on firm, flat ground. He did not pause, but called for the charge and led his men into the beasts.

A parry here a thrust there and, in little over an hour, the battle was won. Any Orcs who had turned and run as they realized they were defeated, were quickly killed. Boromir sat stiffly. “I am surprised. It is daylight. The enemy is more and more confounding me.”

“It is strange, my Lord. It is as if they were mindless; though outnumbered, they could see we were mounted and a goodly lot.”

Boromir shivered. “I oft wonder if they have brains in those skulls or if they are indeed, some kind of machine that attacks on order. I think that is the case, Beregond. I think they are like some child’s puppet on a string. The order is given to harry us and they obey, no matter the time of day, nor the odds. Father is correct; the Enemy prepares to attack. Let us back to the city and care for our wounded. I will send four companies here though, to give us time, when the Enemy attacks, to warn us and to slow their progress. When we return to the garrison, have Captain Gwinhir brought up from Pelargir. He will command the force.”

Nuncheon came and went and yet the engineers did not come. Boromir sent a rider to the Causeway. He returned an hour later with a small group of engineers and laborers. “They walk slowly, Captain,” the rider smiled as he pulled up to Boromir. “I think the laborers are concerned, being so close to the Mountains of Shadow.”

“A good point. I will remember that as they go about their duties.” He strode towards Elatan, roughly embraced the engineer, then stepped back and smiled at Meneldil. “I am grateful that you both have come. My men will show you to your quarters and then we will meet. Have you taken nuncheon yet?”

“Nay. The men are afraid. It took a bit of convincing to make them walk at more than a crawl.” Elatan was in a good mood and Boromir laughed loudly. “For Meneldil and myself, we look forward to this posting. It is a challenge.”

“It is that indeed, Elatan. I would hope it would be a challenge to rebuild it, once we destroy the Enemy completely.”

“I do. Why? Think you that Gondor will fall? Are not her men doughty, her captains valiant, her Steward far-seeing? Gondor will be victorious.” He watched as the men about him, those standing as guard, those going to their posts or to the buttery or to their barracks at the end of their shifts, listened. He watched their shoulders straighten and their gait become purposeful. He nodded his head to those who stood close and relished the return of hope. All needed to be reminded that Gondor would prevail. He rejoiced in this opportunity to voice such thoughts to his men. After this morning’s attack, he knew they were shaken. Though Gondor had been victorious, the method of attack and during daylight caused uncertainty. “The bridge will be rebuilt,” he said as loudly as seemly, “so do not destroy it enough to make it difficult to rebuild.”

Elatan smiled. “Yes, my Lord Boromir. We have been advised so by the Steward.”

“Then go to your quarters, refresh yourselves, and return to my office. I will have nuncheon waiting.”

They turned and followed the escort. Beregond smiled. “Well said, Captain.” Boromir blushed.

“Father wants the bridge ready by Yáviérë, but I would ask for it sooner. The Enemy’s attacks are growing bolder and more frequent. We will begin tomorrow morning, if that is agreeable?”

“It is,” Elatan rolled the parchment closed. “Thank you for the meal and for the quarters. They are spacious.”

Elatan blushed. “I am second to him. When he is not available, I take his place. He tells me so that I am prepared if I have to represent him.”

“Nay. You are right to question, my Lord Boromir. But I must tell you, I am most distressed by their refusal. Can you tell me why?”

“Why they refuse to send men? Some say it is fear for their own lands, and I would be inclined to think such, if I had not attended as many meetings as I have. I believe the real reason is because they lack foresight. They think Gondor will stand forever, without their help. They have other concerns on their minds; planting their fields, tending their orchards, building their tombs, keeping as much coin in their own hands as possible.”

“Nay. Not yet. The years of peace under my great, great-grandfather helped keep the coffers filled. My great-grandfather did naught to decrease them, but did naught to increase them. However, Ecthelion spent much in his defense of Gondor, especially for the Battle of Umbar. That venture took a pretty coin to fulfill. Since then, expenses have mounted. My father is a good steward and watches. He eeks good from every canath. Naught is wasted.”

“Well and good then. We will waste naught in the destruction of the bridge. It will be ready in a month, at most, I promise.”

“My thanks to you, Elatan. I expect the both of you to share my table each night, when our work is done.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Elatan said, eyebrows raised in surprise and delight. “Thank you. We will now and look at the bridge, if that is agreeable?”

They left the captain’s rooms and walked slowly toward the bridge. After only a few paces, Elatan stopped and gasped. “It is beautiful.”

“Nay. I have only heard of it and seen drawings. Nothing could have prepared me for this. The old bridge must have been magnificent to hold such a large number of edifices. I am humbled.” The engineer’s eyes were wet.

“It is a magnificent sight,” Boromir said as he continued them on their path. “I forget, now and again, to see the beauty of it, even in its present state. Let us spend today perusing the buildings and the planetarium. We can discuss its destruction tomorrow.”

Elatan merely nodded in agreement, overcome by emotion. Boromir thought how very much he liked this man. And respected him.

They walked across the bridge and to the midsection and there beheld the burnt out Tower of the Dome. Elatan walked forward and touched a piece of the masonry that still stood. His eyes misted again as he bent his head in solemn contemplation. Finally, he turned towards Boromir. “This was built by our forefathers, by the Men of Númenor. I have thought there was hope that once again such buildings could flourish, but now, I see I am mistaken. None can compete with these engineers, these masons. It is a wonder, now lost.” The man broke down and wept.

The bridge work was completed, as Elatan promised, by the beginning of Nórui. Denethor came to Osgiliath to inspect the work and to visit his sons. Faramir had been invited to spend two days with his father and brother. The garrison was in an uproar for a week before the arrival of the Steward. Boromir was bent on having the outpost in spit and polish shape. He worked the men mercilessly, but none complained. The last visit from the Steward had been sixteen years prior. Some of the men stationed at the garrison had not even been born.

As Denethor rode into the compound, all stood in readiness, the men in their dress uniforms, the horses with shining armor, the area swept. Boromir called the men to attention and watched as his father dismounted. Denethor returned his Captain-General’s salute, then walked in front of the columns of men, giving a quick but thorough inspection. When the Steward was finished, Boromir dismissed them.

After the daymeal, the three men of the House of Húrin sat in comfortable silence. The bridge was ready, Gondor was ready, and her people would be protected. At least, that is what the three hoped. At last, Faramir cleared his throat. Denethor smiled. “What would you say?”

“That the people need to know that we strive only for their good. That they must partake of this battle. That it is not our battle alone, but the whole of Gondor’s. Nay! The whole of Middle-earth’s. Father. Have an assemblage in the Citadel. Invite the people there. Not just the lords and the members of the Council, but the common people. Bring them before you and tell them of your efforts, let them see what you have done; challenge them to become part of this. If Gondor falls, they fall. They must see this. They are not foolish children, Father. They are of the blood of Númenor. They will understand and become part of this fight. We cannot win without them. For all our warriors, if the people do not stand behind us, protect their own lands, farm the land and give the harvest to those in need and to the army, and raise their sons and daughters with the conviction that we must all work together to save our land…” He stopped and looked at his father with concern. “Forgive me, Father. The battle is not yours alone. Please, help our people see that. Challenge them to be the best of the blood.”

“Father!” Boromir stood in anger. “Speak not in jest nor mockery. What Faramir says is right. You have striven your whole life to save our people and our land. But the battle is not yours alone. Nor Faramir’s. Nor mine.”

“Have you both been speaking to the wizard? Is this his counsel? Do I hand over leadership to farmers and herdsmen? Or perhaps some usurper? Is that what you wish?”

Faramir put his hand on Boromir’s arm and gently pushed him to sit once again. Then he faced the Steward. “I have spoken with the wizard on occasion. As did your father. Ecthelion valued Mithrandir’s wisdom.” He knelt in front of Denethor. “I do not mimic his words. I have given thought to his counsel, as I have given thought to yours. Wise words from wise men whom I value. You look with scorn upon the people, Father, and yet, they are of the blood of Westernesse. They have their own wisdom too. Not just of the affairs of crops and sheep, but of the land and what must be done to save it. Listen to them also, Father. Let them speak to you.”

“When they come before me, you have both seen it, they bring complaints, petty arguments against their neighbor. They have lost the purity of their blood.” Denethor’s voice was harsh and angry. “These are not the men of Númenor who now live within the borders of Gondor. They are lesser men. I will not curry their favor, nor beg their advice.”

“As does Osgiliath, Amon Dîn, Pelargir, Cair Andros… I have not enough fingers nor toes to count all the garrisons that have such need.”

Boromir chuckled at the old expression. “I remember Naneth counting on Faramir’s fingers and toes. Never enough, she would say.”

“Doest thou speak truly?” Faramir looked at his brother in surprise. “What wast it that she counted?”

“Thy qualities,” Denethor mumbled, falling into Sindarin along with his son.

Faramir pulled himself from the familiar use. “Then they were not as few as they are now.”

“Still as many,” Denethor’s eyes misted. “But sprinkled with a few…”

“You have sent Rangers south. I closed Henneth-Amrûn. I wanted no more men wasted in the southern regions of Ithilien. You knew that.”

“Captain Gelmir sent them whilst Boromir was in Minas Tirith for the latest Council meeting.”

Faramir looked abashed. “You do, Father; however, I had received none from you in three days. I mistakenly believed… I should have waited.”

Faramir stood and walked to the door. He opened it and leaned against the doorpost. “I lost a company,” he whispered.

“Nay. Variags. Men of Khand. Only two of my men survived to return. They ran them down with their horses. My men stood no chance.”

“I have lost more than one company,” Boromir protested, “as have you, Father.”

“Never before has Gondor ‘enjoyed’ the means that we now have of ferreting out information and passing it along. I have endeavored, my entire Stewardship, to hone the tools that keep you and your men alive. Spies, patrols, additional small garrisons, and other things; these are methods I have used. What sense is there in this network I have created if we do not use it? I know of the forces, but their path did not yet tell if they were going towards Osgiliath or Henneth-Annûn. You needlessly lost those men.”

Boromir sat silent, waiting for the table to steady. “When was the last time you went on patrol, Father?”

“I only asked a simple question,” Boromir reiterated. “Mayhap Father has forgotten the need for quick action in the face of reported movements of the Enemy.”

“There was no attack, Boromir. Though I thank you for your defense of me. I could have waited. Father sends missives on a regular basis. I should have waited.”

Denethor at last chuckled. “Only in your brother’s defense do you ever lay the blame on another, Boromir!”

“It is true, Boromir,” Faramir smiled. “However, I am at fault, not Gelmir. A good captain always questions all reports, even Father’s. I did not question.” He turned towards Denethor. “I did not agree with your decision to close the southern garrison.”

Denethor sat back and smiled. “I know frustration well, my son. It sleeps and wakes with me.”

“Nay.” Denethor steepled his fingers. “The lack of men adds to it. In these times, every man lost is as if we have lost a company. I cannot ask the lords for more. We are bleeding them dry.”

Faramir clapped Boromir on the shoulder. “Yes! If we look to the ancient scrolls, mayhap there is strategy there that we have missed.”

“I think not. All my life I have studied them, as has Boromir. As have you. The battles have been closely scrutinized. There is naught there to learn.”

Faramir once again sat at the table. “Send riders north to Dale and Arnor, asking for help.”

Denethor chuckled dryly. “The men of Dale have their own troubles. I had thought to ask Beorn. He has been a friend to Gondor for as long as I can remember; yet, I fear Orcs and Goblins harass his people, too. They are great warriors, though. As for the people of Arnor… In your Adadhron’s time, northerners swelled our ranks. Since Thorongil left us…”

“He captained the attack against the Corsairs. Is there aught that might be learned from his other campaigns?”

Denethor stood, dismally failing to hide a scowl. “He spent his days at my Adar’s side, counseling him, along with Mithrandir.” The bitterness that spilled forth with his words surprised even him. “Though I am sure the great Thorongil… Never the mind.” He took a deep breath. “I can send you no more men, Faramir. Pull in some of your northern patrols. I will keep closer watch on the Morannon. Cair Andros can pick up some of the slack, though they are sore-pressed with the ambushes and sorties that spill from the Emyn Muil.” He sat back and downed his glass of ale. “When the attack against Osgiliath comes, I will have to recall you and your men. They will be needed here with Boromir. Come. It has been a long day and Faramir must leave by first light.”

His youngest nodded. “I will do what I can with the men on hand, Father. And I will wait for your reports.”

“Nay, Faramir,” Denethor’s tone was rife with frustration. “I trust you and your judgment. I ask only that you obey the orders I do give you. Beyond that, you must battle the Enemy as you see fit.”

Denethor stood and received his son’s embrace. Boromir rose to follow his brother. “Stay, Boromir. I would speak further with you.”

Boromir nodded, then embraced Faramir. “I will see you on the morrow, my brother.”

“When the bridge falls, make sure you are well off it. We are cutting the time short. Do not send heavy carts across it any more. The cuts are deep. It will fall easily, when the time comes.”

Boromir looked at him in surprise, then laughed. “I pray to the Valar that my death will not be needless, Father.”

Denethor did not smile, for the remembrance of the sight in the Palantír still shook him. “When the attack comes,” he said at last, “be prepared for anything. Mûmakil, Uruks, fell beasts that even I know naught of. When it comes, it will be the beginning. Hold Osgiliath as long as you are able, then destroy the bridge and hold the western city. At that time, I will send as many men as I can. When you can no longer hold the city, fall back to the Causeway and the Rammas.”

“I understand, Father. I will hold it as long as I can, lose what I must, and finally retreat to Minas Tirith. It will come to that, will it not?”

“It will.” Denethor paused. “I have seen the White City encompassed about. Great hordes of men laying siege to her gates. We cannot win this, Boromir, not without some mighty weapon. Even if Rohan and the Elves join us, I cannot see victory. Remember the accounts of the Dagorlad?” At Boromir’s nod, he continued. “The Enemy was not stopped after those long years of battle, as evidenced by our situation today. He was only thwarted for a time. I do not think any alliance today would have the strength of those who battled Him there.”

“Father, there is always hope. Ever have you safeguarded Gondor. You will continue to do so, despite whatever He sends against us. And,” the eldest son of Denethor smiled wickedly, “you have Faramir and me.”

Denethor rose, as did Boromir. “Go now, proud child of mine, and get you some rest. I will fare you well in the morning.”

Not thirty days later, Denethor noted the movement and his body reacted with violent shaking. ‘It is begun,’ he thought frantically. ‘The Enemy has at last deemed the time has come to descend upon us. I must get word to Boromir.’

It was early morning; dawn had not yet come. He flew down the steps. The guard at the bottom, startled by the clatter of the Steward’s sword against its sheath, drew his own sword. “My Lord?”

“Call Húrin, Hirgon, and Belegorn. Have them meet me in my study immediately.”

The guard saluted and ran. Denethor went through the entry into the Great Hall, motioned for the Chamberlain, and canceled the morning’s session. Then, he went to his study, and wrote furiously until Húrin and Belegorn appeared.

“It will. Probably within a fortnight, if not sooner. They spill from the Morgul Pass, the Southbound Road and the Harad Road. Not thousands, and for that I wonder, but hundreds from each way.”

“Nay. No word of any beasts. Hirgon!” He pulled the captain to him as the man entered the room. “I need missives sent immediately to Cair Andros, Henneth-Annûn, Amon Dîn, Pelargir, and Osgiliath. Have you the riders?”

“Then we will only send two each to Pelargir, Amon Dîn and Osgiliath. Send three to Cair Andros and three to Henneth-Annûn. I want you to go, personally, to Henneth-Annûn. You know the road well and the hiding places of the Orcs. I need Captain Faramir to have this message immediately. They must pull out. Do you understand the urgency?”

“Here,” Denethor handed the missives to the captain. “Speed be with you.”

Hirgon saluted and left. Denethor sat, at last, at his desk. “I have no date, but never have I seen a three-headed arrow pointed in the direction of Osgiliath. They will attack the eastern city, of that I am sure.”

“I do. They will send men to Osgiliath. I hope they arrive in time.” He bit his lip. “I would be with my sons when the attack comes.”

“I will not.” He rummaged through the maps on his desk, finally opening one. “Here is where the enemy is now.” Both men stood and moved to the front of the desk. “Here is where the Easterlings and Variags are now; here is where the men of Harad and Khand are; and here is where the Orcs are.”

“Yes. But still, they are a fair number and it will take them time to reach Osgiliath. The men from Henneth-Annûn and Cair Andros can be there in days. Morgoth’s breath, I wish I had noted them earlier, but they were hidden along the roads.”

“I think so, Húrin. Now, both of you go and rest. Once the enemy gets closer to the city, I want you here at my side.”

“Rest yourself, my Lord. I note you did not sleep this night. You will be sorely needed.” Belegorn saluted. “I will have my replacement at your door in a moment.”

Denethor nodded as the guard left. “Húrin, it has begun. Are we ready? Do I order the evacuation?”

“Then I will wait. I will sleep on the settle in the back room. I have not slept for two days.” He began to mumble, “I had thought I saw something, but foolishly, I did not act. I hope I have not killed my sons.”

“Boromir is invincible; he will guard Faramir’s back. Rest, my Lord. I will return in two hours’ time.”

Denethor nodded, went through the door, and lay down upon the settle. His mind whirled. Cursing quietly, he again berated himself. “I should have sent messengers yestereve. But I had hoped I was wrong.” At last, sleep overcame his dismay and guilt.

“Today is the twentieth of June. I believe I was espoused sometime around this date last year. In fact,” Boromir smiled, “I was to be wed in two days time. No Loëndë celebration this year!” He chuckled dryly.

“How can you speak of celebrations when we will be under attack, if Father’s missive is accurate?”

“Father’s missive is correct. I have had reports from the pickets at the Crossing. The troops stationed there have been crushed. Those left alive, returned. The city will be attacked tonight, if the Orcs use their usual tactics. So what would you have me speak of Faramir? That we are all going to die before this night is over with?”

“It is not lack of fear, Faramir. You should know me by now. But hysteria will not avail us now. We are prepared, as well as we can be. Now, what would I speak of besides celebrations, you ask. I suppose we could rehash our plans for the city’s defense, but Father has already given us our orders and set the battle plan, as much as one can foretell which path a battle will take. I will not speak of these things; we are ready as ever we will be, given the resources we have.”

Boromir sat back on the porch’s chair and looked out across the compound. Everywhere, men were polishing their armor, chatting quietly by campfires, taking down the last of their laundry, and generally going about the mundane tasks of life to keep their thoughts from the upcoming battle.

“I would speak words of encouragement, but we both know we may not survive this first assault. I would have you stay here, guarding the western city,” he held up his hand to stay Faramir’s protest, “but, that is not part of Father’s plan, nor should it be part of mine. I would have you stay next to me, not just so I might guard your back, but that you would guard mine. That also is not part of Father’s plan. I will say this – when the time comes, you must promise me that you and your men will fall back. Do not suffer death for naught. We know the eastern city will be taken; do not give your life needlessly. When the battle turns against us, I will position myself by the bridge, as Father ordered; when you fall back, come to my side. We will hold the bridge as long as we are able, then we will cross it, and I will give the order to Elatan to destroy it. Keep Mablung and Damrod by your side; they are fierce warriors and little troubled by fear.”

Boromir laughed loudly. Most of the men in the compound looked over, relief apparent on their faces. “They are thinking, ‘Boromir the valiant will lead us. There is naught to fear.’ But we will lose many men this night, Faramir.” Their Captain-General waved to them and the men returned to their preparations.

Bells rang and the garrison came to life. Men put down their weapons, their laundry and such, and filed towards the mess hall. “‘Tis time for the daymeal,” Faramir stood. “Will you give a speech?”

Boromir looked to the Ephel Dúath, then down at his hands. “It is grim. He speaks of defeat and retreat. I would not burden our men with such statements.”

“Húrin told me Captain Thorongil’s most favored expression was, ‘There is always hope.’ I think not many believed he could overcome the Corsairs. Yet, he not only overcame them, he triumphed. I have thought of that phrase many times, before I entered into battle. Is it not strange that the words of a captain probably long-dead should give me comfort?”

“I will give that message to our warriors today, but I would give it to you also. You and your men will be in the forefront of the battle tonight, Faramir. No matter what you see, or the strength that comes to assail you, remember, there is always hope.” He held Faramir’s shoulder tightly. “I will hold the bridge until you and your Rangers cross it. Do not delay, Faramir, for I will hope for your coming.”

Dusk finally came; Faramir and his men moved out across the bridge. They were dressed in their Ranger browns and greens, bows and quivers of arrows strung across their backs, staffs and spears in their hands. They quickly disappeared into the abandoned eastern city.

Boromir watched them leave, waited a half hour’s time, then moved his knights forward. The garrison was more than half-emptied. Captain Hador followed with his men from Cair Andros, while Captain Galdor brought up the rear with his men from Amon Dîn. All told, well over two thousand men filed across the river to the defense of the eastern city. Dark had settled before the last man crossed the bridge. Slowly, each company took its place along the outskirts of the ruined city. Faramir’s Rangers could not be seen, for they had blended into the forest that hemmed in the city. Boromir took up his position at the front of their forces. Captains Hador and Galdor had suggested he make his command post closer to the bridge, but that was not Boromir’s way of fighting.

They could hear and smell the Enemy’s forces before they could see them. The men tensed; Boromir rode the line exhorting them to courage, hope, and deeds of renown. His mail shone in the full moon’s light and Faramir told him later that the men thought he looked as the Vala, Tulkas, might look. His face shone with the joy of battle, for though he lived with fear, as did any sensible soldier, as soon as they had crossed the bridge, battle lust consumed him. He was ready; his men were ready. He unsheathed his sword.

But none were ready for what came out of the eerie mist that suddenly filled the land. A band of horsemen, some afterwards said at least twenty, but others counted nearer to nine. Only those far from the line had the time to count, for those in front were assailed by such fear and despair that many turned and ran. A wail went up from the shadow riders, a wail that tore through the ears and cut across Boromir’s mind in such hope-swallowing despair, that he found himself hard put to stay seated. As it was, Celebrin reared and neighed in terror. Boromir watched in horror as his men threw down their weapons and ran. Gathering his own courage, he screamed into the night to hold their positions. Most heard and obeyed.

Behind the horsemen came the Enemy’s full force. Orcs and Easterlings, men of Khand and Rhûn, Corsairs, all spilled from the forest against Boromir’s near-broken line. He called to Captains Hador and Galdor, who blessedly had not been so terror-numbed to have turned and run. As it was, the brave captains, having lost their own mounts, strove to bring order from the terror-induced chaos about them. As Boromir looked from his left to his right, he was astounded to see that the dark horsemen had vanished. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, then cursed loudly. “They have broken through. They will attack the bridge.” He motioned and a full company of mounted knights broke from the line and followed him as he rode for the bridge. Off in the distance, he saw the Black Riders. They were far ahead and almost to the bridge. Riding furiously, he called a warning, even knowing the guard could not possibly hear him at this distance. He watched in horror as the men on the bridge jumped into the swiftly flowing waters of the Anduin. “Do not destroy the bridge,” he muttered. “Not yet. Not yet. Wait. Wait.” The Black Riders shrieks could be heard and felt even at this distance. The bridge had been crossed, but not destroyed. He breathed a sigh of relief. By the time he crossed it himself, the shadow riders were gone.

Boromir jumped from his horse and grabbed the soldier’s shoulder. “Where are they? Which direction did they take?”

“North,” Isilmo sobbed. “They headed north. They killed none. They just rode through the garrison and turned north before the Causeway.”

“Send errand-riders to the Steward and Cair Andros.” He swore, “Egalmoth is in command at Cair Andros whilst Hador is here. The fool will surely lose the garrison!” He turned towards Celebrin, put his foot in the stirrup, and stopped. “I know not who or what they were, Isilmo, but I have no time now to puzzle out the answer. If they come back, send for me immediately.” Beregond handed him his reins. They turned and rode back to the bridge and the Enemy.

The battle was fierce; his men already had given up most of the eastern city by the time Boromir returned to the front line, now dangerously close to the bridge. His mounted knights drew up in a line beside him, fierce smiles upon their faces, and waited for his signal. He grinned back at them. "We have missed much of the fighting, my friends, and will be relegated to stable duty if we do not rectify this. I do not want to hear Captain Faramir's tales of his exploits and not have any to rebuff him. What say you? Shall we fight?"

A huge roar from the seventy men answered him. "Then let us forward and do some damage!" He raised his sword, pulled gently on Celebrin's reins, and his horse reared up, neighing in fury. As the horse's front hooves returned to the ground, Boromir moved his knees and Celebrin moved forward, lightning fast. Boromir screamed, "For Gondor!" and his men followed.

The warriors on the front line heard and felt the charge, and stepped to the side. Boromir's men rode past them and hit the Orcs fully, swords flying, curses filling the air. The Enemy's line staggered at the impact; their swords and spears stayed for a moment; then, they collected themselves and surged forward again. For awhile, the battle raged. Through the darkness of the night, an onlooker would be sore-pressed to decide which side had the upper hand. However, to Boromir's practiced eye, Gondor's Captain-General knew they had lost the eastern city. Though his men fought bravely, valiantly, the forces against them were too great.

At last, after stabbing his thirtieth Orc, he looked about him. In the distance, he made out the Rangers in their dark garb. He breathed a sigh of relief, ‘Faramir has retreated.’ He called his captains and one by one companies crossed the bridge into western Osgiliath. At last, only he and his mounted company, along with Faramir and a dozen Rangers, including Damrod and Mablung, remained on the eastern side.

“Retreat!” Boromir bellowed. “Cross the bridge.” He watched as the men obeyed and began crossing the expanse. As the last knight left the soil of the eastern city, Faramir and he followed. He gave the order, as they stood on the island that held the old Hall of Kings where Anárion and Isildur had once sat, and watched as the eastern portion of the bridge collapsed. He patted Elatan on the back as the engineer scrambled from his post to take a stand by the western portion of the bridge. Smiling, Boromir rejoiced in the one small victory; however, it was short-lived as the Enemy’s archers cut down twenty of his own men. He shouted for them to retreat to western Osgiliath. The men began to move across the bridge. His legs felt Celebrin shudder under him before his mind registered that the bridge was giving way. He shouted a warning, but it was too late. The bridge was collapsing from the western end and the knights’ horses plummeted into the Anduin. Within moments, the men’s mail-clad bodies were drawn under. The bridge continued to collapse, slowly eastward. He screamed as Faramir and his men fell. His own horse stumbled backwards in alarm towards the island, but it was too late. They were too far out onto the bridge. Slowly, he watched as the planks before him fell into the River. Stunned, he saw the boards under Celebrin’s hooves gently angle forward, then break. He found himself weightless; his horse fell from under him. He let the reins go and kicked against Celebrin’s withers in an attempt to push himself away from the horse. If Celebrin fell on top of him, once they hit the water, he would die instantly. Once away, and still falling in what seemed an interminable amount of time, he looked up and watched as Elatan, clinging to the last of the boards, lost his hold, fell, and crashed upon the rocks below. Boromir cried out in sorrow, then was engulfed in the waters of the Anduin. For a moment, he was too shocked to react; then, sense came back to him and he struggled to reach the surface. As soon as his face broke through the waters of the River, he screamed, “Faramir!” but there was no answer.

COPIOUS NOTES... Due to the Battle of the Bridge and the difficulties it poses to research at the end of the previous chapter. Tolkien himself seems to have gone from one idea to another on it. You, of course, do not have to read these - but if you are inclined, I've tried to include every reference to this battle.

A/N – A little thing that bothered me – the word engineer. But I looked it up and its origins stem from around 1350. Also, the term is used in the Napoleonic era, so I’m pretty comfortable with using it here. [Origin: 1350–1400; engine + -eer; r. ME engin(e)our < AF engineor OF engigneor < ML ingeniātor, equiv. to ingeniā(re) to design, devise (v. deriv. of ingenium; see engine) + L -tor -tor

] http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/engineer 2) Elatan - man of the stars (Quenya). 3) Denethor’s little ‘list’ quote was stolen and changed from Aristophanes… ‘under every stone lurks a politician.’ Aristophanes, Thesmophoriazusae, 410 B.C. http://www.quotationspage.com/quotes/Aristophanes, but the ‘origin’ of dratted lists comes from dear Linaewen, who has one that haunts her by day and by night!

A/N – 1) Variags - Khand was the name of a land which lay to the south-east of Mordor and to the east of Near Harad. The Men of Khand were called Variags. Little is known about Khand or its people, but it appears to have been much like Rohan; the Variags were a people of riders. http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Khand; 2) Network - [Origin: 1550–60] I am always stunned when I find a word that I think is as modern as today and it turns out to be older than the hills!

A/N – VERY sorry for the copious notes, but the Battle of the Bridge is a difficult thing to research. Tolkien himself seems to have gone from one idea to another on it. You, of course, do not have to read these - but if you are inclined, I've tried to include every reference to this battle.

1) "Yet that hour, maybe, is not now far away. The Nameless Enemy has arisen again. Smoke rises once more from Orodruin that we call Mount Doom. The power of the Black Land grows and we are hard beset. When the Enemy returned our folk were driven from Ithilien, our fair domain east of the River, though we kept a foothold there and strength of arms. But this very year, in the days of June, sudden war came upon us out of Mordor, and we were swept away. We were outnumbered, for Mordor has allied itself with the Easterlings and the cruel Haradrim; but it was not by numbers that we were defeated. A power was there that we have not felt before.

"Some said that it could be seen, like a great black horseman, a dark shadow under the moon. Wherever he came a madness filled our foes, but fear fell on our boldest, so that horse and man gave way and fled. Only a remnant of our eastern force came back, destroying the last bridge that still stood amid the ruins of Osgiliath.

"I was in the company that held the bridge, until it was cast down behind us. Four only were saved by swimming: my brother and myself and two others. But still we fight on, holding all the west shores of Anduin; and those who shelter behind us give us praise, if ever they hear our name: much praise but little help. Only from Rohan now will any men ride to us when we call. FOTR: Book Two – Chapter Two: The Council of Elrond.

2) So it was that Sauron prepared two strokes – in which many saw the beginnings of the War of the Ring. They were made together. The Orcs assailed the realm of Thranduil, with orders to recapture Gollum; and the Lord of Morgul was sent forth openly to battle against Gondor. These things were done towards the end of June 3018. Thus Sauron tested the strength and preparedness of Denethor, and found them more than he had hoped. But that troubled him little, since be had used little force in the assault, and his chief purpose was that the coming forth of the Nazgûl should appear only as part of his policy of war against Gondor.

Therefore when Osgiliath was taken and the bridge broken Sauron stayed the assault, and the Nazgûl were ordered to begin the search for the Ring. But Sauron did not underesteem the powers and vigilance of the Wise, and the Nazgûl were commanded to act as secretly as they could. Now at that time the Chieftain of the Ringwraiths dwelt in Minas Morgul with six companions, while the second to the Chief, Khamûl the Shadow of the East, abode in Dol Guldur as Sauron's lieutenant, with one other as his messenger. ¹Unfinished Tales: Chapter IV (i): The Hunt for the Ring.

3) Sauron must then have been filled with anger and alarm. He resolved to use the Ringwraiths as soon as he could, for speed rather than secrecy was now important. Hoping to alarm his enemies and disturb their counsels with the fear of war (which he did not intend to make for some time), he attacked Thranduil and Gondor at about the same time. ⁷ He had these two additional objects: to capture or kill Gollum, or at least to deprive his enemies of him; and to force the passage of the bridge of Osgiliath, so that the Nazgûl could cross, while testing the strength of Gondor.

In the event, Gollum escaped. But the passage of the bridge was effected. The forces there used were probably much less than men in Gondor thought. In the panic of the first assault, when the Witch-king was allowed to reveal himself briefly in his full terror, ⁸ the Nazgûl crossed the bridge at night and dispersed northwards. Without belittling the valour of Gondor, which indeed Sauron found greater far than he had hoped, it is clear that Boromir and Faramir were able to drive back the enemy and destroy the bridge, only because the attack had now served main purpose. 7 Both here and in the Tale of Years the assault on Osgiliath is dated the 20th of June. Unfinished Tales: Chapter IV (ii): The Hunt for the Ring.

4) 8 This statement no doubt relates to Boromir's account of the battle at Osgiliath which he gave to the Council of Elrond: "A power was there that we have not felt before. Some said that it could be seen, like a great black horseman, a dark shadow under the moon." Unfinished Tales: Notes.

5) "I sat at night by the waters of Anduin, in the grey dark under the young pale moon, watching the ever-moving stream; and the sad reeds were rustling. So do we ever watch the shores nigh Osgiliath, which our enemies now partly hold, and issue from it to harry our lands…” The Two Towers: Book IV - Chapter Five: The Windows on the West.

6) “And the Fell Riders, less than a year ago they won back the crossings, and many of our best men were slain. Boromir it was that drove the enemy at last back from this western shore, and we hold still the near half of Osgiliath. For a little while. But we await now a new onslaught there. Maybe the chief onslaught of the war that comes." The Return of the King: Book V – Chapter One: Minas Tirith.

A/N – 1) I decided when writing TA 2990 that there could have been a southern 'Henneth-Annûn' and I named it Henneth-Amrûn for those of you who don't quite remember that chapter.

2) The southern beacon hills are never named, but they are there. I've 'created' the names for two of them. ROTK: Bk 5, Ch 1: Minas Tirith.

3) Pie recipe. Haven't tried it, but for some reason, the Muse wanted Chocolate Pecan Pie for Faramir! http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,1837,155177-250201,00.html

As late as the sixteenth century, a raiding party that wanted to destroy a bridge, a dam, or a mill usually had to do so by means of fire or hard manual labor. For example, in January 1544 a French force raided the strategically important Po Bridge at Carignano, in the hope of destroying it and crippling the Imperialist transport network in the area. The raiders were provided with certain 'artifices of fire', which they were to attach to the bridge's posts. These gunpowder-based fireworks were supposed to ignite the bridge's posts and burn them down to the waterline.

The raiders managed to surprise the guards and take the bridge. However, when the pioneers attached the fireworks to the bridge and lit them, the fireworks made a lot of noise and smoke but no apparent damage. Luckily, the French commanders, who were skeptical about these ingenious inventions, also brought with them several dozen workmen supplied with axes, hatchets and saws. Even so it took them more than four hours to accomplish the mission, and it was daylight by the time the bridge was broken. http://www.boydell.co.uk/specialopsextr.htm

5) Demolition – used around the mid 1500’s – that make sit old enough for my use. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/demolition

6) In that siege and burning the Tower of the Stone of Osgiliath was destroyed, and the palantír was lost in the waters. LOTR; Appendix A: (iv) Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion. 7) The Tower of Stone - Between the two parts of the city was a great stone bridge with towers and houses upon it, and there were a number of lesser bridges as well. On the river banks were landings for the ships that carried people and trade goods up and down the Anduin from Wilderland in the north to the Bay of Belfalas in the south. http://www.tuckborough.net/towns.html#Osgiliath

A/N - 1) “On June 20, 3018, Sauron sent the Nazgul forth from Mordor. They led an attack on Osgiliath, where Gondor had an outpost to defend against the crossing of the Anduin. Sauron's purpose was two-fold: He wanted to test Gondor's defenses and he wanted to provide cover for the Nazgul's real mission, which was to seek the Shire and the Ring.” http://www.tuckborough.net/sauron.html 2) Tharni is a Westron word. It is an older form of tharantīn, which means "quarter"… In Gondor, it was a silver coin (Sindarin canath), worth one fourth of a Kastar, or Mirian. The Peoples of Middle-earth, The Appendix on Languages, page 48. http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Tharni. Since I have the Steward’s family and their men speaking mostly Sindarin, I will go with the word canath for this. 3) The chief city of this southern realm was Osgiliath, through the midst of which the Great River flowed; and the Númenóreans built there a great bridge, upon which there were towers and houses of stone wonderful to behold.... The Silmarillion, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age 1437 III, during the Kin-strife: At last [Eldacar] was besieged in Osgiliath, and held it long, until hunger and the greater forces of the rebels drove him out, leaving the city in flames. In that siege and burning the Tower of the Dome of Osgiliath was destroyed, and the palantír was lost in the waters. The Return of the King, LoTR Appendix A, Annals of the Kings and Rulers: Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion From HASA’s research library… http://www.henneth-annun.net/resources/places_view.cfm?PLID=383

Hundor – Council member
Isilmo – acting Captain of Osgiliath
Mardil – Captain of Amon Anwar

Oromendil† – Captain of Osgiliath
Ragorn – member of Denethor’s personal guard

“Then send a rider. I must know!” He flung his goblet against the wall of his study as the guard saluted and hurriedly left the room. The door stood open and Denethor paused. He had only left It an hour ago; he was still exhausted from struggling with It, and yet, he must know. He climbed the stairs, opened the door, and stood before It. Gently, giving thanks again to the Elves who had gifted It to his people, he removed the covering, stationed himself so that he faced East and placed his hands on It. It awoke to his touch and showed him Osgiliath, burning. His sight swept across the bridge and into the eastern section of the fallen city. The army stood before a vast horde of beasts, Uruks, Haradrim… But that was not what caught his attention, pulled a horrified gasp from him.

Staggering, he saw before him horror unimagined; Denethor struggled to hold onto the globe. The men were in disarray, running this way and that, as black riders rode towards them. The rest of the Enemy’s forces stayed back, waiting, it seemed, for the terrors on horseback to give them the advantage. There must have been some terrible sound accompanying the horsemen, for many of Gondor’s finest ran with their ears covered. Denethor tried to calm himself and look with discernment upon the scene he was presented. He must ascertain what was happening and discover what he could do to help. Needless to say, there was no sign of Boromir nor Faramir. They could not be in the midst of the battle, for the stone never showed him any place where his sons were present. So – where were they?

Faramir would be where Denethor had sent him – at the front of the attack, but hidden amongst the woods that fronted the eastern city. That left Boromir. He should have been in front. For even though Denethor ordered him to stand at the back of the army and direct the battle from there, he knew Boromir would not. ‘My son thinks himself indestructible,’ Denethor thought helplessly, ‘that naught can touch him. How did I raise such a fool?’ But he quickly chided himself. Boromir was no fool, but a good captain who would not let his men go into battle whilst he remained safe at the back of the troops.

He watched as the black riders rode through his army, not being stopped at all, doing no physical damage as could been seen, and not slashing with swords. They did not need swords; the horror of them seemed to slay men before them. They crossed the bridge, and rode into West Osgiliath. The reaction from the men of that garrison mirrored those men the riders had just come through. Denethor shuddered and the globe went black.

Boromir needed more men! Reverently, he placed the covering back on the stone, ran from the room, and locked the door behind him. Hirgon stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up and holding a missive in his hand. Denethor ran down and motioned for the Rider to follow him into his study.

“A missive from Captain-General Boromir,” he stood silently by as Denethor read it.

The Steward devoured the note, then rang for his aide. When Belegorn entered, he sent for Húrin. “Get yourself some food, Captain,” he told Hirgon, “Return in one hour’s time.” Hirgon saluted and left him. ‘Four hours ago,’ Denethor thought, ‘Boromir yet lived. That is a consoling thought. And Faramir too; Boromir would have noted…’ He did not continue with the thought. Húrin entered moments later. “They need more men. Send the Second and Third Company to Osgiliath.”

“My Lord Steward,” Húrin blanched, “that leaves only the First Company to guard the Citadel.”

“Boromir comes against a foe he cannot battle with the forces he now has. Send the companies and do not question me further.” Húrin saluted and left. Five minutes later, Denethor heard the horns calling the companies to arms. He steeled himself against returning to the Tower room. Another thirty minutes passed and he heard the horns again calling – this time to march. His heart lifted. They were well trained, the best of Gondor’s knights. Not many a company could assemble and march inside an hour’s time. He could only hope they would be enough, be in time. It would take them six hours to cross the Pelennor, another hour to reach the battle itself. He should have sent them before.

Taking his cloak and wrapping it about him, he crossed the Court of the Fountain and stood at the tip of the parapet. At times like these, he wished he had the famed Elven sight. All he saw was white smoke lifting from the desolate city. “Boromir. Faramir,” he whispered. “Take care of each other.”

He began to second-guess his orders. He should have put his sons together. They seemed to draw strength from each other. But Faramir had to take the Rangers to the perimeter and harry the enemy before they attacked the city. Boromir had to remain with the main body, waiting till the Rangers and Faramir’s archers had dealt the first blow. Cursing furiously, he clenched the top of the wall, fighting desperately not to run back to the Tower room, for he knew It held no answers for him. It would not show his sons.

Húrin stood next to him, holding out a goblet. “Take the brandy. It will keep you warm.”

“How is it,” Denethor wondered aloud, “that it is so cold in the midst of June? Some trick of the Enemy?”

“I have you, Faramir. Take a deep breath. Mablung, hold him steady!” Boromir worked furiously, stripping his brother of the mail that he had insisted Faramir wear and which had almost cost him his brother’s life, pulling him down into the River. Boromir then tore the shirt open. “Breathe, Faramir, for Elbereth’s sake, breathe! Damrod! Do you see any of the others?”

The Captain-General of Gondor sobbed. “Faramir. Open your eyes, please, Faramir. I have you.” Another sob. “Please, Faramir, open your eyes.”

“Nay!” Boromir bellowed. “Faramir!” he screamed and pulled his brother close, “Do not leave me, do you hear!” He beat on his brother’s back, trying to get the water out of his lungs. “Breathe!” he screamed again.

At last, he felt a movement in his arms. Beating Faramir’s back again, he whispered in his brother’s ear, “I have you, Faramir. Do not leave me.” He was shaking so badly that Damrod had to hold his arms. “Faramir,” he whispered again.

He felt the boy’s body shake and held him close as Faramir began to cough and choke. “Good! Good! Now take some breaths, Faramir. You are safe now. Take some breaths. Slowly, I have you.” He clenched his teeth tight to stop his jaw from shaking.

“I have you, Faramir. Safe. You are safe now. Just take it slow and breathe a little. Do not breathe deep, just shallow.”

Faramir continued to cough; Boromir patted him on the back. “You are safe,” he kept whispering, “you are safe.” He felt Damrod’s arms about him and leaned into the man’s body. “Thank you, Damrod,” he sighed. “Thank you.”

“All dead, Faramir. As are my own. The bridge. I do not know what happened; it collapsed too soon. Poor Elatan is dead, too.”

Faramir shook in his arms, but Boromir could hardly hold him for the shaking his own body was doing. Damrod still held him tightly. “Mablung. Go to the bridge and find someone. Bring some help back.” Boromir ordered. Mablung nodded and ran up the bank of the Anduin. Boromir looked about him, trying to figure out where they were.

“We are about a league south of the bridge,” Damrod understood his concern and Boromir was grateful for the soldier’s answer to the unspoken question. “You have been with me too long, old friend.” Damrod smiled and held him tighter. Boromir sighed. “Faramir?”

Boromir nodded and hung his head down. “I thought we had lost him.” He felt Damrod’s nod. “I cannot stop shaking.”

“I know. I will start a fire. We are all freezing.” Boromir felt Damrod’s body shake. “The attack is stopped. I know not why,” the soldier said. “The fighting has stopped.”

Boromir looked up and towards the east side of the River. Damrod was right. The fighting had stopped. The enemy had withdrawn. “Why?”

Damrod just shook his head as he went about collecting dead wood from the banks of the Anduin. “Mayhap something else happened. The Steward might have sent more men. I know not.” He flung the wood down near Boromir and began to tear up the dried grasses from the top of the bank. Quickly, he brought two handfuls down and put them on the ground, then piled the wood on top. Pulling his flint from the wax-soaked box, he struck it and lit the grasses. They caught immediately and soon a fire was blazing.

Boromir moved Faramir closer. His brother began to shake. Boromir tore the clothes off him and moved him even closer to the fire. “Can you find anything we can cover him with?” he called out to Damrod.

The soldier scoured the banks of the River, but found naught. “There is nothing here, Boromir.”

“Never the mind.” He pulled his own sopping tunic and shirt off and pulled Faramir tightly to his body, hoping he had some heat left to share with him. “Do you hear anyone coming, Damrod?”

“Nay. Yes! I can hear horses. Over here!” he stood and waved furiously. Within moments, Hador, Galdor and a full company of knights surrounded them.

“You will soon if you do not find something to cover me with. I am freezing,” Boromir smiled through chattering teeth.

A blanket was thrown over his shoulders. Galdor stooped low and tried to take Faramir from him. A hand, strong as steel, encircled the captain’s wrist. “Do not touch him,” Boromir whispered. “Do not touch him.”

Mablung knelt at Boromir’s side. “He needs to be clothed, Captain, else he freeze to death.”

Boromir looked up in surprise. He swallowed hard. “As do you and Damrod.” He moved his hands from Faramir and watched as a shirt was thrown over Faramir’s head and a blanket then covered the rest of him. Mablung and Damrod too were given dry clothes.

“We best move you to the garrison, Captain-General,” Hador said quietly. “The healers should look at all four of you. Where are the rest of your men?”

Boromir bowed his head. “Gone. Any who did not make it across the bridge are gone.”

Hador nodded and put an arm under Boromir’s to help him rise. Damrod stepped over, having now a dry tunic about his shoulders, and moved the captain away. “It is my duty, Captain Hador.”

The captain of Cair Andros moved away as Damrod helped Boromir stand. Mablung, now also fully dressed in warm clothes scooped Faramir into his arms. “Lead the way, Captain. We will follow.”

“You can hardly walk,” Damrod whispered. “Let Mablung carry him. Faramir knows not the difference.”

“But I do.” Boromir willed himself not to sob. “Let us go then.” He clutched Damrod’s arm and struggled to reach the top of the bank. Hador moved behind him and gently pushed on his back, helping him up the steep slope. When they reached the top, Boromir was grateful to find horses waiting for them. Damrod jumped upon one and Hador cautiously helped Boromir mount in front of Damrod. Mablung let another hold Faramir while he mounted, then the sleeping captain was offered up to Mablung’s waiting arms. The company moved out, with Boromir and Damrod, Mablung and Faramir, completely engulfed in the protection of Gondor’s finest.

Within fifteen minutes, they were at the garrison. Strong arms helped them down. Men ran back and forth, shouting orders, telling all that the Captain-General was hurt and must be tended to. Boromir pushed aside a helping hand and bellowed, “I am not hurt; leave me be.” Then, he strode towards his quarters, smiling as the hubbub behind him subsided. Someone yelled, “Hail, Boromir!” He did not stop, but waved nonetheless. Damrod ran to catch up with him. “Damrod, bring Faramir with you.” The soldier nodded and ran back to Mablung, directing the man carrying the sleeping Faramir to the captain’s quarters.

Once inside, Boromir collapsed. Damrod, seeing his captain’s knees buckle, caught him just in time. “You are stubborn!” he hissed. “You might have hit your head and done what the enemy could not.”

Boromir smiled as he pulled himself up Damrod’s arm. “Thank you. Now, Mablung, put Faramir on my bed.”

Damrod sat Boromir in the bed. “You will lie down here. Another bed has been sent for. Mablung can hold Faramir for another moment or two.”

Boromir nodded in agreement as Mablung sat in a straight-backed chair by the table. He watched as Faramir still slept. “Are you certain he is all right?”

“He sleeps, Captain,” Mablung whispered. “He took in much water. The struggle to reach the surface has taken all his strength.”

Just then the door was flung open and another bed was brought in, followed closely by the garrison’s healer and Captain Isilmo. The healer strode towards Boromir, but the Captain-General waved him to Faramir’s side. Kneeling by the now reposing Faramir, the healer did a quick examination. Then he walked to Boromir’s side. “He is well. The lungs sound clear. That is a good sign. And he must feel comfortable to sleep so soundly. Now, if I may look at you?”

Boromir growled, but did all that the healer asked. At last, the man stepped back. “You have survived again. The men call you indestructible, but do not believe it, my Captain. No man is safe from death.” Boromir nodded and gratefully accepted the drink the healer offered. “This will help your throat. The water of the Anduin is not pure, what with the filth that fell into it this night. I will return in the morning.” He turned to Damrod. “I want this tea given to both of them before they sleep.” He smiled, “That is, if Faramir wakes up. If either have need of me, send for me.” Damrod nodded and walked the healer to the door.

Boromir leaned back in the bed. Isilmo stepped forward. “The attack has ended. The enemy disappeared into the night, once the bridge was blown. That was brilliant, destroying it like that. They had no chance to cross over.”

“It was not the destruction of the bridge that caused them to pull back. I know not what it was, but it was not that.” Boromir shivered, but not from the cold.

Damrod stepped forward. “Captain Isilmo. I believe you may give your report to the Captain-General on the morrow.” He took the captain’s arm and moved him towards the door. Boromir smiled. “Good night, Captain.” Within moments, he too slept. He would have smiled if he watched Damrod stand guard at the door whilst Mablung stood guard over Faramir.

Sunrise would soon be upon them; Damrod rued the fact that the garrison would soon be awakening. Boromir and Faramir had only had an hour’s sleep, at best. He was startled, in the middle of the short rest, when Boromir began to thrash about. He took a step closer and looked towards Mablung, noting concern on his friend’s face also. “Faramir!” Boromir’s scream caused both of them to jump.

“I am sorry, Captain. Your brother had a nightmare. He is now resting comfortably. The healer left you some tea. He asked that you drink it.”

Faramir grimaced, but when he tried to sit up and take the cup, he found he could not. Mablung knelt beside him and held his head up, pouring the tea slowly into Faramir’s mouth. At last, the entire drink was gone and Mablung lowered Faramir back onto the bed. “You are warm to the touch,” but Faramir was asleep again. “He is hot, Damrod. Should we send for the healer?”

Damrod stepped to Faramir’s side, lightly touching his captain’s brow. “Not overly. It cannot be the fever again! Let us wait another hour and see if he cools. Mayhap it is just from the River.”

“He would be cool to the touch if it was the River. The water flows from the mountains. It is cold.”

Instantly, Boromir was at his brother’s side. He touched Faramir’s forehead and winced. “Morgoth’s breath. Is it the fever?”

“We wondered the same. He should be cool,” Damrod touched Boromir’s skin. “Yours is warm, too. Mayhap it is the blankets?”

“Send for the healer,” Boromir lowered his head into his hands. “Hopefully, it is nothing.”

Boromir shook his head. “I did not rest well. I dreamt of Faramir in the River.” He shook and Damrod took the blanket from Boromir’s bed and wrapped it around the Captain-General’s shoulders. “I have wondered too about the bodies of our dead. Those who fell in the River are lost. Or… Mablung, after you find the healer, send an errand-rider to the Harlond. Ask them to keep watch for the bodies and take them from the River, have them brought back to the City. If they have already passed, have a rider leave the Harlond and go to Pelargir. I do not want my men’s bodies going to the Sea. They should be buried, if we are able to do so.”

“Damrod, the bodies of those who died in East Osgiliath. I would send a detail to bury them, but we would need to send them over in boats. We have not enough. And for that matter, I wonder if it is wise. The city is no longer ours and they would be in grave danger.”

“Boromir,” Damrod said gently, “they are Orc fodder now. It is too late. It was too late the moment they died.”

Boromir lowered his head again and began to weep. Damrod knelt at his friend’s side and held him. “We must hope they all died in battle.” Boromir shook. He saw before him the hundreds of bodies strewn across the old city, and prayed to the Valar that none had been taken captive.

A moment later, the healer entered the room with Mablung at his side. He strode towards Faramir’s bed and knelt at Boromir’s side. “Has aught happened?”

“He is warm to the touch. Captain Faramir was afflicted with undulant fever late last year. Could this be a reoccurrence?” Boromir moved so the healer could examine Faramir.

“It very well may be. He should be sent to Minas Tirith immediately. I cannot care for him, if thus is his condition.”

“Ah. You were still battle-shocked. I left tea for you and Faramir.” The healer stood up and walked to the table. “I see Faramir’s is gone. He must have drunk it. That is good. I would have you drink yours. It is cold, but that matters not.”

Boromir accepted the cup and drank it quickly, grimacing slightly at the taste. “Will you ride with us to the City?”

“I cannot. There are too many wounded here. I need more healers, my Lord, if you could ask the Steward to send them?”

“Of course. Will Faramir be… should it concern me that we travel with no healer?”

“Nay. He is warm, but not truly hot. I think we should stem this before the fever heightens.” The healer put his hands to his eyes and wearily rubbed them.

“My Lord Boromir,” the man sighed as if he spoke to a child, “there are hundreds of wounded.”

Boromir turned his back on the man, holding in his tears. “I understand. I am sorry I questioned you.”

“Nay. When Faramir wakes, give him some of this.” He handed Boromir another cup of tea. “It will help give him strength for the journey. Take it slowly, Captain. Putting him through a strenuous ride would be worse than the fever rising.”

The healer smiled. “I will, my Lord. May the Valar be with you and your brother.” He saluted and left the room.

Boromir sat tiredly at the foot of Faramir’s bed. His brother looked so peaceful that he almost envied him.

Noises from the courtyard drew their attention from Faramir for a moment. Mablung quickly strode towards the door, opening it to a cacophony of sound.

“More men from Minas Tirith, Boromir!” The man’s voice held stunned surprise. “It is the Second and Third Companies of the Tower Guard.”

Boromir sprang up. “Watch Faramir,” he ordered and ran out the door. He found Beregond standing guard outside. For a moment, he was startled, then a deep smile creased his face. “You live, you scoundrel,” and Boromir grasped his aide in a heartfelt embrace.

“I dare not die; I have a surly Captain-General to care for. Though getting past Mablung and Damrod last night was more than this poor soldier could accomplish. I stationed myself here instead.”

“Thank you. Go in and relieve them. They have not slept. Faramir’s fever has returned. Sit with him?”

The Captain of the Second Company strode forward. “The Steward Denethor sent us to help in your hour of need, but I see we are not needed. Not oft is the Steward wrong.”

“Nay. Not wrong. The enemy cut off the fight; I know not why, but let us to the mess. Faramir yet rests. We inadvertently went swimming last night.”

“It did. We lost Elatan.” The remembrance caused Boromir to stop walking. “Captain Isilmo,” he called out. The captain ran to his side. “Where is the other engineer? Meneldil?”

Boromir and Gwinhir entered the mess. Mugs of whiskey-laced coffee were brought to them. Boromir nodded his head in gratitude as he tasted it.

“You and your men should return to the City as soon as your horses are rested, Gwinhir. A company will be leaving with me within the hour. I am handing command of Osgiliath to Isilmo in my absence.” He lowered his voice. “Did the Steward tell you aught of the battle?”

“Nay. I did not speak with Lord Denethor, but with Warden Húrin. He gave the order to reinforce your ranks.”

“We faced a foe I hope never to see again. They rode through my men as hot steel through butter. They did not stop, but continued here and then northward. I sent missives to Cair Andros. Has there be any word from the island garrison?”

Boromir sighed. “No news, hopefully, is good news. I will leave you now; eat and rest while you may. Then, return to the City as quickly as you are able. I do not take pleasure in the thought that the Citadel is left guarded only by one company.”

Gwinhir saluted and Boromir gulped the last of his coffee and left, looking for Isilmo. In the distance, he saw the captain striding towards him.

As they walked, Boromir transferred the command of Osgiliath’s garrison to Isilmo. The captain understood and accepted it, until Boromir’s return.

Shortly after, they entered the garrison’s own version of the Houses of Healing. Boromir stopped at each cot and spoke with each man. At last, he stood next to Meneldil’s cot. A deep gash was being tended by one of the assistants; it had already been stitched closed.

Boromir knelt and took the man’s hand in his. “I know. How were you injured?”

“I saw the bridge collapsing. I had yet to order the last cut. Elatan was still on it, just walking back. He must have felt the tremor. He lunged, but… I tried to catch him.” The man wept bitterly.

“I know not. We had cut precisely. You yourself inspected it. It was strong enough to hold your retreating forces.” The young man shook his head in obvious bewilderment.

“It might have been those…” The man shivered. “It might have been the passing of those horses. The bridge shook as they rode past.” Another shiver. “I did not note much.” The blush that covered the engineer’s face was heightened by its pallor. “I hid my face in the ground as they passed.”

Boromir’s brow furrowed. “It is as you say. They were fell beasts.” A brow rose. “Rest now and return to the City when you are released from here.”

He stood and looked about him. A hush descended upon the room as the men felt his regard. “This night, we were assailed by forces no other men could endure,” Boromir began, loud enough for all to hear him. “You carried yourselves well. All of Gondor will sing your praises for your stalwart defense of Osgiliath. We will reclaim the eastern city,” Their cheers interrupted him. He smiled, motioned them to silence, and continued. “I leave you with my deepest regard and respect. When I return from reporting to the Steward, we will rebuild the bridge and take back our city. It has been done before.” The men cheered again. “For Gondor!” The men took up the call; Boromir saluted them and left. He smiled as he listened to the excited hubbub he had left behind him.

Isilmo beamed. “You give them new courage and hope. I will be hard-pressed to hold them down till you return.”

“Good. I return to Faramir’s side. As soon as the company is ready, bring our horses to my quarters. Also, I will be taking Mablung and Damrod with me. Of course, Beregond will stay at my side.”

Nodding, Boromir walked to his brother’s cot. Taking Faramir’s hand in his, he sat on the edge. “Take some rest and food, Beregond; we will be leaving shortly.” The soldier saluted and left them.

“How do you feel?” He touched his brother’s forehead. “You seem cooler.”

“I think I am. Boromir,” the seriousness in Faramir’s tone caused Boromir to kneel at his side. “I had a dream, the night before the battle. I gave it little thought, though I found it disconcerting.” He shivered then swallowed convulsively. “I had it again, just before I woke at the sound of your voice. It chills me to the bone.”

Silence filled the small captain’s quarters, once Faramir had related the details of his dream. The youngest son of the Steward closed his eyes with some relief. It had been a heavy burden upon him, this unsettling dream, and not having anyone to share it with had not helped.

Boromir, on the other hand, was concerned. His little brother had always been one for dreams. He remembered being awakened many a night by a frightened little boy begging to sleep with him after one of the ‘wave’ dreams. ‘Mayhap ‘tis only the fever.’ But he dismissed that thought immediately; the first dream had come before the battle. He pulled on his lip for a moment. “Tell me, you have studied so much more than I, is there aught in any of your reading that has mentioned Imladris? I have heard of Halflings in folk tales, naught to base belief upon. I am assuming it is a people like unto men.” He breathed a heavy sigh. “Let us wait another night or two, see if the dream comes to you again, and, if it does, then I will go with you to Father. He knows more than any of us of the lands beyond Gondor.”

“I would wait also,” Faramir frowned. “It was so real and the very same both times. But you speak rightly. The wave dream that woke me when I was a child spoke the same to me as this one does. Real and terrifying.”

“Nay. It is more disconcerting for it speaks of things that wander just out of the reach of my thoughts. I have not heard of Imladris before, but the Sword that was broken – that I know. Isildur, of course, is well-known to me, but I know not what Isildur’s Bane might be.” He mirrored his brother’s sigh. “I will wait and see if the dream comes upon me again. If it does, I will find you and we will go to Father. In the meantime, I will search the Library for anything that might mention this place.”

“It is the note of Doom that bespeaks an urgency, especially after what we fought last night. Morgul spells. What can they be? Though I would swear I had been under a spell when the Black Riders rode past us. My own men also were thusly affected. I would deem this a dream of some importance. But, now, let us go home. I am tired and you are still fevered,” he touched Faramir’s forehead, “though not as warm as you were earlier. Are you able to walk on your own?”

Faramir smiled and pulled himself upright. “I would not have been last night, but I believe the teas I drank have helped. I do not feel quite so wretched today. Just give me a hand to stand up and I will do my best.”

Boromir reached out and placed a hand under Faramir’s right arm and helped his brother to his feet. His brow rose in alarm as Faramir swayed for a moment, but his brother steadied himself with a smile.

“There is tea here for the journey. The healer bids you drink it, then you will ride with me.”

Faramir cuffed him lightly on the arm, then drank the odious tea. “Give me a moment to gather my strength and let this tea works its magic, then I must ride on my own horse.”

Faramir swore lightly. “I can do more than walk,” He fidgeted for his sword.

“Calm down, Faramir,” Boromir laughed. “You would kill Damrod outright for he would not return the fight.”

Faramir blushed. “I am sorry. I do not want the men seeing me weak; the night’s battle has been difficult enough, that they would be concerned for my well-being is too much.”

Boromir leaned forward and laid a tender kiss on his brother’s forehead. “Faramir, I understand your concern for the men and I will bow to it. I ask this vow from you: if you falter or feel yourself unable to ride, you stop immediately and join me on my horse. Else we will not leave here.”

Boromir nodded. Damrod helped Faramir put on his over tunic, strapped his scabbard to his belt, and allowed Faramir to sheath his sword. Taking one of his captain’s arms, he led him to the door. “Captain-General,” Damrod stopped at the entrance. “When we leave this room, I will let go Captain Faramir’s arm. I will stand close to his side and help him mount his horse. You need not fear. Go and speak your last words to Captain Isilmo. We will wait for you to rejoin us.”

Denethor listened attentively as his oldest gave his report of the Battle of the Bridge, but his sight was repeatedly drawn back towards his youngest. That something was very wrong with Faramir was easily discerned; what the cause was, was not. When Boromir was done with his report and Faramir finished his own, Denethor stood. “Come with me to my study.” He strode quickly past them and through the Great Hall. The Chamberlain barely had time to rap his staff on the floor and declare the session ended. The Lords in the Hall moved back, but Denethor distinctly heard the low whispers and knew them for what they were: fear. It had encompassed his own heart as he listened of the Black Riders. Thankfully, Cair Andros had been spared, but where did they head? Were they riding to Rohan? Had Théoden’s loyalty finally been lost to Gondor? Or perhaps they were in league with the Elves of the North, the Mistress of Magic of Laurelindórenan?’ His mind hurt at the thoughts and questions that spilled over and he cursed himself for spending the entire night in the Tower room.

When Faramir and Boromir entered the study behind him, he bid them sit, but he himself paced up and down before the great fireplace that dominated the room. The oaken panel behind the fireplace that bore a carving of the White Tree rose to the ceiling. Denethor looked upon it and ceased his pacing. “There are those who would take Gondor from us,” he whispered. “Not only the Enemy, but one who was a friend.” He turned and faced them. “Faramir,” he strode forward and knelt on one knee before his youngest. “What ails thee? Wert thou wounded?”

Denethor stood and rang the bell. A servant entered and was immediately sent to fetch the Master Healer. Faramir tried to stay his father, but Denethor would not be swayed. “You look ill. I will not have you relapsing.”

“We will see what the healer says. I do not quite trust your judgment, Faramir. You showed no sense when the fever near took you from us last year. I will not discuss this; you do not leave this room until the healer tells me this is not a relapse.”

Faramir nodded, not saying a word, but rolled his eyes when Boromir gently nudged him.

“These Black Riders. Tell me more.” Denethor sat and motioned for Boromir to describe in further detail the Enemy’s newest weapon. When Boromir was done, Denethor sat in thoughtful silence. “They do not seem so fierce. They took no lives.”

For a moment Boromir shivered. “They took no lives because some of our men took their own in unbridled fear.” Another shiver assailed him. “I truly saw them not, for the reports told of more than one, but I felt such evil, and then a black despair enveloped me. It took all my will, Father, to follow them or it.” Boromir paused in the remembrance. “I do not think they were Men. Definitely not Orcs or Uruks.”

“Well, we will leave that for the nonce. They have passed Gondor’s borders. We need not concern ourselves further. But tell me, Faramir,” and the Steward turned towards his youngest with such a look that he might have laughed at Faramir’s dropped jaw, if he did not sense something disturbed his son, “what have you seen?”

Faramir gasped for a moment, then blushed furiously. “I had a dream.” He too shivered and Boromir ran and brought back a blanket, covering Faramir’s legs.

At last, Faramir, outflanked, spoke quietly. When he had finished telling of the dream, Denethor sat back. “Get your brother a glass of brandy, Boromir.”

A week went by, and every night, Faramir was tormented by the dream. Some times it came two or three times in one night. At last, Boromir could stand it no longer. His brother’s eyes were dark-circled and red. He followed Faramir into his rooms. When his brother looked at him in surprise, he said, “If I sit by your side as you sleep, mayhap the Valar will give you one night’s rest.”

“Thank you, though I deem it not necessary. The dream will come whether I will it or no.”

“Be not so down-hearted, Faramir. Rest while you may. I brought a book with me, one of the Dagorlad. I hope to find something of Isildur in its passages. Sleep now.” Boromir pulled a chair up to Faramir’s bed and sat on it, a steaming brandy in one hand, the book in the other.

Faramir looked upon him with some skepticism, then shrugged. “If you insist on being stubborn, then I will debate you no further.” He shrugged off his outer clothes, took a clean night robe from the press, donned it and crawled into his bed.” After a moment’s hesitation, he spoke. “Would you read me some of it?”

Boromir smiled, remembering days gone by. “It will keep you awake. You will question everything I read and we will be up till dawn.”

Faramir snorted, rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. “At least you could leave only one candle lit,” he said testily.

The battle raged for seven years. Boromir read well into the night, once in awhile noting that Faramir seemed to sleep peacefully. Often his mind was fortified by the daily skirmishes noted in the book, but too oft did his mind wander as the details took some joy from the reading. At last he found his eyelids heavy. He thought upon returning to his own rooms, his own bed, to sleep, but he had promised Faramir he would not leave. After a bit, his eyes burned. He closed the book and laid it on his stomach, leaned one leg against the arm of the chair, vowed to close his eyes but for a moment, and fell asleep.

He could smell the Orcs! He could hear the screams! How terrible it was to watch Elf after Elf fall, to see Elendil himself fall, and, oh! To see Isildur cut the Ring from the hand. The dream was vivid. He woke, startled, an exclamation just loosed, but, thankfully, Faramir did not wake. Boromir picked up the book and put it on a nearby table, stood and stretched. He looked down upon his sleeping brother and smiled. There was a hint of the child Faramir once had been in the way the lips lay slightly open, the hair tousled, the hands twitching in some dream world. He hoped it was not the sword dream.

He walked about the room for a few minutes, heartened that he was fully awake, then sat back down and picked up the book. Within moments, he slept once more. This time, he felt it, in the very marrow of his bones. The eastern sky, above Mordor, was growing dark, but it was not from the loss of Anor; it was a malevolent darkness that spread out from it and over the Ephel Dúath, slowly coming closer and closer to the Pelennor. His breath hitched as growing thunder shook the room. He tried to turn away from the horror of it and finally found himself facing westward. To his relief, there was a light there still, lingering as if it was fighting some force; it brought a smile to his face and a moment’s peace. But the light shimmered as if alive and a voice came from it. At first, Boromir could not understand the words and he chafed at his ineptness. He strained further and the voice cleared, though it still seemed far off. He heard the words and shivered in his sleep. Doom. It was the only word that he really understood. Imladris was not known to him and Halflings only existed in folk tales, but Doom. Boromir knew Doom and what it meant. The book fell from his lap and he stood up, startled.

Faramir still slept, but Anor was awake and tingeing the window with a reddish light. ‘Rain today,’ he thought to himself. Boromir stretched and walked over to it. A shiver ran down his spine as he looked at the Shadow Mountains and remembered. ‘I must leave – and soon. I must go to Imladris and find this sword and this Halfling and turn this Doom to victory for Gondor.’

“I did. No thought of the dream. I feel rested at last. But, Boromir…” Faramir stopped and looked at his brother in surprise. “You had the dream.”

His older brother chuckled. “You have Father’s gift. I had the dream. When we go to Father to break our fast. I will ask him to send me to this Imladris.” Faramir’s face fell. “You do not think I would let you go? It is dangerous.”

Boromir felt the sting in the words. “I am heartier than you, Faramir. I only take this because of the fever.”

Boromir bit his lip and turned his back to his brother. “We will let Father decide. I will speak of it no more.”

Faramir threw his covers back, laved his face, and put on new clothes. He spoke not a word and grimly left the room. Boromir followed.

“So it comes to this,” Denethor said quietly, “ I must send one or the other of my sons on this quest?”

“It appears so,” Húrin smiled sadly. “Of course, you could send me. I have had the dream also.”

“Though you are a great warrior, Húrin, the journey will be long and arduous. Boromir speaks rightly; he is the one fit for such a mission.”

The Steward watched as his eldest son shifted in his chair. He knew Boromir did not like them talking about him in such a fashion, as if he were not in the room, but this was too serious a matter to be overly concerned about hurt feelings. Faramir did not seem to understand that.

His youngest squirmed. “I had the dream first and more oft than either Húrin or Boromir. I am familiar with finding my way in strange places. My woodland skills are beyond reproach.”

Faramir spoke quietly, but Denethor could feel the tension flowing from the boy. “You only want to see another Elf,” he gently chided.

“That is true, Father! Besides Faramir, most of what you speak of you learned from me.” Boromir laughed and Faramir’s eyes rolled

“And it would be true also, Father,” Denethor noted Faramir’s taut jaw line as the boy spoke in his low, quiet voice, “but Lord Húrin is correct – Gondor needs her Captain-General. Better I should go. Besides,” and finally Denethor noted a twinkle in his youngest’ eye, “I have a better sense of direction.”

Boromir made to protest but Denethor stayed him with but a gesture. “The matter has been placed on tomorrow’s Council agenda. You are both invited. We will listen to the Lords’ thoughts and we will decide.” He watched Faramir’s shoulders sag and noted Boromir’s concern. Obviously, both thought the other would be sent. He sighed and stood, walking to the window. “Would that I had had the dream.”

Húrin’s brow rose. He saw the strong back of his Steward straighten and asked in alarm, “You would not consider going yourself?”

Denethor turned back and looked at the three men in his chambers. Húrin was a great warrior indeed, but his time had passed for wandering in the unknown reaches of the world. Boromir was Captain-General and most needed at this time. Faramir, though not a child, did not have the stamina for such a long journey, though he did have the heart and, it seemed, the right.

That very morning, he and his sons had poured over what maps could be found. The archivists were told to continue the search as there was almost nothing once one crossed the River Gwáthlo, the Greyflood as the Rohirrim called it. Tharbad, if Denethor remembered correctly, had been flooded so badly during Turin’s Stewardship that the port finally closed and the people dissembled. The bridge had been washed away or collapsed; he could not remember which. A few scratches on paper showed a river or two, and a town or two sprinkled across the land, but naught of note. If this Imladris was near Fornost, it would take at least two months time to travel there. None knew how populated the North was; the Palantír would not see that far. Then another two months to return. Denethor could not hope for such a speedy trip; at the least his son would be gone four months, more likely five. December. Mayhap he would return by Mettarë, or earlier.

“Boromir,” his eldest stood next to him in but a moment’s time, “This blackness came from Mordor?”

“It did. From there.” He pointed to near where they both new Minas Morgul stood.

“Father,” Faramir stood next to them, sensing that Boromir would be the one chosen. “Send me. I beg you. I have seen the dream almost every night. I know it in my very bones.”

Denethor turned, his face grim, his lips pulled into a taught line across his face. “We will listen to the Lords,” he said patiently, “and then I will give my decision.” He put his hand on Faramir’s arm. “You will obey me.”

Faramir blushed and Boromir cursed. Denethor continued, “I have not forgotten your last foray against my will, Faramir.” He walked away from them and sat at his desk. “Have you met with Mithrandir?”

“You have met him elsewhere in days past… perhaps he has been to Henneth-Annûn?”

Faramir drew his shoulders back. “I have not seen the wizard since last year.”

“Father,” Boromir interrupted what was surely going to turn into another of the nasty ‘wizard’ battles that had become more frequent since Mithrandir’s last visit. “Is there anything known of Imladris besides the fact that it lies north? Faramir and I have spent the last week with the archivists and have found not a word. Even the scrolls of the Battle of the Dagorlad are vague about the Elves that fought there.”

“Vague indeed. Yet, you looked in the wrong place, my son. Perhaps if you had opened a tome of the men of Númenor you would have discovered part of the answer. Tar Minyatur, Númenor’s first king, had a brother. Faramir, you must know this! Elrond Halfelven, a renowned loremaster even to this day. Elrond is said to live in Imladris.”

“I think that assertion is correct. But we will discuss this no further. Both of you, and you Húrin, join me for the breaking of the fast on the morrow, then we will join the Council.”

The Council met and fruitless were its deliberations. It was still undecided when the Steward dismissed them, for Denethor had despaired of receiving a wise judgment from his Council. Most of the Lords of Gondor were appalled to even think that their Captain-General would desert them at this most difficult time. They had been badly frightened by the attack at Osgiliath. Many had hitherto not believed Denethor, though he had spoken again and again of the encroachment of the Enemy’s forces and the need for more men. At least, because of this, the ranks of Gondor’s army would be fortified; each Lord pledged another number of their own men to Gondor’s main forces. The total came to almost a thousand. ‘Yet,’ Denethor thought, ‘we lost almost five hundred at Osgiliath, and they well-trained men compared to what we will be getting from the fiefdoms. Never the mind,’ he thought to himself, ‘we will have them trained quickly and out in the field before Yáviérë.’

Boromir was in Denethor’s chambers almost every hour of the day, haranguing his father to give him the quest. Faramir brooded in the Great Library whilst trying to find maps of better quality for the journey. Húrin hardly knew what advice to offer his Steward and all of Minas Tirith felt dread fall upon them. Many heard of the rumors of the unknown assailant at the battle, and, as rumors go, the tale became so embellished that it seemed four hundred riders on black horses with flames issuing from their mouths and eyes red as the fires of Mount Doom sought and turned the bravest knight into a mound of boneless flesh. The riders’ cries, it was said, could be heard all the way to Minas Tirith. Many, Húrin said, told that they too heard the cries and shuddered in fear. None however stated they were so frightened as to hide under their cots, yet, they told of soldiers doing such a thing. Even worse, and this was too true, the rumors circulating said that the cries turned soldiers against themselves and each other, some falling on their own swords in despair. Denethor shivered himself. The tales were beginning to undermine his knights.

There would be one more meeting – three hours past midday. He would make his decision sometime this morning and would speak it at the Council. Faramir and Boromir were told to leave him; he needed time to ponder this decision and their constant verbal sparring prevented him from concentrating fully. He smiled at the thought. ‘They are almost as when they were children. ‘Let me go. Me first, Ada. It is my turn.’’ But tears filled his eyes. How he wished they were still young and not able to be sent on fell deeds such as this.

Finally, he went to the parapet and looked out upon the Pelennor. The bow of the ship that was Minas Tirith was empty. Húrin, in his wisdom, had ordered nuncheon served in Merethrond. Only his knights still stood about, guarding the Court of the Fountain. He would send Faramir. Boromir’s battle skills and strategic planning were desperately needed. Though Faramir was by far the weaker, he would endure. The Steward decided he would send a company with the boy… ‘Boy. Yes, still in my thoughts Faramir is a boy. How can I send a boy into the wild?’ But Faramir was also a Captain of Gondor. Well-respected, loved by his men, and capable. The others who had captained Henneth-Annûn had left the hidden fortress weak. Faramir had brought it to strength. Though still hidden, it was now a thorn in the Enemy’s side.

But he could not send Boromir. He made his way back towards the Hall when he staggered and found himself slammed forcefully against the Tower wall. More and more he was assailed by this weakness of body. He must sleep; he could not remember the last time he had slept. But keeping watch in the Tower, holding the Palantír and making it do his will – this was what was needed to save Gondor.

Slowly, his breath returned to him. He opened his eyes and saw before him the Anduin. His head spun as he watched, in horror, the scene before him. Once again he saw it, Boromir in a boat – dead.

A blackness settled upon him, squeezed his heart, and filled him. His chest hurt. His eyes burned. And yet, duty still called. No matter that his body warred against him or that his mind would leave him at times. Duty called.

The only thing these days that gave him surcease from the assaults about him was the stone, the globe that constantly called to him. It was the only thing that did his bidding. The only friend he had. His brow furrowed at the thought. It was only a stone! It could not be a friend.

But when he held It between his hands and plumbed Its depths, he found he had control. He had lost control of every other aspect of his life, of the lives of his sons, but the stone would obey him. He could wield It easily; had been able to wield It with ease for at least the last ten years. It showed him what he needed to see, though It would still not show him his sons. This Elven gift was the only thing that kept him sane as horror and war loomed ever closer.

Sometime this past year, he had lost hope. He could not say the precise day nor the hour when it was taken from him. But he knew it was gone, and that knowledge left an ache in his heart that at times bled. Especially when he looked upon Boromir. Had his dreams or visions or whatever the hated things were, been true? Would Boromir die? And soon?

He closed his eyes as the memory engulfed him, caused his knees to betray him. With eyes still closed, he leaned against the Tower wall. Boromir lay in a boat – of Elven make, of that he was sure – with his sword clasped to his breast, his eyes shut in death, as the boat took him, flowing down the River to the Sea. Denethor bent over in horrified grief as agony once again assailed him through the vision. Sobs choked him, but he could not stop the sight. He saw Boromir’s beloved hands clasped in a death hold on his sword, hands that oft clasped his own in joy-filled greetings. He saw the face, deathly pale; the same beloved face of his eldest that consistently lit up with such a smile that Anor itself hid in shame. He saw the arrows at Boromir’s feet; arrows of his enemy laid in homage of a valiant deed. Boromir’s face lay serene and at peace as the vision brought it closer to him. But he was dead. Boromir was dead!

“My son is dead!” He wept aloud as his chest felt pain like unto the thrust of a sword piercing it. “Nay! Nay! Not dead. This is but a dream. It can be changed. This must be changed!” He would do as Boromir asked. He would send him to Imladris, to the Elves, and as far away from the Anduin as east is from west. And Boromir would bring back to him the weapon the dream spoke of. The sword that was broken. Denethor would have it re-forged and the Enemy could once again be vanquished. But this time, with Boromir wielding it, this time the Enemy would be soundly defeated, destroyed, and Minas Tirith would be safe. He could go to his final rest in peace. Boromir would sit upon the Chair of his ancestors and rule Gondor. Faramir would stand at his side, freed from the wizard’s wiles, and all would be right. Gondor would be saved. He could rest in peace.

He fell to the ground, totally exhausted, and wept. It was there that Boromir found him, raised him to his feet, and held him close. “I am taking the Quest, Father, whether you will it or no. Gondor desperately needs help, but if no help will avail us, then at least I will return with answers. You need this, Father. Faramir is too weak; the fever comes and goes. We know the journey will be long and arduous. He could not endure it.”

Denethor tried to speak, but Boromir put two fingers over his lips. “Hush. Let me take you to your chambers. There is still some time before the Council reconvenes. You will have time to regain your strength. You must be strong when you tell them I will be taking the Quest. They will whimper and whine and say Gondor can ill afford the loss of its Captain-General, but you will tell them Faramir will take my place. He is worthy of it, Father. I know you have thought upon this long and hard. I know you agree with me. I can see it in your eyes.”

He moved his arm around Denethor’s waist and began moving his father forward, towards the Tower. Denethor let him lead him, exhausted in his grief. When they reached Denethor’s chambers, Boromir motioned the servant away. He brought his father to his bed and sat him upon it. Kneeling, he removed Denethor’s boots, then he helped him to stand. He removed his cloak and tunic, took off the heavy mail amidst Denethor’s protests, and gently pressed his father to lie upon the bed. Covering him, he bent low and kissed his forehead. “If it is not too unpleasant, I would sit with you for a bit?”

Denethor closed his eyes; tears slipped between the closed lids. “Faramir?” he whispered.

“He is in the stables. His horse threw a shoe. He will be here shortly, if you so wish?”

Denethor nodded. “Please. I would tell him myself. Before the Council meets. He will be gravely hurt. I would spare him the humiliation.”

Boromir’s eyes burned with unshed tears. He pulled the chord and the servant entered. “Please send for Lord Faramir. He is in the stables.” The servant nodded and left. Boromir turned back to Denethor, but his father slept.

The Steward’s eldest leaned against the bedpost and wept bitter tears. Within the space of what seemed like a heartbeat, Faramir was at his side, cradling him, whispering words of comfort, for what, Faramir knew not, only that Boromir’s sobs tore his heart into a thousand pieces. At last, Boromir realized Faramir stood with him. He looked at him in wonder. “You came.”

“I always answer a request from Gondor’s Steward.” Faramir smiled as tears streamed down his own face. “Boromir, why do you weep?”

Boromir bit his lip, then clutched Faramir tightly to him. “I found father by the Tower wall. He was distraught, almost mad with what appeared to be grief. I had to help bring him home. I know not what horrors assail him. Faramir, we must find out what it is that has caused so many changes to him. Will you help me?”

“Of course. Here, sit.” He pulled a chair up next to Denethor’s bed, waited until Boromir sat, then sat himself on the floor at Boromir’s feet. “What is it you want me to do?”

Boromir’s chin shook. Should he tell Faramir or let Denethor tell him? Nay, he could not. It would be a disservice to Faramir and to Denethor. What could he say? Holding his hands out before him, he splayed them open, then clenched them tight shut. Heaving a heavy sigh, he spoke quietly. “I love you, Faramir. More than I have loved any other. Would you please remember that?”

Faramir pulled himself closer to Boromir, knelt before the chair and cried aloud, “Where are you going? Is father sending you to Mordor? Or to Minas Morgul? Are we starting an offensive against the Enemy?”

“Nay. I am still Captain of Osgiliath. Faramir, it is just that my heart has been heavy of late. Your dreams, and then the same dream coming to me, have set my thoughts awhirl. Father’s decision will be known to the Council this afternoon. I want you and me to be right with one another before the decision is announced. No matter what he decides, you will remember I love you?”

Faramir looked long and hard at Boromir and suddenly, Boromir felt as if Denethor looked upon him. Faramir’s brow rose. “He has decided. He is sending you.”

Once again, Boromir splayed his hands, then clenched them. “He has decided. He is sending me. You will become Captain-General until I return.” Agony slammed against him as he watched his brother’s shoulders slump. “Do not be angry with me, please.”

“I will not. If that is his decision, I will abide by it. How can I not? When will you leave?”

“Be not so cold. Scream at me. Throw invectives against me. Anything but this, Faramir. I cannot stand this iciness.”

“I am not being cold, Boromir. Pragmatic. I somehow knew, as soon as the dream came to you, that father would send you. Why not? Are you not the…?” He stopped; he would not go there. He would not let those thoughts of inadequacy and failure pass his lips. He knew his father loved him dearly; they just did not understand each other. He stood and pulled Boromir to his feet. Embracing him fiercely, he whispered, “I love you with all my strength. What can I do to help you? When will you leave?”

Boromir hugged his little brother tightly. “At first light, I think. Father and I have not discussed it. I will go alone. Faramir! Please. It is best this way. Secrecy is uppermost on this Quest. No other should know. If I leave with a company, tongues will wag. I cannot allow that. When I saw Father on his knees by the Tower, I vowed I would go to save him. That is my only wish, Faramir. To save him and you and Gondor… and our City. And I must go alone.”

“Father. It is good to see you,” Faramir turned and spoke. “I am sorry I did not come immediately, but my horse threw a shoe whilst I was riding, and I took him to the smithy. Are you well?”

Denethor nodded. “Your brother thinks I am a child and has put me to bed for a nap.” Denethor chuckled dryly. “I should have him thrown into the dungeons for it, but I can be magnanimous today. Do I not have both my sons at my side?”

Denethor took a deep breath. “You have already discerned why I sent for you.”

“You are so like me,” Denethor said through clenched teeth. “I am sorry.”

“Why, Father? It is an honor to know you think me like you. You are a great and wise Steward. I can only hope to support you the best I can.”

“I would use some excuse as to why I send Boromir in your stead – that the fever still harries you, that you are not as strong as Boromir, that you are needed in Ithilien – but all these would only be excuses. I will tell you outright and you help me decide if I have chosen rightly.”

Faramir sat in the chair Boromir had vacated. “I will listen, Father. I cannot second-guess your choice. You know more than I of the comings and goings of the Enemy, where the greatest need is, what should be done. But I will listen, if you wish.”

“I wish.” Denethor looked down at the covers and smoothed them out. Then, embarrassed, he looked up. “You have dreams, Faramir. You always have. I too dream. I dreamt I saw Boromir in a boat, drawn down the River by the current, past Minas Tirith and headed out to the Sea. He was not sitting.” Denethor gulped back a sob. “He was dead, Faramir. He lay dead in the bottom of the boat, with his sword broken in his hands.”

Faramir shuddered. He took Denethor’s hands in his own. “So you send him away from Gondor to spare him this fate?”

“I do. The time of the dream is now. He is of the same age as he is now,” his brow rose in horror. “He must be saved, Faramir, at all cost. Do you not agree?”

“I do. Remove him from Gondor, send him North, and he cannot ride the River to his doom. Have you told him?”

“Nay! And I will not. He must go with courage; not afraid of a fate that may not be, a fate we can save him from.” His voice grew strong and fierce. “We can save him, Faramir.”

A knock interrupted him. Boromir opened the door. “The Council is to meet in one half hour’s time, Father. Might I help you dress?”

“Come in, my son. Faramir understands and agrees with me. You will take the Quest. I will tell the Council. When do you think it best to leave?”

“Tomorrow. At first light. The need is very great, Father. I think it best I not wait any further. Besides, once I am gone, Faramir might receive respite from the dreams. What say you, my brother?”

Faramir stood and pulled Boromir to him. “I say I will be with you at first light and send you off with a warrior’s fare well.”

“Thank you, Faramir. Thank you.” He choked on the last words. “I am sorry.”

“Nay! I fully agree with father. You are the one who can fulfill this Quest, find the sword and bring it back to Minas Tirith. Find the answers to the riddle the dream presents.”

They let each other go, sorrowfully. Denethor pushed the bedclothes back and stood up. “Now, if one or the other of you would help me with the mail. It is a little heavy.”

Once he was dressed, the three men moved to the family’s dining room. They ate quickly and quietly, all lost in thought. When they finished, they walked down the stairs, Denethor in front and Boromir and Faramir behind him. They walked into the Great Hall together, Denethor in the middle, Boromir on his right and Faramir on his left. The Lords of the Council stood and greeted them. Húrin stood next to the Chair.

“We have discussed many things this day, but none more important than the dream that my sons have had. I have decided to send Boromir to the North to find this Elven stronghold and bring back answers to the dream.”

“What will Gondor do with its Captain-General off on some misbegotten quest?”

“We will not send our sons to Minas Tirith while your son goes off on some lark.”

The last statement of all those thrown at them by the Council incensed Faramir beyond his ability to hold his tongue. “Boromir goes off on a dangerous Quest to find help for Gondor. He will be going alone. He will be going to places we do not even have maps for. He will be risking his life for Gondor. It is not a lark.” Faramir’s fury quelled them all. Not often did the youngest son of Denethor speak at a Council meeting. They sat in amaze and a few in some slight fear.

“Faramir speaks truly.” Denethor spoke so quietly, some did not hear. “You insult my son by your words. I have told you before, you may insult me, but you will never insult my sons. The Council is dismissed.” He turned and walked out of the Hall, Boromir and Faramir striding quickly to follow him.

“Because I spoke the truth? I have warned them before, Faramir. I will not countenance this lack of respect. Now, let us to my chambers. The archivist has found one more map that I think we should view.”

They spent the next hour pouring over a map as old as the Citadel itself. At last, Denethor sat back in frustration. “Naught! It is as if none of our people ever rode beyond Calenardhon. At least the maps to the Fords of Isen are complete; after that, my son, you are on your own. Somewhere to the North lies Imladris. I have no further information.”

Boromir sat back in surprise at the vehemence of Denethor’s response and the fear in Faramir’s voice as they both shouted at him. He held his hands up. “Peace. I will travel through Rohan, if that is your wish.”

Faramir sat back, eyes misting; Denethor stood, moved around the desk, and held his eldest by the shoulders. “You will travel West to Edoras, then to the Gap of Rohan and North, until you find Imladris. You will return the same way. You will stay away from the Anduin.”

Boromir nodded, his face still open in shock and surprise. Denethor realized they had almost let loose the secret reason for sending Boromir on this Quest. “Stop at Meduseld. Be wary though, I have seen… I have heard disquieting things about Théoden’s counselor. After your audience with Théoden, send me a missive as to your thoughts. I fear for the alliance between Gondor and Rohan; I must know Théoden’s heart.”

“Mayhap there are still settlements near the old port of Tharbad. I will find others who will help me on this Quest, never fear, Father.”

“I know you will. I would have you ask a boon of Théoden. I believe he will give it, if for naught but memory of the friendship we once shared. Ask for a horse; a horse that is fit for a long journey.”

“Your horse is fit for battle, a true warrior’s horse. But you do not go to battle, Boromir. You go on a long journey and must have a suitable horse, one that is accustomed to traveling the grasslands of Calenardhon. Further west, the forests of Enedhwaith are gone; you will be traveling upon land west of the Isen that has been devastated for more than an age. There are no roads to speak of.”

“I will do as you ask. I am sure Théoden will find a suitable mount. Now, if you will excuse me, I must finish packing.”

The mountain air was refreshing, after the stench of Orc and the fear of the unknown assailants. Denethor had named them Black Riders and so they would be known. But none of that would be thought of this afternoon. The brothers Mir were saying their farewells in the only place that ever really mattered to them – the small copse above the City where they had always shared their grief, their joys, their loves.

As they lay in the sweet-smelling grass, Faramir began to weep, quietly, but not quietly enough for Boromir not to hear. “You hold some secret in your heart that causes you pain?”

“I will not ask, since you deem it unfit to tell. However, I would ask you to have some hope, little brother.” His sad smile was missed as Faramir turned his back to him. “This grief is beyond endurance?”

Faramir turned back and leaned full upon his back. He bit his lip and shook his head.

Boromir’s own head bowed. After a small grimace, he looked up. “The sky is beautiful here, Faramir. It takes my breath away sometimes. Do you not ever wish to fly? I do. I sometimes see the peregrine and think how wondrous it must be to spread one’s wings and let the wind take one off. No duty to hold oneself to the earth.” He paused, knowing Faramir understood duty, but then continued, “The view here is never enough for me. I want to see it all, unhampered by mountains and such.” He pulled on an unlucky eyebrow. “I think Nana felt the same way. Have you…” He chuckled. “Of course you have read her poetry.” He looked over at his brother, eyes lit in joy. “You did not think I read her tome?” Cuffing Faramir on the side of his chin, he laughed aloud, “I am not as dull-witted as you might think. I do, occasionally, read.”

“That is better. Put these thoughts of grief from you for the nonce, Faramir. If truth be told, I need a moment of joy, of peace. My heart misspeaks this Quest, but I must be about it. If I dwell too long in thought, I will quake in my boots. Do not tell Father,” he smiled wryly.

Faramir struggled to sit up; now understanding Boromir’s need, he pulled himself from the malaise that weighed him down. “I would be an eagle, I think, if given the choice. Peregrine dwell too close to the mountains. Eagles fly over the mountains, but also the plains, and far over the sea. They can soar for hours. I think I would need more than a few moments flight. Their eyes see far. That is another thing I would like. To see as far as…” His chin shook and a sob escaped his lips. “I would see to the ends of the earth.”

“You would follow me, high in the sky, as I trudged through the miles that lay before me?” A gentle laugh.

“I would watch you and laugh as you wandered, lost, amongst the plains of Rohan.”

“Rohan is not my concern, little brother. The road, though not good, is still well marked. It is once I leave Rohan and enter the lands beyond… Father says the Great West Road meets the North-South Road and is called by some the Greenway, it is so o’er run with weeds and grasses.” He cuffed Faramir’s chin again. “Besides, I would have you stop this constant haranguing of my ability to read signs and follow paths.”

“You know as well as I that you have some small difficulty with direction. I think, if Mindolluin were not at your side, you would not know which way was east and which west.”

Boromir tried to look stern and failed utterly. “You have spoken with Beregond?” His raised eyebrow at Faramir’s nod looked quite comical. “He is an untrustworthy aide!”

The youngest brother had not a moment to finish his sentence ere Boromir was on top of him, flailing at him in mock rage. The brothers tussled for many long moments until Faramir’s kick landed a little too harshly upon Boromir’s stomach. “I’m sorry,” Faramir quickly held his brother close. “I did not mean it to land.”

Boromir sat still for a moment, collecting his breath, relishing the feel of his brother’s arms. So warm and comforting. He had spoken rightly: Faramir and Denethor were hiding something, and it did make him quake. For these two to be afraid for him… What had they seen, his kin that were so foresighted? “It is my fault; I did not duck.” He finally gasped.

Faramir let him go and lay back upon the grass, nursing a bruised thigh. “You landed a few kicks yourself,” he laughed.

“Something to remember me by.” Boromir’s laughter rang through the mountain.

Faramir sobered and lay back down to hide his face. “I would come with you. Would you change your mind and take me?”

“I cannot. Gondor does ill enough with my absence. And Father will have need of you.”

Faramir almost choked. “I think not. We are too at odds, these days, to be of much use to one another.”

Boromir turned to him, pulled him from his reposing position, and held his arms tightly. “Then you must change that! I speak truly, Faramir. It is Gondor’s weal we speak of now. You and he must converse easily and with respect for each other. You cannot lose the love he has for you, but you grow close to losing his respect.”

Faramir glared at his brother, then relented. “I have oft been grateful for your mediation. I will do my best. I do listen and obey, when I can. There are times, like the new order he has given of trespassers, that I disagree vehemently.”

“You understand, do you not, why he has issued such an order? Gondor is in the last throes of this battle. We must do everything we can to protect her. Thus, keeping strangers from our borders is of the utmost importance.”

“Keeping them from our borders is one thing: murdering them, once they are found, is another.” Faramir fairly shook with rage.

“You will obey him, whether you agree or not. Spread the word. Let all who come close to our borders be told of the new order. That should spare lives. Post signs. The Orc cannot read them, but those who can will be warned and will keep away.” Boromir shook his head. “I understand your reluctance. But anyone who enters Gondor’s borders nowadays does so with an evil purpose in their hearts. Do not be swayed by soft voices and gentle words, little brother. You felt the Black Riders evil; they will sway others who seem fair to their ways. I would not have you go out, innocent to these things.”

Faramir snorted. “Let us speak no further on this issue. I will continue to speak with Father in its regard in hopes of having it rescinded, but I will obey. And I will post signs.” He snorted again, “But I fear the Orcs will pull them down as soon as I post them.”

“Then repost them. It is a little enough task to save a life. Now, what did you bring to eat?”

“Me? I thought you brought the basket!” He smiled at Boromir’s look of chagrin, stood and walked to a nearby tree and pulled forth a pack hiding behind it. “Only the best as a last…” He swallowed hard and bit his lip. “It is a fine repast. Let us eat.”

“Nay. As I have told the Steward, stealth and surprise are my greatest allies in this. I go alone.” He paused, lay down the shirt he was folding, and walked to his aide’s side. “I could make you a captain again.”

“You know my feelings on that score, Boromir. I would serve in the Citadel, if I might. Not one of the guards of the Fountain; perhaps with the Third Company?”

“It shall be done, but this is against my wishes. Your loyalty has been a gift for me, Beregond.” He walked back to his kit and began to fold the neglected shirt. He dropped the shirt again, put his hand to his forehead, scratched it, and looked up at his aide. “Damrod and Mablung will be at Faramir’s side at Henneth-Annûn, yet I would have him have a friend when he returns to the City for Council meetings and such. I ask a great favor of you, Beregond. Will you befriend him? Protect him whilst he is in Minas Tirith? Especially with my father?”

Beregond’s Captain-General sat at his desk and wrote new orders, then handed them to his aide. “Give these to Húrin, after I am gone. Now,” he stood once again, “is my horse ready?”

“I broke my fast with him.” Boromir’s eyes grew moist. “He rues this decision. I fear there is something he is not telling me.”

Beregond folded and packed the shirt, then closed the kit. He began dressing Boromir in his over tunic, then draped the Horn of Gondor over his captain’s shoulder, and strapped the scabbard to Boromir’s belt, at last, handing over the sword.

“The smithy spent the whole afternoon on it yesterday. It could cut Mindolluin marble, if you were so inclined.”

Boromir laughed. “I will miss you,” he said fervently. “Take care of my brother.”

“My word is my oath, Captain-General.” Beregond hesitated a moment, “Boromir, you will ever be in my thoughts.”

Boromir grasped the warrior’s shoulder and tightened his grip, then let go, swung his kit over his shoulder, and walked from the room.

As he passed through the Courtyard, soldiers greeted him. Some even stepped forward to offer well wishes for success. The news had flown through the Citadel, once Denethor had announced it to the Council. ‘So much for secrecy,’ he thought wryly. ‘I wonder if the Enemy himself knows of my plans.’ He tried to quell the shiver that threatened to overtake him, but managed only to keep it from laying him flat upon the marble stones of the Courtyard.

Denethor watched from the window as the two brothers met in the Sixth Circle below the Tower window. The morning’s breaking of their fast had been stiff and stilted. Faramir and Húrin came too, but Húrin left as soon as he was done with his meal. Faramir stayed but for a short time; Denethor knew his youngest felt his father’s need to speak with Boromir unaccompanied. Once they were alone, they spoke quietly of the maps and the route Boromir would take, a bit about Rohan and what might be expected; Denethor gave written notes for Théoden and Théodred, then, at Boromir’s urging, spoke of Faramir and his place as interim Captain-General. In fact, now that Denethor recalled it, Boromir spoke almost exclusively of Faramir. He chuckled. ‘He thinks I will denigrate the boy unto estrangement.’ Finally having reassured Boromir, the time to leave had come. He embraced his eldest, his heir, for only a moment, thoughts of Finduilas’ leave taking filling his very being. He held himself in check as long as he could, not letting Boromir feel the shivers that threatened to engulf him. Once Boromir left him, he walked slowly to the Tower room, ignored the calling of the stone, and walked to the window.

After a few moments and recognizing the pain his two sons were enduring, he turned in sorrow to the stone. Rohan spread before him: endless plains still as the dead, summer winds failing them; lands brown and scorched by the drought that was plaguing the horsemen’s reign. It would not be a good harvest for the Men of the Mark. Hunger would cause deaths this winter, deaths Rohan could ill afford. ‘Though,’ and the thought made him shiver in horror that he even gave it a thought, ‘the children and infirm will die first. Rohan will still have its warriors. But the roads are clear, though it is strange there are no patrols on them. Yet, I see no Orc activity.’

Grief bubbled up inside him. ‘Children and infirm.’ The Houses were overcrowded since the Battle and the orphanages were filled beyond capacity. He would have to meet with Húrin this forenoon and make further arrangements. There were at least four large, unoccupied mansions on the Fifth Circle that would be suitable for orphanages. But where to get those to care for the children? Then, there was the matter of the memorial. The count of dead finally had ended at four hundred and ninety-two. And most of them would be sorely missed. He shook himself in anger. ‘Think not of them as warriors; think of them as husbands and fathers and know the sorrow of their passing is more grievous to those they leave behind.’ He bowed his head in wonder. ‘Nay. Their passing is more grievous for it leaves Gondor even less prepared than before. And if Gondor falls, then what good is it for them to have husbands and fathers? They will soon all face the Enemy’s wrath. It seems all my machinations at defense are lost.’ A sob cut through him. ‘Everything I do is for naught.’ His hands slipped from the globe as his knees failed him. “Would that what I do for Boromir is not for naught,” he cried aloud.

Faramir walked forward as he came out of the Seventh Gate onto the Sixth Level. “Your horse is ready. There are a few choice gifts in her bags. Treat her well and tell the Rohirrim to send her back to us. It will be one sign that you have at least reached one stage of your journey. Though I give it not much hope, Boromir. You have gotten yourself lost on the Fourth Level.”

The laughter that burst from Boromir’s mouth caused many a guard to look at him in wonder. “You are an impertinent brat, did you know that?”

Another outburst of laughter greeted this witticism. “If I could, I would take you with me,” Boromir said with a great smile, “for I am sure I will need some laughter in the coming months.”

Faramir drew in a sharp breath. “I would come, if you would allow it.” His throat tightened and Boromir felt the sorrow flow from his brother.

Faramir shook his head, “Nay.” Boromir began to mount; Faramir’s hand stayed him. “I would ask you to watch your back. You have told me the same so many times that I wonder if you remember it yourself. Boromir.” Tears welled in his eyes, “Come back to me.”

“I have seen nothing,” he gave a short laugh, “except for waves and cloudy skies and heard only words of Halflings and banes.” He grimaced in mock surprise. “I see you take the Horn of Gondor and yet, how am I to be Captain-General if you take the guarantee of it, the very symbol of the title?” He kept his tone light.

“Of course,” Faramir smiled. He sobered once again. “Take it with you and wind it at every stage of your journey. I will hear it; you know I will. Boromir,” he pulled his brother to him and hugged him fiercely, “I love you. Come back to me.”

Boromir nodded, returned the embrace, and quickly kissed Faramir on the brow. “I will hang Damrod and Mablung if ill comes to you. Remind them of that.”

Faramir smiled through his tears. “Come back to me,” he mouthed as Boromir mounted and rode off. The youngest son of Denethor ran to the embrasure and watched his brother’s slow progress towards the Great Gate. The Horn’s call echoed through the City as Boromir passed out through the Gate and onto the Pelennor. Faramir bent his head and wept.

“He will return to us. We have cheated death, Faramir. I thank you for agreeing to this.”

He turned in surprise, “How could I not, Father! If this will save Boromir, what matters it if I had the dream first, or fifty times, or not at all. I have not had the vision you did. Are you sure?”

“Visions cannot be confirmed until the time of the event passes. I know not if it is genuine, but I dare not tempt fate by keeping him here.”

After many moments, Denethor pulled him away. “It is time for you to return to Henneth-Annûn. As soon as the first missive arrives, I will send for you.”

I have been poisoned. If not for Éomer, I would now be dead and buried in some unmarked grave in the foothills of the White Mountains. As it is, I am barely recovered, but Éomer says we must leave tonight. He has kept me hidden for a little more than a fortnight now in a room in the back of a smithy, nursing me until I was well again. I am not quite well, but rumors fly that I am still in Edoras and we must be away. He is sending me with one of Théodred’s marshal’s, Grimbold, to a paddock on the west side of Edoras. There we will be able to procure me a horse and I can be on my way. Grimbold will ride with me to the Fords and Théodred’s camp. I will be most happy to be away from this place.

I should have known though, and chide myself thoroughly! I tried to be careful, once I saw her, but… I speak of the Rohirric healer who tried to murder me last year. She is now healer to the snake who advises Théoden. I was concerned, as soon as I saw the high status she now has. Éomer is most distraught after his promise to you, Father, that she would be punished. She has been exalted instead, but there is naught he can do.

Father, you asked me to assess Théoden’s state: it is bad, very bad. He looks as if death sits on his doorstep. His advisor is a worm of a man, you remember him! Wormtongue, Éomer calls him. I cannot blame poor Théoden for anything that has happened to me. He has lost his wits. I fear Gondor will receive no aid from Rohan, but Éomer has vowed that he and his men will answer your call. He said Théodred is of like mind.

I must be away now. Grimbold waits and even another moment may prove a fool’s thought. Éomer has promised to place this missive in the hands of a trustworthy rider. I will write again, once I reach Théodred’s forces.

Mettarë came and went and still there was no word from Boromir. Faramir had returned to Minas Tirith, without being summoned, in hopes that somehow Boromir had returned. But there was no sign of the eldest son; the Mettarë feast was subdued and tense. At last, Faramir left for Henneth-Annûn and Denethor returned to his lonely vigil in the Tower room.

Húrin had stopped asking where his lord spent his nights. The Warden was appalled at the look of his Steward: gaunt, sallow-skinned, and nigh unto listless. If they did not hear from Boromir soon, the poor Warden wondered if Denethor would survive. How could the boy not send a missive? What was wrong with him? There would have been ample opportunity whilst he procured a horse in Edoras. Théoden would not be disinclined to send a rider to the Rohirric garrison at the Mering; then one of the riders of Gondor could have brought the missive here. He did not understand. Mayhap he should send a rider to Edoras himself. ‘Nay,’ he thought, ‘I will send a rider to the garrison at Halifirien. They will tell me when Boromir passed by. That will give me some idea of when he might have entered Edoras.’ He shivered. ‘He must have passed through Edoras, unless there was evil in that place. How would he have known to keep his distance? Perhaps Éomer? The boy patrols the Eastfold; mayhap he met Boromir and advised him to skirt Edoras? But that makes no sense. Gondor and Rohan are still allies. I will send a rider and ask for… I dare not ask for news from the Rohirrim at the Mering. If Théoden is no longer Gondor’s ally, then it would be ill to ask. If we have lost Rohan’s friendship, then darkness is truly upon us.’ He swore a particularly vile curse and sent for Hirgon.

A/N – Since there are so many pieces/parts to TA ‘3018’ – the footnotes are quite long. They are listed below as they appeared in the story above, TA 3018: Part Three and Four. Please see Copious Notes for Part One and Two at the chapter’s page.

A/N – 1) “But it was at the coming of the Halfling that Isildur’s Bane should waken, or so one must read the words,” he insisted. “If then you are the Halfling that was named, doubtless you brought this thing, whatever it may be, to the Council of which you speak, and there Boromir saw it. Do you deny it?’ Frodo made no answer. “So!” said Faramir. “I wish then to learn from you more of it; for what concerns Boromir concerns me. An Orc-arrow slew Isildur, so far as old tales tell. But orc-arrows are plenty, and the sight of one would not be taken as a sign of Doom by Boromir of Gondor. Had you this thing in keeping? It is hidden, you say; but is not that because you choose to hide it?” TTT: Book IV: Ch.5: The Window On The West.

2) Faramir calls Galadriel the ‘Mistress of Magic’ in TTT: Book 4: Ch. 5: The Window on the West.

3) FotR: Book 2: Ch. 1: The Council of Elrond – “In that dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Of these words we could understand little, and we spoke to our father, Denethor, Lord of Minas Tirith, wise in the lore of Gondor. This only would he say, that Imladris was of old the name among the Elves of a far northern dale, where Elrond the Halfelven dwelt, greatest of lore-masters. Therefore my brother, seeing how desperate was our need, was eager to heed the dream and seek for Imladris; but since the way was full of doubt and danger, I took the journey upon myself. Loth was my father to give me leave, and long have I wandered by roads forgotten, seeking the house of Elrond, of which many had heard, but few knew where it lay.”

4) “Thus though no ‘halfling,’ so far as is known, had ever actually appeared in Gondor before Peregrin Took, the existence of this people within the kingdom of Arthedain was known in Gondor, and they were given the name Halfling, or in Sindarin perian. As soon as Frodo was brought to Boromir's notice [at the Council of Elrond] he recognised him as a member of this race. He had probably until then regarded them as creatures of what we should call fairy-tales or folklore. It seems plain from Pippin's reception in Gondor that in fact ‘halflings’ were remembered there.” Unfinished Tales:

A/N - I wasn’t going to go with anyone else having the dream, but the Muse thought it most appropriate. In HoMe VII, it even states that Denethor had it. I couldn’t quite go that far!!! “A dream came many months ago to the Lord of Minas Tirith in the midst of a troubled sleep; and afterward a like dream came to many others in the City, and even to me. Always in this dream there was the noise of running water upon one hand, and of a blowing fire upon the other; and in the midst was heard a voice, saying: Seek for the Sword that was broken:” HoMe: VII: Verse VI: The Council of Elrond.

A/N – on why Boromir was sent. Besides the fact that many believe Boromir ‘forced’ Denethor to send him, there is nothing that substantiates that in the books. I have never found, either in any of the Tolkien books, nor in fanfiction, a ‘binding’ reason why Denethor sent Boromir. So, the Muse expounded this theory – that Denethor ‘saw’ his son dead on the Anduin, and – to protect him from such an end – sent him as far from the Anduin as possible. Poor man – didn’t work! If you have quibbles over this – I swear it is not NOT canon… however, there is nothing mentioned of such an event that would make it NON-canon.

Characters besides the usual (so far):
Aerin – wife to Beregond and mother of Bergil
Avranc – Council member
Beldis – Hurin’s wife
Belegorn – aide to Denethor
Beregond – aide to Boromir
Brodda – Council member
Celebrin – Boromir’s horse at Osgiliath
Elatan – engineer
Galdor – Captain of Amon Din
Grimbold – Théodred’s Marshal
Gwinhir – Captain of Pelargir
Hador – Captain of Cair Andros
Hundor – Council member
Isilmo – acting Captain of Osgiliath
Mardil – Captain of Amon Anwar
Meneldil - engineer
Oromendil† – Captain of Osgiliath
Ragorn – member of Denethor’s personal guard
Tarcil – Lord of Lebennin

Amlach – Henneth-Annûn Captain
Amlaith – Denethor's third aide in three years
Argon – Master Warden of the Houses of Healing
Baranor – Aide to Captain Guilin at Amon Dîn; father to Beregond; Recalled to
Minas Tirith and made tutor for esquires.
Belegorn – Lieutenant under Mardil at Amon Anwar; recalled to Minas Tirith as
Denethor's aide.
Beregond – Guard at the Causeway Forts; promoted to Captain of Amon Dîn; demoted
and made Boromir's aide.
Damrod – Ranger from Henneth-Annûn
Derufin – Of Blackroot Vale - Aide to Boromir
Dirhavel – Healer - Osgiliath

“The winds seem colder, sharper this year, do they not? A dismal winter.” Denethor pulled his cloak tightly about him. Finally, he spoke of his real concern. “There has been no word from Boromir. No word at all. Rumors have started; my people are not fools. If a missive had come, all would know – reports, even those deemed secret, have a way of becoming general knowledge.” He did not expect an answer from Húrin. Denethor’s gray eyes searched northward, but of course – he saw naught. After an hour, he walked slowly back to the Hall, followed by his Warden of the Keys. As they approached the guard, Húrin snapped his fingers; a cloak was given to him, and he placed it around his master’s back. “Warmed by a fire,” Denethor said gratefully as he let it fall over his shoulders in replacement of the half-frozen one.

“The winter,” Faramir mused, “seems long, cold and dismal – more than any I have ever remembered.” Húrin could scarce control the laughter that tried to escape; he had heard almost the same words come from Denethor’s mouth just the previous night.

A wan smile quirked the left side of Faramir’s mouth. “It has taken a heavy toll on my father.”

Húrin knew a reply was not required, for any could see that the Steward of Gondor looked agéd beyond the years of a man with the blood of Númenor. A grim man, many had called him after Finduilas had passed, but if he had appeared grim before, Denethor was now bleak.

“Is it that there has been no word from, nor about Boromir that causes the white in my father’s hair?” He turned and looked long upon the Steward’s Warden of the Keys, “Or is it something else? Do you also hide something from me?”

Húrin wondered if it best to tell Faramir of the long nights Denethor spent in the Tower room, but thought better of it. If Denethor had wanted his youngest to know what he did up in that accurséd room, then it was Denethor’s purview to tell his son. Húrin himself could only surmise what occurred there, though all of Gondor buzzed with rumors.

Faramir shifted his weight as he stood in the room off Denethor’s study, with the Warden of the Keys, waiting now for over an hour for his father.

“Is it ill of me,” Faramir asked Húrin, “to wish Father would share this unknown burden? Not,” Faramir chuckled dryly, “that I am completely unburdened myself.” Though Denethor’s son had been stationed at Henneth Annûn since Boromir had been sent north, Húrin knew that Captain Faramir now carried the weight of duty of both sons. The young captain found himself more and more called back to the City – to attend Council meetings, to assign the roster of the troops, and even such mundane tasks as to see that Gondor’s army was fed!

“You will not tell me, Hurin? What does he in the uppermost chamber of the Tower? Do you think I do not hear the rumors? I heard again today, ere I even entered the Citadel, that the Lord of the Tower of Guard battles the Lord of Barad-dûr.” Faramir shivered. “Does my father confide in you, my cousin?”

The Chamberlain, just entering and noting Faramir’s action, asked if his lord needed the fire stoked, or perhaps a cup of tea.

Faramir thanked the man and dismissed him as Denethor came into the room. Faramir noted that Húrin averted his eyes.

“Your journey was not difficult?” The Steward nodded, acknowledged the presence of his Warden of the Keys, but directed all his attention upon his son.

“It is the same here.” Denethor looked off into the distance, seeing what, Faramir did not know. He held his tongue.

His son nodded, knowing full well that Denethor knew that he and the Rangers had seen Easterlings, Haradrim and other troops amassing by the thousands. But that had been a fortnight ago; there had been no movement since.

The Chamberlain stepped through the door and waited. After a moment, Denethor nodded to him. The man left. Denethor heaved a sigh. “It is time,” he said unnecessarily. Faramir helped his father don his heavy, black cloak, then placed the circlet upon Denethor’s brow. The Steward fidgeted with his ring and Faramir’s eyes misted at the sight of the bony finger the ring now tried to perch upon. Húrin shrugged at the question in the young lad’s eyes. Denethor did not miss either gesture. “I must have this sized. It has always been too large.”

Denethor looked long into Faramir’s eyes, then he embraced his youngest. Stepping back, the Steward cleared his throat. “At least…”

“Boromir yet lives,” Faramir broke in. “We do not remember any from the House of Húrin on this Day of Commemoration.”

Swallowing hard, Denethor clasped his son’s arm. “Indeed, we do not. None of the House of Húrin fell this past year. It is fortunate that Damrod and Mablung were at your side when the bridge fell, else their names would be on today’s roster. Come.” He led Faramir from the room, across the long entrance hall, and into the Great Hall. Húrin turned right and entered the Hall from the rear.

The Chamberlain three times struck his staff against the hard Mindolluin marble floor. The echoes of the massive strokes filled the Hall, reverberating to the ceiling, and bringing all within, lords, ladies, warriors, and knights, to instant silence.

The Steward of Gondor, flanked by his youngest and the Chamberlain, walked down the center aisle to the Chair. Stepping up the three stairs, Denethor’s gaze caught hold of the Throne and he stopped. ‘Thorongil!’ he thought wildly, ‘if you had been here, would my son now be off on this fool’s errand?’ The touch of Faramir’s hand upon his arm pulled him from the heartache that assailed him. He turned and stood before the Chair. Faramir stepped to his left, his accustomed spot, while Húrin took Boromir’s place on Denethor’s right. A servant stood behind the Warden of the Keys holding a large, oval, mithril plate.

Again the Chamberlain struck the floor three times - all sat, except the Steward of Gondor, his youngest, and his Warden of the Keys. The Chamberlain turned, handed the Rod of Gondor to its Steward, and stepped back.

“My people,” Denethor began, “We have come to the beginning of the new year, one that some believe will be fraught with danger. However, an augury, a sign, a portent has been given to us, first through Faramir, my son, and then through others. Boromir, my Heir, was the last to receive this sign. Upon careful consideration by your Steward and your Council, it has been discerned to be a symbol of hope for Gondor. Thus, I have sent my eldest northward to the Elves of Rivendell.”

He stopped speaking as the import of his words struck those in attendance; a ripple of excitement exploded into loud murmuring. Denethor knew his words would evoke such a response. Most knew Boromir had been sent forth, most knew of the dream, but for these things to be acknowledged by the Steward, Denethor knew, was unprecedented. However, Gondor’s Steward knew his people would have need of hope if they were to survive this year. Every fiber in Denethor’s body told him, this was the year that Gondor would either stand or fall. The mere mention of Elves as allies was a potent image of hope for his people. Faramir never moved, and for that, Denethor was grateful.

The Chamberlain rapped the floor once more and after the ensuing echo died down, the Steward found the Hall silent and attentive. He continued. “Rohan is ever faithful. Her king, Théoden, son of our beloved friend Thengel, readies to answer our call, should we have such need. Prince Imrahil,” he motioned to the Lord of Belfalas who nodded his head in acknowledgement, “prepares fresh troops for our aid, as do all the fief lords of Gondor. Ships lie in Dol Amroth’s harbor, as an impediment against a southern attack. Pelargir has been refortified with men of Ethir Anduin and Lebennin, as well as knights from Minas Tirith. You have all been witnesses to the great strides made upon the Rammas Echor. Gondor is ready.”

Most in the assemblage, Denethor knew, would not be fooled by their Steward’s words of boldness, for these lords and warriors knew the might of the Enemy more than most; yet, they would be heartened, for the nonce, by his words and thus able to face the coming memorial ceremony with some small hope.

Denethor sat, motioned, and the minstrels began to strum their harps, sound their crumhorns, and strike their instruments of percussion. A slow swelling of voices sang the song of mourning. When the dirge was finished, the Chamberlain stepped forward, again commanding attention with another three sharp cracks of his staff upon the marble floor. He called forth the name, Hador, and Dúinhir the Tall of the House of Hador, moved forward, carrying a parchment in his hand. The Lord of Blackroot Vale walked up the center aisle and stopped before the Chair, passing the parchment to Faramir, who presented it to his father. Denethor rolled the parchment open, silently read the names of the dead transcribed upon it, then handed it to Húrin, who placed it upon the mithril plate. The Lord of the House of Hador saluted the Steward, turned and left as the Chamberlain struck the floor again and called out the name, Haleth.

Another lord strode forward, this time Angbor of the House of Haleth; the Lord of Lamedon approached the Chair and offered Faramir his parchment. It was accepted by the Steward’s youngest and handed over to Denethor who unrolled it and read the names, then handed it to Húrin. Angbor saluted and returned to his seat.

Thus went the roll call of the dead; two hours the ceremony lasted and two hours Denethor stood, receiving the Scrolls of the Dead. Daily, the roll had been called, as Anor set behind the splendor of Mindolluin, but on this Commemoration Day, though not individually named, each fallen warrior was remembered and mourned.

Usually, the House of Húrin, the Stewards’ own House, was the last to be called. Amazingly, none from the House of Húrin had fallen, so the last House called was the House of Imrazôr, Dol Amroth’s own. Prince Imrahil stepped forward and held out the parchment. Denethor took it from the Lord of Belfalas, discomfiting Faramir, and unrolled it. It was long. The Steward looked up in surprise.

“A late attack upon Ras Morthill. Just as the year ended.” The Swan Prince pointed to a name.

“Míriel’s father,” Denethor whispered. The Steward looked up and searched Imrahil’s face. “Her mother?”

Denethor’s head turned only a measure and looked upon his son, noting the tears in the lad’s eyes. “It is a sad ending for a once noble house,” he said when he returned his gaze to Imrahil. The Prince of Dol Amroth saluted and returned to his seat. After handing the parchment to Húrin, the Steward of Gondor faced his people. He looked out upon the assembly that, upon the staff’s imperious command, stood. He felt the grief of his people. Perhaps he should have held his words of hope, addressed them now instead of at the beginning of the ceremony? ‘Nay. Nothing should detract from this memorial. Those who died protecting Gondor should have their full measure of honor. And though grief is the order of the day, honor is the word.’ Denethor turned to Faramir. “It is time.”

Faramir nodded and stepped forward. He waited while the chamberlain again thrice struck his staff. The crowd settled into their seats.

“Men of Gondor,” Denethor’s youngest began, “Tradition has been served again this day, a tradition established by Elendil himself long ago. Ever has Gondor stood firm against its enemies - by the blood of these warriors memorialized today, and the blood of their fathers’ fathers. When Elendil landed upon these shores and claimed the land for his people, he brought strength, courage and hope out of disaster and despair. Our homeland had been drowned to punish those who would trifle with the command of the Valar, turn their backs upon the One, and enslave and sacrifice those who were named Faithful.

“We are the Faithful, kept so by the blood of our fathers. The soil of Gondor cries out in sorrow, yet she takes our blood to nourish it. Gondor remains strong because of the blood of those we have lost this past year. Raise your voices with mine as we remember them. Call out their names and renew your vows to Gondor and to her people. Shout your defiance of all those who would dare to assail us. Let this Hall ring with our fallen warriors’ names and let all who hear the thunder of it, wonder. Let our enemies hear it and quake.”

The youngest son of Denethor unsheathed his sword and held it high. “For Gondor!”

The Hall erupted in the shouts of the people of Gondor. It rang with the sound of hundreds of swords being unsheathed. The voices of those present shouted out the names of their beloved dead, then quickly followed Faramir’s exhortation; the cacophony swelled and joined as one voice, “For Gondor! For Gondor!” Trumpets sang forth in the Great Hall, joined moments later by the trumpets of each level until the City fairly trembled with the noise.

Denethor slipped from the Hall and strode to the Tower, needing confirmation that the Enemy heard and was afraid.

“I remember the times at the Commemoration Ceremony when we would read each of the fallens’ names,” Húrin mused as he stared into the goblet. “There are too many now.”

“They are noted at the end of each day,” Damrod said tersely. “At least they are remembered.”

“The women and children left homeless, widows, orphans, the boys stolen from their villages and made to shift oars on Haradric vessels, the farmers killed in their fields. None of these are listed in the daily roll. Nor in the yearly log.”

“What were you thinking upon, Damrod?” Faramir asked, wondering what had come over his friend and aide. “What you speak of is as it has always been.”

“Galador dies and it is noted. But what of his wife? Faramir, I never even knew her name!”

“It was Meldis.” Faramir refilled his goblet, turned and topped off Húrin’s and Damrod’s also. “I did not know her, only met her once or twice. Her family was of a lesser rank. That is, Míriel’s mother’s family was from a lesser line. Galador, of course, was a close cousin of Prince Imrahil’s.”

“She was passionate, if she drove her husband to try to kill you. And then, she jumps off a cliff at his death…”

Faramir sat quietly. “It is as has been our tradition, Damrod. Soldiers are mourned on this day” The fire crackled, the wind blew outside, and yet, no sign of Denethor. His youngest shivered. “Húrin, Father has yet to return?”

“The Steward is passionate. Most do not see that,” Damrod considered. “I knew it not myself until last year. When he thought… Forgive me, Faramir, but I believe he cares deeply for you; I do not think he knows how to show it.”

His friend nodded. “He cares.” A smile lifted the corners of Faramir’s mouth. “Both he and Boromir are passionate.”

“So are you, Faramir” Húrin said, puzzled by the turn of conversation. “I have seen it in your eyes when your men have suffered a defeat. Nay, even when you have won a battle but have lost men. You are like unto your father.”

Faramir’s brow knotted. “I suppose I am. Just not as verbose.” He turned to Damrod. “I would have all the names spoken, Damrod. The ceremony took two hours as it is. Many names are not even identified. They have fallen unknown. But that does not mean they are less worthy. All who were in the Hall today, and all of Gondor, know that others have given their lives.”

Damrod bowed his head. “Hearing Galador’s name… Though I suffered a wound from him, it was less than his wife suffered at the death of their daughter. I… My heart bled for him that day. And for her.”

The men sat in silence, each one remembering someone fallen who was dear to them, as they waited for their Steward to return.

It was nigh unto the wee hours of the morning when Denethor entered the study, scarcely noticing them. He went to the sideboard and poured a large whiskey. As he turned, he acknowledged them. “Faramir,” he said quietly and his tone was harsher than he meant it, for he noted sourly that his son cringed. He spoke more softly, “When last did you see the Wizard?”

“Then you know not that he was in Rohan months after your brother left here?”

‘Oh! The sarcasm in that voice,’ Denethor thought, his fury mounting. “Know you not where he traveled to?” He noted Faramir’s deep sigh and lashed out, “I will not have you hiding things from me – especially anything to do with the Wizard!”

Denethor could see Faramir struggle to compose himself before he replied. “If it is now your will that I tell you the comings and the goings of the Wizard, then I will purchase a diviner’s globe and find him.”

Denethor’s face went white, but before he could say a word, Damrod stood up and spoke, “Mayhap it is time for us to make our way back to Henneth Annûn, Captain. The Council has been adjourned; we are free to go.”

“It is truly time for you to return to Ithilien, Faramir.” Denethor put down his glass and turned away from his son. “I need reports on a small band of Orcs that are moving northward. By the time you reach Osgiliath, they should be at the Crossings. Make sure they are dealt with.”

Faramir nodded, hesitated for a moment, then strode to his father and embraced him. “I will see you at the next Council meeting?”

Faramir held the shiver, as his father did not return the embrace, then saluted, nodded to Húrin and left, closely followed by Damrod.

“We must evacuate Anórien,” Denethor began without preamble. “The fields must be abandoned.”

“Nay. It must be done now. The Rammas by the North Gate, Húrin; we have not yet fortified it nor raised it?”

“Then order it so,” Denethor sighed. “I had hoped to gain Faramir’s input on this.” The Steward’s eyes misted, then, Húrin noted, he seemed to pull himself together. “Put extra men on the detail, if you must. Have Ingold take charge. He is dependable and not easily frightened.”

“There probably will be,” the Steward said quietly. He began to pace in front of his desk. “Make the order that solitary errand-riders may no longer be dispatched; they must travel in threes. The garrisons of Amon Dîn and Cair Andros must each have another two companies stationed there.” He watched as Húrin’s eyebrows rose, but was grateful that his Warden did not question him further. ‘As Faramir would have!’ He brushed the thought aside. “And raise the number for a company to one hundred men at Osgiliath, Cair Andros, and Amon Dîn.” The Steward poured himself another glass. He had not sat since he entered the study.

Húrin pulled the rope and Denethor’s aide entered. “Order some food for the Steward” Belegorn nodded and left the room.

“I am not drunk,” Denethor stated icily, “though it probably would be better, making such changes as these.” He looked at his Warden. “You did not ask where we are to put the farmers and their wives.”

“I will procure accommodations for them. The Fourth Circle is almost vacant. More than one family can live in some of the abandoned mansions there.”

“If you raise the number of men in a company to one hundred, will you lower the number at garrisons less threatened? Perhaps to fifty men?”

“Nay. We will take the needed men from the Third Company, here at the Citadel.” His brow furrowed. “Double the guards at the granaries. We will probably have to ration, but not yet.”

“It is safe, for the nonce, unless the enemy climbs to the top of Mindolluin and dams the rivers. I cannot imagine that.”

Denethor knew his Warden wondered if the attack would be this year. “Soon,” he whispered, “soon.” He took another drink of the whiskey. “Another thing. All travel is banned without a pass. Any travel in Ithilien and Anórien without my permission is punishable by death.”

“Do you know, is there a problem with my errand-riders?” He waved away the servant who had brought a light repast.

Denethor finally sat; his right hand covered his forehead. “I must rest for an hour. We will meet again at dawn and break our fast together.”

Once his Warden was gone, Denethor stood again and walked to the stairs. Climbing slowly, he at last reached the suite before his own quarters. A long time ago, Thengel and Morwen with their children had lived in these rooms. Denethor leaned his head against the door in silent memory and was startled to have it open before him. ‘Must have the latch fixed,’ he thought absently as he entered the outer chamber. A lump formed in his throat and his eyes misted. “Well, my friend,” he said softly, “I wonder if you see what has befallen your son? The befuddlement that has assailed Théoden these past years has fogged his mind to everything.” His voice caught. “I hold no hope for Rohan’s help, never mind the oaths we took.” The sight of Théoden in the Palantír had been devastating; as much as Denethor had been aware of the slow decline of the King of Rohan, tonight’s view had been disquieting.

Denethor walked towards Thengel’s study and opened the door. It was heart breaking to see the top of the desk stark and empty. The Steward smiled as he remembered the clutter that had been its natural state when Thengel commanded the Tower Guard. Though the Riddermark was no longer the province of the Steward of Gondor, the Palantír still thought it a territory of Gondor, for seeing old Calenardhon through the stone was easy enough. Denethor had looked long into it this night, noting Théodred and Elfhelm assembled with their men near the Fords of Isen. He had also seen Éomer and his éored encamped near Aldburg. But most of all, his sight and his thoughts had been upon Théoden.

Denethor had looked westward often since Boromir’s departure. Every time Denethor looked, it seemed as if Théoden had aged another ten years. This night, Denethor had gasped at the sight of his friend’s heir, for Théoden looked as one of the mummified remains in the House of the Stewards. He sighed as he sat in Thengel’s chair. “It would seem there will be no help from Rohan.” Then he remembered Thengel’s vow, repeated by the Horse Lord’s son when Théoden was crowned King of the Mark. “When the time comes, I will still send the Red Arrow. And hope it will be answered.”

He looked up and saw the portrait of Morwen Steelsheen as it hung above the fireplace opposite the huge oak desk. He was so tired, he could not stop the tears that fell. “So many dead,” he whispered. “You, my friend, your lovely bride, Amdir, Listöwel, Arciryas, Indis.” He swallowed convulsively as he thought of Finduilas. “And this year, will my own sons follow? It would seem inevitable. Would that they fall in battle.”

Hirgon entered upon Denethor’s command. The captain of Gondor’s errand-riders saluted, then stood in front of his Steward.

“My Lord Steward, the roads have become more treacherous this past winter. I have lost many riders. There are only eight left. I must ask for more.”

“I have. He suggested I use the esquires, but they are not trained and hardly fit for such dangerous duty. Cannot some men be recruited from the Tower’s own companies?”

“Nay. I agree with Lord Húrin. Take twenty-three from the ranks of those in their last year of training. I have published an order today that the riders be sent out in threes. That should lessen the danger. Have two esquires attached to one seasoned rider.”

“She is poorly, my Lord. She had a fever this winter and it has left her weak. She sends her regards and fond thoughts, however.”

“She has mine, Captain. Do you still farm your father’s land on the Pelennor?”

“I am evacuating Anórien. The Warden suggests that the farmers and their families be settled into houses in the Fourth Circle. These are farmers, Hirgon. They will not be happy living in the City. Are there places on the Pelennor, on the farms, where I may send them instead?”

“I would be grateful to have experienced farmers on my land, though I cannot afford to pay them.”

“Nay. Gondor will pay for their food and such. You would give them shelter and work for their hands. Also, most will bring their livestock with them. We cannot shelter the beasts in the City.”

“There are many soldiers with farms on the Pelennor who are in the same circumstances that I find myself. They would gladly accept such help. It would pose little problem to house their livestock. Spring comes soon; the beasts will not need shelter, only places to graze.”

“Good. Once I have the count, I will ask you to work with Húrin to settle these exiles. I am sorry to place another burden upon you, but you have appointed yourself well in such things in the past and I know you are capable.”

“Good then. Húrin will call you when he is ready to discuss the farmers.” Denethor dismissed him, then sat at his own desk. He wrote his fourteenth missive to Théoden, requesting news about Boromir. No reply had been forthcoming. He bit his lip.

It was now late February and still there was no word of Boromir. Húrin had sent a rider – not to Edoras – to the garrison at Amon Anwar at the beginning of December, to see if any saw or heard of the Heir’s passage to Rohan. When the rider returned, he brought stark news. None had seen Boromir. Denethor pondered the report. ‘Why did not Boromir stop over at the garrison? Why had he ridden on to Rohan with no pause to see his men? After all, Boromir was Captain-General.’ Denethor had thought the boy would stop and do a cursory inspection if naught else. The Steward instructed his Warden to send out another rider, this time to each of the northern beacon hills to inquire if Boromir had stopped at any along the way. The rider came back with strange news: Boromir had not been seen at any of the garrisons. That meant he did not change horses; Denethor’s brow furrowed in dismay. What had come upon his son to not swap mounts, stop for replenishment of supplies, or inspect his men? His head hurt from the struggle to understand this strange behavior.

When Húrin and he spoke, once the rider had reported and been dismissed, his Warden was at a loss also. But Faramir, who had been in the City for Mettarë, suggested the seriousness of the mission with which Denethor had imparted upon his son was the cause of Boromir’s rush to complete it. Denethor had to accept that explanation, but not gladly. Always, Boromir had been rigorous in his attentions to his men; to have him choose to lose the opportunity to meet with them seemed incongruous.

Denethor finally put those thoughts aside and concentrated on his son. From the missives that flew sometimes thrice a day from Ithilien, Denethor knew Faramir was under attack almost hourly. Or leading attacks, for ever did Denethor send his son missives of the enemies’ movements in Ithilien and ever did Faramir obey his father. Which behavior stuck in Denethor’s craw. It should have made the Steward glad, the docile obedience of his son, but this behavior worried him. Faramir, of late, had appeared somehow resigned to all his father’s directives. Even the death sentence for trespassers. ‘Mayhap, ‘tis his concern for Boromir,’ Faramir’s father thought unhappily. ‘I must go back to the stone and see what I may. I do not understand this. And Théoden still refuses to reply to my inquiries. Boromir must be at Imladris. In fact, he should be returned to us by now.’ A low sob tore at him.

As he turned the corner towards the stairwell on the way to the Tower room, Húrin ran into him. “My Lord,” the Warden apologized profusely. “There is a delegation here from Lossarnach. Forlong asks that his men be relieved and sent back for the planting of crops.”

‘I cannot see them now. Tell them nay!” Fury stung his words as he thought of his own son, missing, perhaps lost. “Give them a missive for their lord, a missive stating I expect more men by the beginning of March.” He turned and almost ran up the stairs. “I will not return today,” he growled back.

Hirgon blocked his way as he attempted to pass towards his own quarters. Denethor stopped at the man’s look and sighed. “Come. You wish to speak with me?”

Hirgon nodded. “There are some problems with the errand-riders, my Lord.” He followed Denethor into the Steward’s study. “The esquires are afraid. My seasoned riders balk at having to train them, and there are still not enough for all the missives that are being sent.”

“I will not hear of frightened children or stubborn riders. Hirgon,” he paused. Something in the demeanor of his captain caused him to stop, then draw in a short breath. “Your mother?”

“I am sorry.” Denethor sat heavily in a chair across from the settle. “Sit. Tell me.”

“There is naught to tell, in truth. I was gone. By the time I returned, she was already in the ground.”

Denethor hung his head in sorrow. “I am sorry. Is there aught…? Do you need aught?”

‘Stoic, stalwart as ever. Just like his father,’ Denethor thought sadly. “The farmers? Are they in established farms?”

“They are, my Lord. Each family has been able to stay together. The farmers of the Pelennor are grateful for free, experienced labor.” Hirgon smiled tiredly.

“Of course they are. Men of Gondor are not simpletons. They know what they face, but they must use the esquires. It is the only way, for the nonce.”

Denethor nodded in acceptance, then stood. “I loved your father dearly. I am saddened to know your mother is now gone. We can hope that they will be together.”

Hirgon stiffened for a moment, grief overwhelming him at the kind words of the Steward. “Thank you, my Lord. The errand-riders will do you proud.”

“I know they will. As you have, Hirgon. Soon, I will have one important task for you. Send others on the routine errands. Save yourself for my use.”

The captain saluted and left him. Denethor pursed his lips hard. ‘Morgoth’s breath,’ he thought sourly, ‘they will all be dead before this is over.’ He turned and ran from the room.

Though not as young as he once was, and now encumbered by a heavy fighting sword and mail, he still smiled as he easily made it to the top of the Tower. The smile disappeared as soon as he opened the room’s door. He was becoming angry at the stone. Much as he had control and dominion over it for other places and other people, he still could not make the globe show him his own sons. Swearing raggedly, he tore the covering off the Palantír, grasped it firmly, faced north, and began his search.

‘The 25^thof February and still no sign of Boromir, no sign of Elves,’ he thought ruefully. The Steward could not see beyond the borders of Gondor, even the ancient ones, and yet he tortured himself by looking, first towards the Anduin. Boromir would surely come that way if he did not come by way of Rohan. He scoured the path of the River until his eyes burned. No sign of anything but a small movement of Orcs running eastward towards Amon Hen. ‘Where are the beasts coming from and where do they head?’ he wondered, but quickly put that thought aside. He was looking for Boromir. He growled for probably the hundredth time and turned his eyes, and thus the Palantír, upon the Mark.

Nothing anywhere near the base of Mindolluin and the Entwash. Struggling against fatigue, he looked further west. Edoras seemed calm and quiet; he did not look to see Théoden; he could not bear the sight of the weakened and useless king. ‘King!’ he scoffed. ‘King in name only. Who heads your country, Théoden? To whom have you given your throne? Not your son!’

When last he looked, at least a fortnight ago, Théodred had taken a Muster from Edoras and headed westward. Denethor was grateful that both Théodred and Éomer had accepted a trade of armor for horses last spring. The men under both Marshals were at least properly armored! He would look to Théodred. Perhaps his Boromir, knowing fully the danger of the land he traversed, would head south to Rohan, and thus return to Gondor from that quarter.

The Fords of Isen were crowded with men. All along the south of it, and some to the east and the north, stood ready for battle. Denethor drew his gaze closer and watched. ‘Ah!’ he sighed, ‘Young Théodred and his éored. And it appears more than his own. I think that is Erkenbrand holds the Keep? Elfhelm marches from Edoras and nears Theoden’s son. I wonder why they are massed thus?’ He thought upon it for a moment and looked south, to the mountains. ‘Perhaps there are Orcs attacking?’ But there were none. Still, Théodred and his riders seemed to be in battle stance. Denethor’s brow furrowed. He looked northward and the breath was stolen from him. Two large bands of Uruks, Orcs, men and Wolf-riders were coming down from Isengard. “Isengard!” he screamed in fury. ‘The wizard shows his true colors!’

The enemy was lined on either side of the Isen, as far as the eye could see. They were headed towards the Fords and Théodred. “If only the stone could speak, could shout,” he sobbed aloud. “I could warn him. He will lose the Fords and die as it is o’ertaken.” Théodred and his éored, though they were many and clothed in Gondorian army, stood little chance. Denethor watched as the battle raged on and was puzzled by the wizard’s tactics. Ever it seemed his underlings turned away from what would be victory, only to follow… He screamed again as the enormity, the horror of it struck him. “Théodred! He means to kill Théodred! Erkenbrand, Théodred! Send for Erkenbrand.” Though the army that marched forward from the wizard’s Tower was vast, still, with the skill of the Rohirrim and the armor of Gondor, and the men of Erkenbrand to uphold him, yet might young Théodred live.

It was not to be. Denethor watched into the afternoon as more and more of Théodred’s forces were cut down. A small group of archers had been sent to one end of the eyot, but Théodred himself had been forced back to the little island in the middle of the river. Hope sprang, for a moment, into Denethor’s eyes, as mounted troops rode forward, very close to hand, but just as their horses’ hooves touched the pebbled beach of the island, he saw a great orc-man. It stepped forward, axe held high, and clove Théodred’s skull before the lad even saw it.

Húrin hovered over his Steward, anxious as ever; Denethor could feel his Warden’s eyes on his back and in his very bones, but there was naught any could do to assuage the Steward’s grief. Once Denethor caught his breath, once he could stay the trembling in his legs, he would go to the practice yard and let the wooden dummy feel his fury over young Théodred’s death. For the nonce, he sat in front of a roaring fire and stared blankly into it. A corner of his mind watched as Húrin left the room, but Denethor had not the strength to explain. Nor could he. It would betray the tool he used and, though he thought Húrin and perhaps Faramir knew what it was, he still wished to keep it secret. The key to the Tower room was ever on the chain around the Steward’s waist; none had a duplicate, and he was not about to let his son look. The price was too great. He groaned in agony as his head pounded. It had been hours since he had looked, but the pain felt as strong as when he left the Tower room. He looked at his hands, old and grizzled with age spots. He chuckled dryly. ‘I am not old enough for hands like these.’ His hips hurt, his lungs… He needed to go to the practice yard. His body could not fail him now. ‘Not while Boromir yet lives.’

Beregond entered and saluted. “My Lord Steward, Prince Imrahil has come. He requests a moment?”

‘Imrahil,’ Denethor thought wildly. Why would the Prince of Dol Amroth be here? The Swan was just here for the Mettarë council. ‘I did not expect him back for another month.’ He stood and motioned for Beregond to wait, strode to his bedchamber and rang the bell. When the servant entered, he requested food and wine set up in his dining room, and then proceeded to disrobe. He could not remember when last he had changed clothes. Yesterday, the day before? The servant helped wash him down, then offered a new set of garments. Denethor let himself be dressed, especially with the mail, then turned and left the room, dragging his wet hair back away from his face.

“Ask Prince Imrahil to enter, Beregond. And send for Húrin.” The knight nodded; a moment later, Imrahil stood before the Steward of Gondor. Denethor stepped forward and embraced him. “My old friend,” he said. “It is good to see you again. Come. I have food prepared. Join me. I have yet to break my fast.” He nodded as his Warden entered. “You too, Húrin, eat with us.”

“I have come directly from the Harlond, Denethor.” Imrahil began. “I have much to speak with you. May we not repair to your study?”

Denethor motioned and the servant quickly gathered up the plates of cheeses, fruit, and meats, and walked behind the three into Denethor’s study. The Steward waited until the platters were arranged and the servant had left them.

“There have been rumors, Denethor. I do not yet know who spreads them, but they speak of defeat, within days.”

“Ah,” Denethor breathed a deep sigh. “So you have come to tell me Belfalas will not send troops when Gondor calls?”

Imrahil threw his gloves into a chair. “Morgoth’s breath, Denethor! I have pledged myself and my knights to you. What further must I do?” Dispiritedly, the Prince of Dol Amroth picked up his gloves and sat. “That is not what I am saying. I am asking, are we under attack?”

Handing a goblet of deepest red wine to his friend and then to Húrin, Denethor sat himself and drank it down. “Théodred is dead.”

“By the Valar! It cannot be. How, Denethor? When?” Both men spoke almost in unison.

“Yesterday, sometime in the evening. Orcs and men – a large contingent from the north. Yet, and this I do not understand, his foe withdrew after he was murdered; they did not stay to finish off Théodred’s troops. Though I suppose that is the crux of the matter. I believe they were bound and determined to kill Theoden’s son. Ordered to assassinate Theoden’s heir. Once the boy was dead, why should they stay? Yet it seems odd to me.” His brow furrowed, grief forgotten in the puzzle.

Imrahil gulped his wine, stood and refilled his glass and Denethor’s. Then he sat. “He was a fine boy.”

“The enemy. They left after Théodred was murdered. Where did they go? Why did they not attack Edoras? Or Helm’s Deep?”

“Nay. They would be fools to do that. There is much yet to be won in Rohan. Besides, Sauron himself watches over us.”

Denethor’s change of subject nonplussed Húrin, but he quickly recovered and answered, “I am told he left Osgiliath this morning. He should be here in a few hours.”

“Of course.” Húrin stood and rang the bell. Beregond entered. “Tell the watch to send Lord Faramir here as soon as he enters Minas Tirith.” The guard nodded, saluted, and left.

Imrahil looked down at his hands. “Théodred was a good man. I had thoughts for my daughter.”

“None. Tell me, Imrahil, have you no idea where these rumors sprang from – that Minas Tirith would fall in days?”

“Nay. Whispers. That is all we ever have, Denethor. Whispers of war and defeat and horror. It is not spies from Harad, that I can say for sure, but mayhap from… ”

“It is said that there have been whispers since before the Elves themselves were first found. It is the enemy’s way, Imrahil. The enemy’s way and we listen.”

Faramir entered the room just as nuncheon was being served. His smile broadened when he saw Imrahil. “Uncle!” He embraced the Swan warmly. “It is good to see you. Might Elphir be here?”

“Nay. I came myself and will leave on the morrow. There were things that needed discussion.”

Faramir smiled. “Am I interrupting? Are your discussions finished? Might I spend some time with my father?”

“Time to report, Faramir?” Denethor watched closely. His son had dark shadows under his eyes and the gleam of his smile was not as bright as was the boy’s wont. His heart was aggrieved; they had last parted in anger. ‘Nay,’ he thought, ‘I refused his embrace.’ He pulled Faramir to him. “You are in need of rest and a bath. The ride is long and dusty. Go; I will hold nuncheon until you return.”

Nonplussed, Faramir returned the embrace. “I should return to Henneth Annûn as soon as I give my report, Father. There is much activity in Ithilien, as you well know.”

“I would have you here for a few days, at the least. Húrin has finished the plans for the raising of the Rammas by the North Gate. I thought you might be interested in seeing the plans?”

“Yes, Father. I would. Now, I will avail myself of a bath. I will return -- ” His head turned northward and all color left his face. “The Horn,” he whispered.

Denethor’s face turned white, as did Imrahil’s and Húrin’s. The Steward dropped his goblet and ran from the room, up the stairs, two steps at a time, fumbling for the key as he ran. Into the room, throwing off the cloth, he faced it and turned northward.

Though he could not see him, his eldest, his Heir, his life, Denethor knew Boromir was on Gondorian soil. Somewhere. By the Valar, how he searched! His body knew no rest. He grasped the stone till the muscles in his fingers and palms ached, yet, he would not let it go. He scoured the lands of the Rohirrim, up to the Fords of Isen, over towards Fangorn and Isengard, across the plains of northern Rohan, even unto The Wold, the Downs and the East Emnet.

Finally, collapsing in exhaustion, Denethor scrunched on the floor, his back to the wall, and wailed in despair. The Horn had sounded plaintive, desperate, and, in the end, weak. “Valar!” he cried aloud. “Let him live. Please let him live. He is my all. All I have left. Please. Oh please, let him live.”

A/N – 1) The Lords of Gondor are not all mentioned in Tolkien’s books. The Southern Fiefs, though there are ten mentioned, only have names for the lords of seven. Also, no ‘House’ names are listed for these lords, so I’ve taken the liberty of ‘sub-creating’ my own, based upon the Three Houses of the Edain from the First Age; 2) Théodred and the Muster of Edoras. When the war with Saruman began Théodred without orders assumed general command. He summoned a muster of Edoras, and drew away a large part of its Riders, under Elfhelm, to strengthen the Muster of Westfold and help it to resist the invasion. Unfinished Tales, Part 3, Ch 5, The Battles of the Fords of Isen; 3) Rohan being clothed in Gondorian armor. “The Rohirrim had the advantage in being supplied [with body-armor] by the metalworkers of Gondor. ...” [Author's note.] Unfinished Tales, Part 3, Ch 5, The Battles of the Fords of Isen: Notes; 4) It is said in LotR that Anórien was deserted by the time of the War of the Ring. It was also said that Pippin was surprised at the knowledge Denethor had of all that transpired in Rohan. That is the premise I used to decide to have Denethor be able to ‘see’ into the Mark. Again, regarding Boromir – it ever seems strange to me that Denethor did not ‘see’ Boromir. Not during his time before he passed out of the Mark, nor once the Fellowship reached the lands of Gondor at Parth Galen, for that territory belonged to Gondor; 5) Feb. 26th - “I (Denethor) heard it blowing dim upon the northern marches thirteen days ago, and the River brought it to me, broken: it will wind no more.” as told to Pippin on March 9th LotR: RotK: Minas Tirith, pg. 25-26.

The three sat or paced in Denethor’s study for over three hours, waiting for the Steward to return. Faramir, as Denethor had run from the room, suggested a sortie northward and was immediately rebuffed by the Warden.

Imrahil looked at Húrin and shrugged. The Warden of the Keys turned from his Steward’s son.

Faramir smiled. “The tidings from Rohan? Either Théoden is dead or… Oh by the Valar,” he exclaimed in sudden horror, “It is Théodred!”

Awkwardly the Prince of Dol Amroth took Faramir’s hand. “It is as you say.”

“Théodred cannot be dead.” Faramir knew the Rohir’s death was more than possible, but the Prince of Rohan had been close to both Gondorian brothers. Faramir’s tears fell; he felt the loss keenly. Each of them, Boromir, Faramir, Théodred and Éomer, knew in their heart of hearts that death would be theirs, and probably in battle; they had even spoken of it in jest while sharing a drink at a local inn, when chance happened that two or more of them were together. Yet, Faramir had never imagined that Théodred could possibly die. His memories of the Rohir were vivid: strong, stalwart, brave, fleet of foot, blade of steel… After a few moments remembrance, his thoughts took a new path and he wondered aloud, “How does Father know this? A rider could not possibly have come from Rohan in such a short time.”

“It is possible, if the rider is strong and the horses able, to arrive from the Mering in one full circuit of both sun and moon.”

“Tell me how he died? Does Boromir…” Faramir looked at both men with tears in his eyes. “I was going to ask if Boromir knows.” His mouth grew dry.

Imrahil placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “A fair question, Faramir. You always turned to your brother and he to you, sharing in everything, even sorrow. It is not irrational to wonder if Boromir knows a thing of such import.”

“But not possible this day,” Faramir said and walked to the fireplace, his hands clenched upon the mantelpiece. “It is not folly then, dearest uncle, for me to miss my brother, even in such times?”

“Théodred died in battle!” interrupted Húrin, his voice burning with warrior pride. “He will go to his ancestors with honor. Who could ask for a better death?” The retired Captain of Gondor roared, “I would take such a death with joy!”

“And Boromir winds his horn in the north.” Faramir turned from the fireplace, his eyes wet, but not from the smoke of the fire. Imrahil stood by the window, looking out at what, Húrin could not tell.

The room quieted again and only the soft footsteps of the youngest son of Denethor broke the silence.

“So you said four hours ago, Húrin, but the sound of the Horn means Boromir is on Gondorian soil! It came from the north and that means somewhere beyond Amon Dîn and probably before Rauros. You have heard its call as often as I have. It was faint, which means it comes from afar.”

“Which is why a sortie is not possible.” Húrin stood up and went to the fireplace. Boromir’s cousin clutched the oaken mantelpiece and bowed his head. Any lower and his hair would have singed. “Your brother is not near enough for our aid. Even sending errand-riders north would not help. The call, as you note, was from afar indeed. It would take days for a rider to find him.” He did not add, ‘or his body.’

Imrahil pulled himself from his own dark thoughts and lowered himself upon one knee at Faramir’s side. “I have never heard the Horn in such distress. I have been at Boromir’s side, in the midst of battle when he has winded it to bring help. Not like what we heard, Faramir. I am sorely afraid for my nephew.”

“Of course he is,” Denethor bellowed as he came into the room. “I have sent a sortie northward. I believe that is where the call came from. They should reach him in two days time. Less than that if Hirgon has his way.”

“Who better? Did I not use him these past three years, ferrying missives between Boromir’s troops in the Nindalf and Minas Tirith? He knows the terrain well. Besides that, he has been ordered to stop at Amon Dîn and pick up a company of men to help with the search. The men at the outpost at Rauros have probably already gone to Boromir’s aid, if he is that far north.”

“I would take some men from Henneth Annûn? We could search the eastern side of the Nindalf.” Denethor looked at his son in exasperation. Faramir blushed. “I cannot sit here and do nothing.”

“You will go back to Osgiliath tomorrow. Do not look so dismayed. Do you think I will not send word when Boromir is found? Am I considered that harsh?”

“You will do more than wait, Faramir. I need the garrison at Osgiliath aware that the attack will come soon.”

“How do you know this?” Imrahil asked, astonishment writ across the Swan’s face.

“Yesterday, Théodred was murdered. Today, though I know Boromir lives, I believe an attempt was made upon his life. Rohan is besieged on its western borders and Faramir tells me, along with others, that the Enemy sits in readiness. We will be attacked within a fortnight, if not sooner. Therefore, you will return to Dol Amroth and prepare your troops. Do I still have your word? You will bring men?”

Imrahil blushed. “Lord Denethor, a very long time ago I pledged my lands and my men to you. I do not now renounce that pledge.”

“Of course. Forgive me, brother. The southern fiefdoms are vital to Gondor’s defense. I cannot fight alone.”

“You will not, unless Dol Amroth itself is under attack. Even then, I will send you what I may.”

“Then I will take my leave, brother.” The Prince of Belfalas turned to Faramir. “Hold hope in your heart. Boromir is strong; he will return. As will I.” He smiled and kissed his nephew’s forehead, then turned and grasped Denethor’s arm. “I will come.”

Denethor pulled him close. “I will be here.” Both men laughed, clapped shoulders and Imrahil left them.

“Húrin.” The Warden saluted and left the room. Denethor turned to Faramir, his head bowed, and sat heavily at his desk. “There is news from the west.”

Denethor looked up in surprise. “So you have.” He sighed heavily. “Théodred will be sorely missed. I am afraid we have lost Rohan.”

“He is besieged. The enemy has retreated, why, I do not know, but they will return and Rohan will be sore-pressed to guard its own people, never mind Gondor’s. We cannot help him, not now.”

“Théoden knows that, Father. He will abandon the Fords if he must and bring his forces here. We can win Edoras back; we cannot win back Gondor. He knows that.”

“He is in need. Father.” Faramir knelt at Denethor’s side. “Let me go north.” His voice caught.

“Well I know it. Faramir, I need you here, more than ever. I need… Faramir, do not fail me.”

Swallowing hard, Faramir bowed his own head. “I have not seen the Wizard in over a year.”

“I did not mean that. Ever are you willful and take your own counsel. I do not trust many, my son, but I trust you. Yet… I wonder if you trust me?”

“I do, Father. Again you focus on my decisions. I cannot be but what you have made me.”

Denethor drew in a sharp, long breath. “It is crucial that you obey me now, Faramir. We come to the end and I would have it be an ending with glory.”

“I do not. I have already planned for the evacuation of the City and the Pelennor; the storehouses are full for the upcoming siege, and the caves under the City have been flooded to prevent the enemy from burrowing under us. There will be no retreat.”

“Do not fall back till the last moment, Faramir. You must hold Osgiliath until the fiefdoms have sent their men. We are especially in need of the forces of Lamedon. Angbor has a great force readied to help us. After that, we will see what needs must be done.”

Denethor bit his lip. It would have sufficed Boromir to say, ‘I will hold Osgiliath.’

Faramir watched as Denethor’s face fell, not understanding his father’s sudden chill countenance. “I will leave now?”

Anger flared. “I have already promised! Go, now, before the time is too late.”

The Steward of Gondor stood and walked to the front of his desk. He pulled Faramir into his arms. “Do not abandon Osgiliath. I will send word when you are to retreat.”

The young man pulled away from his father’s embrace. Swallowing hard, he nodded. “If that is your command,” then turned and strode from the room.

Hirgon waited for the Chamberlain to note his arrival. He would do anything not to be here, in the Great Hall, at this moment, with this broken symbol in his hands. His tears had flown freely, as had all who had been with him when he found it, lying in the reeds by the mouths of the Entwash. He had stopped to let his horse drink; ‘foul moment,’ his heart wailed once again as he thought upon it. His chin, even now, trembled in remembrance of the grief that had brought him to his knees. He hated its touch, what it meant, what it would do to his Lord, once the Steward’s eyes lit upon it. If he could have run – never as a soldier, a Knight of Gondor, had he ever contemplated deserting – but the long ride from the Entwash had been filled with such thoughts. Hirgon, son of Berelach and Captain of Gondor’s Errand-riders fought the urge to flee this heinous duty, but by duty was he bound. And now he stood in the Great Hall of Minas Tirith to lay the Horn of Boromir upon his lord’s lap.

The Chamberlain finally strode forward, spied the object in Hirgon’s hands, and went white. He clutched his heart and staggered. Fortunately, one of the servants saw the Chamberlain’s distress and stayed his fall.

The Chamberlain wept. “Must you show it to him?” he sputtered through his tears. “He is weak. Can you not wait another hour or two? I would have him rest. He did not sleep last night.” The voice fairly squeaked with sorrow.

Húrin, seeing the entrance to the Hall blocked by a growing number of soldiers, left Denethor’s side and strode forward. “What is thi—?” His own face fell as recognition and horror enveloped him. “Hirgon, where did you find it?”

“By the Entwash, my Lord Húrin, six leagues south of the Rauros outpost. It was lying amongst the reeds.”

“None. However, I went no further. The garrison’s compliment joined us afterwards. They had seen nor heard aught of Lord Boromir.”

Hirgon did not speak. He clutched the Horn to his chest as great sobs engulfed him.

Gondor’s Warden took his arm. “Grieve not in this Hall. Our Steward needs us strong. Wipe your tears and come forward.”

The Chamberlain offered Hirgon a handkerchief and the captain wiped his eyes. He pulled in a deep breath and nodded to Húrin, who led him forth.

Denethor’s eyes lit in joy as he caught sight of Hirgon; he stood and stepped down the stairs, ready to greet the rider with open arms. ‘At last,’ he thought, ‘he brings me news.’ His joy floundered as he recognized the object in Hirgon’s hands. Staggering backwards, he tripped on the bottom step and fell against the foot of the Chair.

Húrin ran forward as did Belegorn. Denethor’s aide reached his lord first and knelt at his side, but Denethor brushed him away, kneeling on the cold marble floor as he tried to raise himself up. His legs would not obey him. Belegorn once again offered his hand and Denethor, his eyes not leaving Hirgon’s, took it and stood, leaning against his aide.

Hirgon knelt before Denethor. “I found it by the Entwash, my Lord Steward, not two days ago. I could not find the other half.”

Denethor stepped forward, still clinging to Belegorn’s arm. He knelt in front of the errand-rider and placed his hand gently on the broken Horn. Clenching his teeth, he fought to keep his tears at bay. “This new day, the sun not hardly o’er the mountains to our east, all ready to shine upon us, is the darkest day of my life.” He looked up into Hirgon’s brimming eyes. “No sign?”

Hirgon wept openly. “It is thine, my Lord. Come back to thee.” Gently, he opened his hands and Denethor took the cloven Horn into his own.

The Steward sat back against his heels and caressed the kine’s gift to Gondor. The Hall was as silent as Rath Dínen, though by now crowded as rumor of the dire find filled the Citadel; the barracks of Gondor’s knights emptied and spilled into the Hall.

At last, Denethor stood, swaying a little. Belegorn never left his side, nor took his hand from Denethor’s arm. The Steward of the High King looked upon his men, gathered in shock and grief. “He is not dead,” he whispered. Turning towards the Chair, he disengaged his arm from Belegorn’s and strode forward, back straight and head held high. “He is not dead,” he whispered again as he bent and retrieved the Rod from where he had let it fall. “He is not dead,” he said once more as he sat in the Chair. “He is not dead.”

“What say you, Húrin? The trebuchets? Are they ready? Are their company’s now well trained?”

Hirgon looked to Húrin in confusion. The Warden spoke softly. “They are, my Lord. Though I would we had more men.”

Denethor’s sour laugh rang harshly in the Hall. “Men. Is that not what we are always in need of? Have I not even given of my sons?” His eyes misted and his voice broke as Húrin placed a hand on his arm. He moved it off, gently but firmly. “Hirgon, you still stand before us? You must be weary. Get yourself to your farm and take some rest.” He paused. “Nay. The Pelennor must be evacuated. And the livestock saved, if at all possible. Húrin, according to your last count, we have lost two of the grain storehouses?”

The Warden nodded, “Rot and vermin.” Húrin motioned for Hirgon to leave. The soldier saluted as tears streamed down his cheeks, then left the Hall.

“Naught that we have much sway over. Have the farmers bring what food they may.” Denethor’s brow furrowed. “The plans for evacuation of the City are complete?”

“They are, my Lord. All stands in readiness, but,” and Húrin paused, “never has this City been breached. Though I have prepared, as you ordered, I cannot see this being the end.”

“Then open your eyes wider, my good cousin. Unless Théoden becomes a new man, we have not much hope. In fact, I see none, but that of a warrior’s quick death. That is what you wish for, is it not, my dear Warden?”

“It is,” Húrin readily agreed. “If I might, I would like to lead my old company, when battle is upon us.”

“Granted.” At last, the Steward of Gondor closed his eyes and slumped in the Chair. “Belegorn,” he called quietly and the soldier knelt before him. He opened his eyes. “Look at this and speak of what it tells you.” He held the Horn out.

Belegorn studied it through misted eyes. “It has been cloven by an axe, possibly a sword, but large, very large if I deem the signs rightly.” He shook his head in wonder. “The cut is not old. No more than a week, at best.”

The Steward took a deep breath. “Oft have I said I would give all to Gondor’s defense. My word now comes back to haunt me.”

A clamor arose at the entrance to the Hall and the Chamberlain ran forward. “My Lord Steward, Captain Faramir comes.”

“Oh!” Denethor sobbed. He looked down upon the Horn, then back to the Chamberlain, stricken. “Have him meet me in my private study.” He stood and left the Hall by the back corridor, carrying the Horn with him. Húrin strode as quickly as he could, hardly able to keep up with his Steward’s pace. At last they reached Denethor’s private quarters, Belegorn pushed open the door and followed his lord inside. He entered the study after Denethor and went to the cupboard, pulling out a large whiskey bottle. He poured a glass and handed it to Denethor. The Steward took it and swallowed the contents, handed it back to Belegorn, and sat on the settle across from the fireplace. Húrin placed several pieces of wood upon the embers, along with kindling, and tended the fire.

A few moments later and there was a diffident knock upon the door. Belegorn opened it and bid Faramir enter. The guard gasped at the sight of the Steward’s youngest, for the captain’s hair was disheveled, his clothes mud-stained and rumpled, and his eyes red, swollen, and dark-circled. But it was not the appearance of the Lord Faramir that broke Denethor’s aide’s heart; on the contrary, it was the sight of the other half of Boromir’s cloven Horn in the man’s hands. He cried out in grief.

Denethor’s youngest son stumbled into the room, exhaustion writ plainly upon his face. Belegorn took his arm and brought him to the settle. Faramir pulled himself up and saluted. “Captain Faramir, reporting, my Lord.”

Denethor did not look up, merely placed his hand on the empty space beside him and said, “Sit.”

Faramir looked about him in confusion. Húrin’s face was gray, as was Belegorn’s. The aide forced a glass into Faramir’s hand as he sat. He took it and swallowed the brandy in one gulp.

Denethor still stared into the fire, not speaking nor further acknowledging his son.

Faramir’s eyes reddened even more as he fought to control the tears that had accompanied him on the long road from Osgiliath. Fatigue overcame him and he leaned his head back against the leather cushion, closing his eyes in grief.

“Faramir,” the voice of his father was low, but he had difficulty recognizing it, so filled with… He did not know; in his grief and tiredness, he could barely identify his own voice.

The man jumped up from the settle in utter bewilderment. He had not noted that his father had even looked towards him. How could he have seen the Horn that lay next to him on the settle?

“I suppose you wonder how I came by it,” the soft voice spoke again, “Hirgon brought it back from Rauros. He found it in the reeds. I… I … Boromir… It would seem…” The young man watched as his father’s jaw clenched. “It would seem my son has fallen. Show him, Húrin.”

Faramir looked to the Warden, questions filling his eyes; then they opened wide as he beheld the other half of Boromir’s Horn in Húrin’s outstretched hands. He clenched his teeth, as his father had done before him, and swayed a bit. Belegorn handed him another glass of brandy. Faramir pushed it aside, then sank to his knees in front of Denethor. Leaning close, he held his half of the Horn in front of him. “Father. One of the soldiers in my company found this about three leagues north of Osgiliath.” He waited, but Denethor did not even glance at him. “Father?”

At last, Denethor’s head came up, but not far enough to look into his son’s eyes; he was stayed by the sight before him. In Faramir’s hands lay the other half of the Horn. “So we have both pieces now,” he said quietly. “It cannot be winded again, you know. We could probably have it covered in hide and it would not seem so… broken. Yet, to wind it would tear the covering and thus make it useless again.” His brow furrowed. “Useless.” He heaved a sigh. “All I do has been for naught, Húrin. Have you not noted that?” He took the Horn from Faramir and motioned to Húrin. His Warden passed him the other half. Gently, Denethor put the two pieces together. “See here, Faramir. Here is the wound that broke my son’s Horn.”

“Leave us.” Húrin left and Belegorn, after handing another glass to Denethor, left also.

Denethor stared at the Horn for another few moments while Faramir knelt. “Get up, son,” the Steward said gently. “Sit next to me and tell me of Boromir.”

Faramir began to quietly weep. After a moment’s grace and a nod of encouragement from his father, he spoke, “My first memory was riding upon his back in the nursery.” He paused, caught his breath and continued, “I fell off and banged my head and cried. Our nanny shouted at him and I kicked her.” A watery smile interrupted the story. “She went to hit me, but Boromir tripped her and we ran from the room. I think you let her go soon afterwards.” Faramir’s chin shook. He put his hands to his face and dug their heels into his eyes, his shoulders shaking.

“I remember his first sword practice.” The Steward swallowed the drink, then carefully put the glass on the table. “I knew he would be great. He held the blade as if he were born with it in his hands. It was heavier than the normal practice sword for the swordmaster said Boromir was large for his age and could well handle it. He was right. Boromir swung it with ease. Your mother hated that I gave him such a weapon.” He smiled, “He was only seven at the time, but I deemed it time enough, given his stature and build.”

Faramir could not add anything more. His grief, sitting at his father’s side, was finally unbound and he had all he could do not to wail aloud.

Faramir moaned. “Father,” he laid a hand upon Denethor’s arm. “I have not told you all. I had… I saw something on the Anduin last night at the midnight hour.” His father did not speak. Faramir took a deep breath.

“Sitting by the River, watching as we always do, I spotted something moving upon it. I stood and stepped into the shallows and walked northwards to see it more clearly. I needn’t have moved; it came towards me as if by command.” Faramir bit his lip. “There was a warrior in the boat, for that is what it was; a craft the like of which I have never seen.” Faramir stopped, mouth open, gasping to fill his suddenly empty lungs. “It was Boromir, Father. Even if I had not known his beloved face, I knew his gear, his cloak, his sword – it was broken, Father.” The young man shivered. “His collar of silver lay heavy on his throat. It was not a dream; a belt was about his waist, one I had never seen before. I could not have made that up.” Once again, the Steward’s youngest clenched his teeth. “I do not doubt that Boromir is dead.”

At last, Faramir overcame his grief and could speak again. “He was at peace, Father, I am sure. I felt only grief and pity as I looked upon him. He had been wounded, terribly, for the marks were upon him, but he had been lovingly placed in the boat with full honors, I would deem.”

“Full honors.” Denethor’s brow rose. “Yet, you could not stop the boat, bring his body back to me?” The suddenly harsh voice made Faramir shiver. “You let his body drift away from you, to go down the Anduin to the sea and be lost forever?” The enormity of what could possibly happen to his Heir’s body blazed through him as a flame in his spirit. Denethor’s jaw dropped and the Steward himself had to gasp to bring needed air to his suddenly starved lungs. He stood, his face livid, and pulled Faramir to his feet. “You left your brother’s body to be found by the Enemy?” The Steward’s voice was now ice, as it oft turned when he spoke to a recalcitrant lord, and Faramir flinched. “Even though dead, they will tear him limb from limb. They will cut off his head and skewer it on a pike. They will tear out his eyes and fight over them as tasty delicacies.” Denethor fell to the floor, pulling Faramir with him. “You would let them take him!” he screamed. “Vile betrayer!”

Húrin burst through the door along with Belegorn. Both men ran to their Steward and helped him back upon the settle. Húrin moved to Faramir’s side and dragged the boy from his father’s grasp.

Faramir stood in helpless grief and horror. “I could not reach him, Father,” he wept openly. “Before I could move, the boat turned out into the open water. I could not reach him. It was as if he were in the grip of some enchantment.”

At that, Denethor looked up; his face so filled with hate that Faramir stepped back.

Slowly, the Warden maneuvered Faramir out of Denethor’s sight and into the next room. “Do not listen to him, Faramir,” Húrin counseled. “He has not slept since the news of Théodred’s death. He knows not what he says.”

Faramir pulled himself up and looked coldly at the Warden. “Have you ever known my father not to know what he is saying?”

The tone was so like unto Denethor’s that Húrin gasped. Nevertheless, he thrust his own dismay aside and held onto the boy. “He has not slept in four days; I know not if he has eaten a thing. He is beyond exhausted. Do not hold him to his words nor judge him falsely.”

“Look after him, Húrin. I will return for the daymeal, if he will see me.” With that, and a final glance at the closed door to the study, Faramir, youngest son of Denethor, left his father’s quarters.

“Where is Faramir?” Húrin asked as they met for the breaking of their fast. “He was not at the daymeal yestereve.”

“He is in Osgiliath by now. After that, he will move deep into Ithilien. Southron forces are moving north along the road towards the Black Gate. Though he will not be able to stop them, he will be able to harry them.” The Steward’s tone was flat.

The Steward of Gondor turned from his Warden and looked out the window. Habit, he supposed, for there was naught to see; Anor had yet to cross over the mountain to brighten the day. The fruit trees on the Pelennor, whether they could be seen or no, would be in bloom; the smell would be wondrous. He bit his lip, remembering how Ithilien would smell. How he loved that land! It had been years; he could not even remember when he had last smelt the thyme and rosemary, the roses and irises. Irises! His heart clenched in remembrance of his sister, dead these many years. And Amdir too. ‘All I have is death for remembrance. And now Boromir has joined the list.’ At the thought of his son lying dead in some forgotten glade, his heart tore open even further. He gasped and pulled at his tunic, tugging it away from his neck as he tried to catch his breath. The pain in his chest seared beyond endurance. With great effort, he strove to breathe again. After many moments, he stepped away from the window, grateful that Húrin seemed not to note his distress.

“We did not have dead from the House of Húrin to mourn this past Memorial Day, my dear cousin. Next year, if there be a Minas Tirith in which to hold such a ceremony, we will have many. The lists will be long.” He paused. “I suppose, even if we are hiding in the mountains with our tails tucked between our legs, we shall have some sort of observance. The people have needs for such rituals.”

Denethor turned and looked at his Warden in surprise. “I did not think you ever drank to excess.”

Sitting at his desk, Denethor shuffled through papers, not seeing anything before his eyes for his mind was still upon Faramir and the anger he had felt towards his remaining son. ‘Yet, if the Wizard had something to do with Boromir’s death,’ he mused, ‘would Faramir have known?’ His mind reeled with hurt and confusion.

Denethor looked up in surprise. “What do you keep to yourself that you hint at? What is it that you needs must tell me, but are too timid?”

“The half company on Trebuchet Seven. They had new recruits; the captain determined a practice run would be beneficial.”

Denethor sat back in his chair, the papers in his hands crumpling. “How many?”

“Many years ago. He saved Boromir’s life when they fought against a mûmak. He was raised to a captaincy two years ago and led a sortie under Boromir at the Battle of Cair Andros.”

“Yes, I remember him. Boromir thought well of him. He has experience.” Denethor stood up. “We did not lose… ?”

“Nay, my Lord, Ragnor lives. There were esquires under his command. From what I can discern, they panicked and the machine rolled back, crushing most of them against the opposite wall. A few of the more experienced tried to help and lost their lives also.”

Denethor rubbed his chin. “We cannot lose Number Seven. It faces directly eastward.”

“Nay. We will bring more esquires and give them lesser work in the company. Leave the direct operation to those who have been trained.”

“I spent the night in turmoil. I must needs attend something this day. Have the letters brought here at nunch-- for the daymeal. If you need me, send Beregond. He will know where I am.”

Denethor broke off a piece of bread and chewed it as he walked to his door. He put on his cloak and climbed slowly up the steps of the Citadel. When he reached the uppermost room, he unlocked the door and went in. Scarcely able to control his shuddering body, he ignored the stone and looked out the window. Anor had defeated the mountains and now shone brightly down upon the Anduin. “Faramir,” he whispered. “Come back to me whole.”

He stood there for some long time, then turned to the globe. ‘Now that Boromir is dead,’ he wondered, ‘will you, accurséd stone, show me his body?’ Taking in two deep breaths, he strode forward, took the covering off, and let it fall to the floor. He felt the darkness before the stone even opened to his mind. ‘Sauron,’ he whispered, ‘what have you for me this day? Think you I will cower? I will not. No matter the news that comes to my ears, no matter,’ he stifled the scream that tried to rise from his gorge, ‘no matter the sights before my eyes. Gondor will not fall. We will fight you to the end.’

There was no response, not even a flicker. The stone lay as dead before him. No matter what he did, it refused to open to him. He nodded, covered it, and left the room.

The next day, as red shafts from Anor’s breaking filled the sky, Denethor strode to the Tower room. The stone opened to him as soon as he put his hands on it. There before him lay Rohan with Edoras as its crown. The roof of the Golden Hall shone brightly. For a moment, Denethor did not look. He did not want to see the drooling thing that was once the stalwart King of Rohan. Instead, his gaze was drawn northwards. He drew in a shaky breath and clutched the stone harder. ‘Do my eyes deceive me? Is it the Wizard? He travels to Edoras? Is my son with him? Nay,’ he shook his head, ‘Boromir is dead. If he ever rode with Mithrandir, the Wizard deigned not to save him.’ With all his strength, he forced the stone to draw closer to the three horses riding across the grasslands towards the Golden Hall.

After an hour’s close scrutiny, he closed his eyes and took his hands from the globe. ‘I cannot be certain. It cannot be him. Why would he ride with… ?’ He opened his eyes once again and forced the stone to do his bidding. “Thorongil,” he whispered brokenly. “My friend… and traitor to Gondor. So you ride with the Wizard.” A harsh laugh broke the silence of the room. ‘I should have known.’

He watched as the three riders, nay, he corrected himself, four, two single riders and one mount with two ahorse, rode towards the gates of the city of Edoras. They entered, after being accosted by at least a dozen Rohirric guards, into the city itself. Denethor shook his head as anger flared through him. ‘So you open your doors to the Wizard. I should have known. He is the one who has changed you, taken the strength from your arms and legs, made you a doddering fool.’

It was difficult to see, once they entered into the darkness that served as a throne room for Théoden. Rubbing his eyes for a moment, Denethor squinted further, but could not discern what was about. At last, he gave up and returned to his rooms, ate a quick meal, and joined Húrin in a tour of Trebuchet Seven. He signed the letters the Warden had written and gave them back to Húrin, then walked back to the Tower room, hoping that whatever had transpired within the dim confines of Meduseld would now be opened to the light of day.

In his surprise at the sight that greeted him in the stone, he shouted, “Valar!” Théoden sat upon his horse in front of at least a thousand men, riding westward with the Wizard and Thorongil at his side. Denethor moaned in despair. “You travel the wrong way, Théoden,” he shouted aloud, “Turn back. Stay at Edoras until Gondor calls. It will be soon.”

But the Rohirrim rode on, heedless of the Steward’s anguish. ‘So - truly Rohan will not answer. Why goes he westward? He knows the battle lies to the east. To Gondor.’

Denethor drew away from the sight of the éoreds marching away from him and turned instead to the Fords of Isen where Théodred had been lost not seven days before. A battle was in hand. Théoden could not possibly arrive in time. Denethor shuddered as he watched the forces left there succumb to the attack of the enemy. It was a fierce battle and hard fought, but the Riders of Rohan were no match for the might that was arrayed against them. The Steward watched well into the night as the Men of the Mark were forced to retreat – to Helm’s Deep, he supposed.

At last, exhaustion overcame Denethor; he dropped the cloth over the stone and walked the steps to his own rooms, falling upon his bed, sleeping almost before his head touched the pillow, tear tracks gleaming in the moonlight.

A/N – 1) But lest you still should think my tale a vision, I will tell you this. The horn of Boromir at least returned in truth, and not in seeming. The horn came, but it was cloven in two, as it were by axe or sword. The shards came severally to shore: one was found among the reeds where watchers of Gondor lay, northwards below the infalls of the Entwash; the other was found spinning on the flood by one who had an errand in the water. Strange chances, but murder will out, ‘tis said.’ RotK: Ch. 4: Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit. 2) "I sat at night by the waters of Anduin, in the grey dark under the young pale moon, watching the ever-moving stream; and the sad reeds were rustling. So do we ever watch the shores nigh Osgiliath, which our enemies now partly hold, and issue from it to harry our lands. But that night all the world slept at the midnight hour. Then I saw, or it seemed that I saw, a boat floating on the water, glimmering grey, a small boat of a strange fashion with a high prow. and there was none to row or steer it.

"An awe fell on me, for a pale light was round it. But I rose and went to the bank, and began to walk out into the stream, for I was drawn towards it. Then the boat turned towards me, and stayed its pace, and floated slowly by within my hand's reach, yet I durst not handle it. It waded deep, as if it were heavily burdened, and it seemed to me as it passed under my gaze that it was almost filled with clear water, from which came the light; and lapped in the water a warrior lay asleep.

"A broken sword was on his knee. I saw many wounds on him. It was Boromir, my brother, dead. I knew his gear, his sword, his beloved face. One thing only I missed: his horn. One thing only I knew not: a fair belt, as it were of linked golden leaves, about his waist. Boromir! I cried. Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? O Boromir! But he was gone. The boat turned into the stream and passed glimmering on into the night. Dreamlike it was. and yet no dream, for there was no waking. And I do not doubt that he is dead and has passed down the River to the Sea." Ibid.

3) for the use of whiskey. The distillation process was brought back to Ireland by monks in the 7^th and 8^th century; brandy came about sometime around 1100 AD. I’ve had people question this a number of times, one for and one against, so I’m putting this information here in the A/N’s to defer any negative comments. Yeah, sure! g

“So we have no hope from Théoden? Rohan will not come?” The news that Denethor shared this red-streaked morn, of great struggle within Rohan, caught the Warden by surprise. He knew of the battle where Théodred had lost his life, but he could not believe that all hope was lost. “They will come if they may. Théoden promised.”

Despair flirted with the Steward of Gondor, danced before his eyes as he remembered what the Palantír revealed in the night. Though the moon was not yet full, still Denethor could see a little as he peered, close to the midnight hour, at the road that led from Isengard to Helm Hammerhand’s stronghold. What he did see turned his heart into ice. Great torches lit up the night as a horde of evil marched towards Helm’s Deep. Théoden had not a hope, of that Denethor was sure. He turned cold eyes towards his Warden.

Húrin shuddered. He ceased his questioning. “I have received no missives from Faramir.”

“Did you know, Húrin, that Helm lost both his sons before he died? He himself froze to death.”

A fey look came into Denethor’s eyes and Húrin quickly strode to his friend and cousin, and knelt at his side. “You will not lose Faramir.”

At that, Denethor looked up, hope writ plain upon his face. “He is that. He will take no reproach from me, why should he obey a wizard?”

Denethor stood and walked to the fireplace. As he turned, he remembered his youngest. Faramir left two days prior, but the leaving had not been as Denethor wanted.

“Take your rest, Faramir. Tomorrow, ere Anor breaks, I need you away to Osgiliath.”

“He will. But you are weary and need not tarry here. Order a meal brought to your rooms.” Denethor looked up from the papers he was signing. “Have you played of late?” His mirth at Faramir’s incomprehension turned quickly to sorrow as Faramir’s eyes misted. He swore at himself for the misspoken word. Faramir obviously had thought of playing as a child with his brother. “I meant your harp. Have you played your harp of late?” he asked gently, “or did you leave it behind in Henneth Annûn?”

“I brought it home last year. Music would betray us. We sing now in whispers.”

Denethor’s brow furrowed. He remembered the sounds of singing that ghosted up from the depths of that hidden fortress, as his patrol would return by starlight. His heart saddened even further. For a Gondorian not to be able to sing with gusto… He found his mouth open as if trying to breathe. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his son. “Would you play for me?”

The note of incredulity in Faramir’s voice irked him. “There is no enemy here to prevent it.”

“Send Belegorn.” Turning back to his papers, Denethor signed another. Faramir pulled the bell and, when Belegorn arrived, sent him off. At last Denethor stood up, stretched and walked around the desk.

His aide entered with the small traveling harp, handed it to Faramir, and left Denethor’s study.

Faramir spent a few moments tuning the instrument, then ran a loving hand over the strings. “It has a beautiful sound; I am surprised it has survived the elements as I carried it about. It is well crafted.”

“Boromir knew quality when he saw it. He did give it to you?” At Faramir’s nod, he continued. “Beauty without strength is of little use to anyone.”

“It has… I fear even my sword will no longer protect the babes of Gondor.”

Denethor walked to the sideboard and poured two glasses of wine; returning, he handed one to Faramir, then sat on the settle across from the fireplace and held the glass, twirling it absently. “Within the week.”

‘Will the boy never stop his questioning?’ Denethor thought in fury, but his retort was stayed as Faramir began to strum the harp.

“It is something I have been writing for a few years. It is not complete. I know not if it ever will be.”

Faramir’s hands stayed as a deep blush spread up his neck and across his face. “The Lay of Finduilas,” he whispered.

After a long moment, Denethor said, “It has some merit. Is there more or is that all you were able to compose?”

Before very long, Denethor stood abruptly. “Go and rest now, Stop on the morrow, ere you leave for Osgiliath. I will have more information for you then.” The Steward walked quickly to his desk, took up some papers, and began to read them.

Faramir slumped for a moment, then stood, harp in hand, murmured a good night and left the room.

Sometime later, Denethor put his hands to his face and thought upon his Finduilas.

Húrin entered with rolls of parchment and, once again, Steward and Warden attacked the route for Minas Tirith’s refugees.

Denethor stepped back in surprise; a low sound escaped his lips. “What is this?’ he thought wildly. ‘What do you show me?’ But it was gone when once again the Steward looked into the stone.

His eyes widened, for the evil eyes that oft stared back at him, showed a measure of panic. Denethor held back a smirk, so it would not see. No use letting the creature that battled him on a daily basis know that Denethor had seen. The globe closed and the Steward dropped his hands.

True, he could have continued to use the Palantír. He did not need the one in Minas Morgul open to see, but he needed to stop and determine what exactly he had just seen, in the Witch-king’s globe, reflected somehow into his own.

Denethor covered it and walked slowly to the window, allowing his mind to settle. The sight had only lasted for a fraction of a moment. He needed to concentrate. Unseeing eyes looked out the window. The moon shone bright and close to full.

Small hands. That was his first impression. Small hands held a stone, curly hair framed the child-like face. Bright eyes that stirred some memory deep in his spirit looked out at him in fear. But he know it was not he that the little creature afeared, but the Witch-king himself. He scoured his memory, piecing everything that he could recall from the short encounter, into one coherent thought.

At last, as the enormity of it hit him, he stepped back in horror and leaned against the wall. ‘A Halfling,’ he mind screamed. ‘A Halfling holds another Palantír. But which one? And where?’ Judging by the look of surprised shock in his enemy’s eyes, it was not in Minas Morgul? Where then?

Vaguely, he remembered reading one of the Tomes on the Palantír in the Library. There were seven, in the beginning. Only two remained, he thought. ‘Ah,’ a shiver ran down his spine. ‘Orthanc; there was a stone left in Orthanc.’ But he had thought it had been lost long ago. Obviously, he was mistaken. The wizard, Saruman, had found it and learned how to use it. But it had to be by sorcery that he could wield it for the wizard had not the right, as the Steward of the High King had, to use it.

‘And now a Halfling peers through it! Why? How? Why would Saruman let another use it? Why would a Halfling even be in Orthanc? Surely not as a guest? A prisoner then? But why? What could a Halfling offer the Witch-king, let alone the wizard?’

A low groan left him as he remembered Faramir’s dream. ‘For Isildur's Bane shall waken, And the Halfling forth shall stand.’ Denethor moaned again, “By Elbereth!” Was the Halfling the carrier of the thing that caused Isildur’s downfall? Could this same Halfling have caused Boromir’s death? Denethor shook. His head reeled as grief once again assailed him. “Boromir, my Boromir!”

He quieted, after a time, and once grief was set aside, the enormity of his discovery overwhelmed him. ‘Saruman has the Halfling and the Halfling has given it, freely or forced it matters not, the Halfling has given it to the wizard. Denethor slumped to the floor; despair gripped him. He fought it, fought it with all his being.

‘The Halfling is at Orthanc. Perhaps there is still hope. They must bring it to the Nameless One.’ Saruman would come through Gondor, carrying it with him. And Denethor would be waiting. He could easily follow their progress, once they entered his realm. He would pull men away from the southern and western garrisons, cut the roster in half at the beacons, and spread them along his borders. Once he caught sight of them, he would bring his force together and attack. Then, the weapon that was so highly prized by so many would be his!

He locked the room and returned to his study, bringing Belegorn into the room with him. “Send for Húrin and my captains. And for Hirgon as well. I need them here immediately.”

“Go!” he shouted, ran to his bedchamber and quickly disrobed, laved his face and neck, and changed his clothes. He ran his hand through his hair and returned to his study. There stood Húrin.

Húrin watched in surprise as the Steward pulled out the parchments containing the troop rosters for the southern fiefdoms, then those for the beacon hills. They had finished apportioning men only a week ago. What could Denethor want with them now?

The captains entered and Denethor told them of his plan. Startled, they saluted and obeyed, but Húrin again wondered, for the hundredth time, how and where his Steward gleaned such incredible information.

After the captains left, Denethor turned to Hirgon. “I have a message for Faramir, but I want it delivered to him in person, by you. And I want it spoken. Remind him of my edict: none may cross Ithilien without a pass, upon pain of death. No one, Hirgon. Even though they appear small and helpless, without a pass, they must be put to death.”

Hirgon saluted. “I will speak the message to Faramir on the morrow, my Lord.”

Húrin came in, followed closely by Hirgon. The errand-rider saluted and waited.

“Hirgon. What news do you bring? Faramir should have made contact with the enemy yesternoon at the latest.”

“There was a battle in Ithilien as you foretold, my Lord Steward. Here is Captain Faramir’s missive. It was sent early this morning.”

Denethor scowled, took the parchment and waved off Hirgon. “I will send for you when I have completed my reply.” The errand-rider saluted and left. “I cannot understand why the battle should have lasted overlong.” The scowl had not left Denethor’s face. “The strategy planned should have had it done and over with in hours. What could have caused Faramir to wait so long to write?”

At Denethor’s direction, Húrin sat on the settle. “Battles are fortuitous things. They do not always do what we wish or plan. Perhaps an explanation is in the missive.” A smile graced the Warden’s face.

Standing swiftly, Húrin saluted. “I would not, my Lord Steward. Never. I apologize. Profusely.”

The Steward spread the parchment open and read quietly. After a time, he raised his head. “A mûmak. I had not seen… I had no report of a mûmak. But Faramir and his men seem to have come through the battle unscathed.”

“Always by some chance. Fate stepped in and saved me. The same was true for Boromir. Now, fate shines upon my only son.” He swallowed hard. “He seems to have survived his encounter. Along with many of his men.”

“Firstly, the battle was yesterday. Yet, he does not send a missive until now?” Denethor shook his head. “Something in what he writes gives me cause for concern. I cannot grasp what it is, but all is not as he notes.”

“Nay. Neither.” A heavy sigh sounded as Denethor rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

Belegorn entered with a servant and began helping to spread out the nuncheon meal.

After both men removed themselves from the room, Denethor moved to the table, urging Húrin to join him. “The list,” Denethor said.

“Denethor grimaced. “Weak indeed. I have seen you eat… We both know a soldier would die of starvation with a weak stomach. All we see and do, and yet we must stop, forget it, and take our daymeal else the others eat it.”

“Any army,” Denethor barely smiled. “We will leave the list till after nuncheon. By the by, have you heard aught of the farmers we brought from Anórien?”

“According to Hirgon, all is well. The summer crops are planted.” A sharp hiss from Denethor, and Húrin ceased speaking. “My Lord?”

“Nothing.” But it was not nothing. Denethor’s mind reeled as he recalled his vision of a raped and pillaged Pelennor. There would be no crop left to harvest. He wondered if he should say something, tell Húrin what he had seen. At last, he continued with his meal.

When they were finished, Denethor retired to his study. Húrin, ordered to bring the latest list, returned within a short time. Denethor rolled open the first parchment and heaved a sigh. “It is as if we run circles around ourselves, chasing after our tales as dogs do, and yet, not one item on this list is completed.”

“Most are nearly complete. We cannot do further on some things. The evacuation for example,” Húrin ventured to say. “The road has been divided into three parts: one for carts, one for wagons and one for horses. The staging areas are set, and all know where they are to report. I think, Denethor, that we can cross this off.”

“Not if,” Denethor interrupted him. “He will use it. He will use catapults to fling fireballs over our walls and we must have enough water for the crews to quench them before we lose the city to fire.”

“Tubs have been set up all along the wall, just as you instructed, every one hundred yards. The young boys who will be staying will be used as runners and will watch for fires. They will sound the alarm. We have sufficient water ready.”

“At least thirty. I would more, for that means each boy must watch over one hundred yards. If possible, I would prefer ninety, but I will not know until the evacuation is complete and we see who remains.”

“That is a questionable strategy; we cannot leave that part of our defense unknown. Conscript the boys. And make it at least one hundred. We must needs have replacements for those who fall.”

Húrin shuddered at the thought. The women would be wild. So many of Gondor’s young boys were already in the esquires. Now Denethor would take even more away from their mothers. Yet, what could they do? He resigned himself to it. “I will conscript one hundred and thirty. That way, each boy will cover one rod with ten more boys for substitutes and ten for running errands and missives. That would leave thirty for whatever comes along.”

“My esquire has requested permission to join the main guard. I think it best if we use the esquires for more important duties than standing by their lords’ sides. Send them all off and use the boys you conscript as esquires.”

“I would inspect the First Level and the trebuchet stations. When is the next practice run for the trebuchet?”

“Good then let us go and watch Number Seven. I would see what Ragnor does with what men he has left.”

Before they were even returned to the Citadel, Hirgon found him. “My Lord Steward,” the captain saluted, “an errand-rider awaits in the Great Hall.”

Denethor’s face went white. He had been so fixed on the doings to the North and the West, that he had neglected the South these past two days. He walked swiftly to the Tower and entered. The Chamberlain greeted him at the door.

“My Lord, the rider from Pelargir was wounded and near-spent. His horse died ere he reached the Great Gate. One of your personal guards brought him hither. Forgive my presumption, but I sent him to your study.”

Denethor’s eyes widened. “Grave news then.” He turned and ran to his study, flung open the door, and stopped. The rider sat, bent over in one of the great stuffed chairs that adorned Denethor’s room, blood showing through this leather armor. His shoulders shook and Denethor had to calm himself before he walked to the sideboard and poured whiskey into a glass, then offered it to the man. The soldier tried to stand, but Denethor stayed him with a hand. “Drink this,” he commanded, then sat at his desk.

The soldier gulped the spirits down, then sat looking forlornly at the glass. Denethor watched, knowing full well the news the rider brought.

“Pelargir has fallen, my Lord,” the soldier finally stood. Denethor noted his legs wobbled. He took the proffered pouch and opened it. He recognized the firm handwriting of Captain Gelmir. He looked up.

“Forgive me, my Lord. They were upon us in the night. Though there is no excuse for my failure. There were too many and they had strange fire weapons, balls that opened and shout out fire and death. Beware of them! I have not seen the like before. The city itself has fallen; I hold the fort, but not for long. They have surrounded it. A battering beast pounds the gate even as I write this missive. It will not stand. Forgive me. Your servant, Gelmir, Captain.”

Denethor sat back for perhaps a quarter of an hour. The rider had returned to his seat, his head in his hands. “Go to your captain and report, then take yourself to the Houses and have that wound looked after. Tell Hirgon you are relieved for the rest of the day.” The soldier saluted and left. Denethor pulled on the handbell and heard it ring somewhere off in the distance. Belegorn entered and stood, waiting. “Send for Hirgon.”

After a half hour, the Captain of the Errand-riders stood before his Steward. “Hirgon, has there been any word from Lamedon, from Angbor?”

He wrote a quick note, folded it, and handed it to his captain. “Give this to another. Stay near. I will need you soon.”

“Not yet. They will ransack the city, spend a few days, at the least, raping and pillaging, taking the spoils of my people. They will probably be at the Harland in less than a week. Though, to our advantage, the wind is against them, for the nonce.”

“No, he will not. He must stand and protect his own lands and people. If I know him, he will send a force to the Gilrain and fight there. It might slow the ships a bit.”

“It is. It means we must rely on Théoden and we both know he has his own troubles. If Helm’s Deep is encircled, he could be imprisoned there for months. Though, I doubt the Enemy would let him stop his progress thusly. Nay, I think Théoden dead.” He closed his eyes, remembering the sight of Thorongil riding next to the King of Rohan. ‘He is probably dead also. I suppose that thought should fill me with delight, though the friendship the Northerner and I once shared is gone, I loved him, at the time.’

“Nay. We have none to spare. Húrin, send the order to light the beacon at nightfall. Use the white smoke. All the beacons are to be lit.”

“I relied upon the strength of Lamedon. We are now bereft of Angbor’s forces. Send the order and have Captain Hirgon sent to me.”

Húrin nodded, opened the door and spoke to Belegorn. He turned then, with tears in his eyes, and stared long and hard at his cousin, his friend, his Lord. “I will order the beacons lit.” Saluting, he left the room.

Denethor stood and walked to the window that overlooked the Courtyard. He watched as the dead branches of the White Tree swayed in the strong north winds. Shaking his head, he moved to a cupboard on the near wall and pulled out a lebethron box. He blew the dust from its lid and opened it. The stench of long-trapped air caused him to hold the box away from him for a moment, then he pulled back the black covering and looked down upon the Red Arrow.

It stared back at him, seeming as impotent as the Stone at rest, but Denethor knew when this simple token was placed in Theoden’s hand, if the King of Rohan yet lived, the man would stumble at the thought of its import.

What number of men Rohan would be able to muster after the devastation of the battles at the Fords and the Deep, Denethor could not even fathom, but he was desperate, now that he had lost Pelargir and the promise of Angbor’s men. ‘If I had known, I would have lit the fires earlier. Yet, what good with Theoden fighting his own battles.”

“Your last missive, Hirgon, then I will keep you by my side. You have been valiant and true. I could not have asked for a better captain. I know the missives I send are received, because of the faith and the duty your men feel towards you. I am sorry I have been lax in the friendship that belongs to you from your father. I would have it another way, but…”

“My Lord,” Hirgon interrupted. “I owe my allegiance to you. I owe my life to you. Know my men serve at your pleasure, not mine. It is you they revere. As do I. Ask what you will of us, we will obey.”

“Then take this to Rohan, Hirgon,” he held the Red Arrow before him and watched as his captain swayed at the sight and all but fell. “I know not if Théoden King yet lives, but take it to Edoras and give it to whomever is in charge.”

“My Lord,” the young captain sputtered, “I will see it done.” He groped for words, but none would come. There were no words to express his sorrow. And his great pride for being given such an errand. “If you do not object, I will not take esquires with me on this ride; I will take my best riders.”

“That is as it should be. Put someone you trust in command whilst you are gone. Then, when you receive Rohan’s answer, come swiftly back. I will be waiting.”

Hirgon saluted, turned to leave, then turned back to his Steward. “Thank you, my Lord,” he whispered in deep appreciation. “Thank you.”

Denethor rounded the desk and took the man in his arms. “Take care and return. I owe your father that much – to see that his son lives.”

A/N – 1) Faramir’s dream can be found here: FotR: Book II; Chapter 2: The Council of Elrond; 2) There is a great amount of information on the Palantír, in the Palantír chapter (go figure) of HoMe: Book 8: Part One: VI: The Palantír. Also, there is much in the Silmarillion. Two people cannot read and agree upon what the Palantír can and cannot do. Therefore, I feel a measure of freedom in this respect; 3) It seems the Palantír of Orthanc was quite powerful, per Aragorn. ‘But the Palantír of Orthanc the King will keep, to see what is passing in his realm, and what his servants are doing.’ RotK: Book VI: Chapter Six: Many Partings. 4) As to whether or not Pippin was seen by Denethor…. I have always been intrigue by this little bit in RotK – ‘Pippin sat down, but he could not take his eyes from the old lord. Was it so, or had he only imagined it, that as he spoke of the Stones a sudden gleam of his eye had glanced upon Pippin's face?’ Isn’t that a delicious quote? Doesn’t it just make you wonder? Well, I couldn’t stop wondering and finally considered that Denethor might have ‘seen’ Pippin while the Hobbit was ‘caught’ by Sauron. RotK: Book V: Chapter One: Minas Tirith; 5) And lastly, did Denethor know of the existence of the Ring or some such weapon? It seems to me he must have, if one reads the discussion between Denethor and Gandalf in RotK. One such part, as spoken by Denethor: “But most surely not for any argument would he have set this thing at a hazard beyond all but a fool's hope, risking our utter ruin, if the Enemy should recover what he lost. Nay, it should have been kept, hidden, hidden dark and deep. Not used, I say, unless at the uttermost end of need, but set beyond his grasp, save by a victory so final that what then befell would not trouble us, being dead.” RotK: Book V: Chapter Four: The Siege of Gondor; 6) ‘But soon Pippin saw that all was in fact well-ordered: the wains were moving in three lines, one swifter drawn by horses; another slower, great waggons with fair housings of many colours, drawn by oxen; and along the west rim of the road many smaller carts hauled by trudging men.’ RotK: Book V: Chapter 1: Minas Tirith; 7) According to Michael Perry in his ‘Untangling Tolkien,’ Théoden traveled as hidden as possible, to prevent the Enemy from seeing his troops and guessing they were going to Gondor’s aid. Unfortunately, this also meant Denethor probably could not see that the Rohirric army was, in fact, coming to Gondor; 8) The girth of Minas Tirith around the city at the First Level measured around 9,000 feet – almost 2 miles (or almost 2 furlongs or 80 rods or 300 yards depending upon what measurement you are using - Tolkien used rods and furlongs and such). According to Karen Wynn Fonstad’s Atlas of Middle-earth. That equates to about twenty-five football fields (US) long. A lot of territory to cover!!! {Measurements - 1 league = 3 miles; 1 mile =8 furlongs; 1 furlong = 40 rods; 1 rod = 6 paces (which in later days to provide consistency among surveyors was quantified as 5-1/2 yards); 1 pace = the length of a grown man's stride} (PS – a hearty thank you to Helmsdaughter for verifying my math on the placement of the boys around the inner wall of the City): 9) I won’t even go into the bells; they are insane, but you can find information on how they are used by googling for ship’s bells (which is the system I believe Tolkien used.); 10) Aragorn sees the Corsairs, in the Palantir, approaching Gondor on March 6th - It takes an errand-rider about 20 hours to make it from Pelargir to Minas Tirith. On March 13, Aragorn reached Pelargir, and the Dead swept over the Corsairs' ships and captured the fleet. http://www.tuckborough.net/towns.html#Pelargir; 11) Lebethron – Faramir states it is a precious wood of Gondor. RotK: Book IV: Chapter Six: The Forbidden Pool; 12) Meaning of import: Archaic. to be of consequence or importance to; concern. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/import

Ch. 26 - 9 March - Third Age 3019

Denethor heard the horn winding from the Tower Room and pulled himself away from the globe. He had failed; the Halfling and Saruman were lost somewhere in the wilds. Even if he had ten thousand more men to scour the borders, the Wizard’s magic would keep them hidden. He shook in frustration; what further could he do to save Gondor?

So - Boromir had died for naught as had Théodred; and now, Gondor would fall. Isildur’s Bane would be placed in the Nameless One’s hand.

Sobs tore through the Steward as he watched the blackness of Mordor course through with the blood red of the spewing mountain. How had it come to this, he had asked himself this, it seemed, since the very day he had been born. No matter what he did, no matter what sacrifice he made, it all came down to the fact that he was but a man against a force that even the Valar and the Elves, according to the old tales, could not vanquish.

He let go of the stone and walked to the window, holding tightly onto the sill. He searched within his heart for the courage to leave the Room and face his men, rally them to another level of bravery, when, in fact, he knew all was lost. As his unseeing eyes looked out upon the Pelennor, the sun caught the top of the broken Dome of Stars in the midst of decimated Osgiliath, and Denethor thought of Faramir. He regretted the fact that his son knew, in the very depths of his heart, that his father had lost all hope. How could his son battle without hope?

Another blast of the horn and Denethor’s grief-fogged mind realized it was the signal announcing that Mithrandir approached the City. His eyes turned towards the North Gate, but he could not see. He placed the cloth over the stone and walked from the Room, locking it after him. He descended the stairs, wondering why the Wizard had come. The last Denethor had seen of him, he had been riding next to Théoden and Thorongil on the plains of Rohan. Had Théoden triumphed at Helm’s Deep? It seemed inconceivable!

He turned and ran up the stairs, unlocked the door and pulled the cloth off the globe, letting it fall to the floor. He sent his mind towards Helm’s Deep and saw only a small contingent guarding the battlement. His mouth opened in wonder. There were no signs of burial grounds. No, he was mistaken; there were, but so few. The guards watched the walls in silence, and in victory! Somehow, Rohan had won. He caught no sight of Théoden nor of Thorongil. Where were they? Had they died in the battle and another led Rohan’s forces? Could it be Éomer? Too young.

Another horn blast. This time from the Third Level. The Wizard was almost to the Citadel. Denethor looked once more towards Edoras, but saw naught. He bit his lip. ‘Where are Rohan’s forces?’ He could find no answer. He shook his head in consternation. How could he face the Wizard with such little information? He took a deep breath and left the Room, the cloth placed, before he left, with reverence upon the globe.

As he walked from the Tower into the Great Hall, he heard the shouts of his men, crying out the Wizard’s name, and his heart stopped. Their cries were of dismay. The Wizard brought horror and despair with him. He gritted his teeth as anger replaced his own sense of hopelessness. His men needed to be strong now, stronger than ever they had been before and this… this Wizard rides into His City with despair as his cloak!

He pulled his guards from the paved passage that the Wizard would walk, and entered the Great Hall. He knew Mithrandir would understand the gesture: that Denethor had no fear of the Wizard. He called to the Chamberlain to have the horn brought to him, both pieces, and his Rod. He strode towards the Chair without a look, neither left nor right, to the kings that lined the Hall. He had no time to even consider what they might think. If he could have, if he had been free, he would have spat at the feet of each one, reminding them of the dereliction of their duty to their people and their City. How they had failed Gondor. He would not. Until his last breath, he vowed, he would fight, even though Gondor had already lost.

He thought again upon Isildur’s Bane as Boromir’s horn was placed in his lap. Lovingly he stroked it, waiting for the announcement that the Wizard was at his door. He needed to let his grief free, he needed to beguile Mithrandir and discover what part the Wizard had played in Boromir’s death.

Húrin ran into the Hall and to the Chair. “A Halfling rides with the Wizard!”

Denethor clenched the horn tighter. A flare of hope engulfed him in its fire. ‘Does he carry Isildur’s Bane? Does he have this thing with him?’ A small whimper of excitement escaped his throat. ‘Does he bring it to me?’ He kept his head bowed; he heard the great metal door open and he tensed, waiting for the battle to begin.

"Hail, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith, Denethor son of Ecthelion! I am come with counsel and tidings in this dark hour." *

The Steward of Gondor looked up, his eye immediately drawn to the little creature that walked beside Mithrandir. His skin crawled at the manifestation of countless legends - and Faramir’s dream. For a moment, he swore he ‘knew’ this creature, but that was impossible. ‘Ah! The Halfling in the Palantír!’ This was the little creature he had seen just a few short days ago, being tormented by the Eye. He kept himself in check.

Denethor could not remember the words he spoke, but the Wizard introduced the Halfling to him. In the midst of the introduction, Mithrandir let slip that Théoden yet lived. The Steward, so used to hiding his very spirit these many long years, never flinched, but stored the information for later use.

The next thing he knew, he was in a verbal battle with the Wizard over Faramir! How he should have known; Mithrandir still considered himself the better and dared to malign Boromir. His Boromir! Who had given his very life... He chided himself for not realizing the Wizard would use the same tactics with him that he had used with Ecthelion. In the depths of his abused heart, he cursed Faramir and the Wizard and this Halfling that witnessed his son’s death and yet lived.

At the Wizard’s questions, he lifted the horn, and showed it to him, and was astounded when the little creature shouted, "That is the horn that Boromir always wore!" In response, he reeled off the history of the horn and the fact that he had heard it some days past. Oh, how his heart hurt when the Halfling agreed with the time of its winding. Denethor spoke viciously, and regretted it, but he needed to hear how this little helpless creature could have survived the attack that took his stalwart son, the Captain-General of Gondor! As he listened to the tale, short though it was, a small glimmer of esteem came into his heart for this little one who had stood by his son’s side. In fealty. And love. Then the Steward of Gondor found himself being looked upon with no little pride.

"Little service, no doubt, will so great a lord of Men think to find in a hobbit, a Halfling from the northern Shire; yet such as it is, I will offer it, in payment of my debt."

The Steward of Gondor watched as the Halfling flung aside his gray cloak; the creature drew forth his small sword and laid it at Denethor's feet. He began to smile, but something about the Halfling caught Denethor’s eye and he looked upon him in wonder. ‘Amdir!’ his mind shouted. The little creature had Amdir’s sweet, kind eyes. ‘How could this be?’

Already, he had felt some comfort, knowing that such a friend stood at Boromir’s side in the last hours of his life, and now, now he felt the comfort of Amdir surround his heart. His friend had promised to always be at his side. How this feeling was possible, Denethor did not know, but he grasped it and held it close. He smiled, bent his head and held out his hand, laying the shards of the horn aside. "Give me the weapon!" he said.

When Denethor held it in his hand, he listened to the tale of how it had come to the little one. His wonder and respect grew. At last, he drew himself up and said, “I accept your service. For you are not daunted by words; and you have courteous speech, strange though the sound of it may be to us in the South. And we shall have need of all folk of courtesy, be they great or small, in the days to come. Swear to me now!”

“Take the hilt,” said Gandalf, “and speak after the Lord, if you are resolved on this.”

“I am,” said the Halfling.

Denethor laid the sword along his lap, and the little one put his hand to the hilt, and said the oath, slowly after the Steward, and then Denethor said his part. Another small smile graced his lips. Stalwart indeed. He gave back the sword and the Halfling sheathed it. Denethor bid him sit, ordered food to be brought, and commanded the Halfling to tell him everything. Every moment of what he could remember of his son. He wished mightily that Faramir were with him. That the boy could hear this tale and be comforted by the friendship obvious between this one and Boromir.

Before the little one… before Peregrin, son of Paladin began to speak, Mithrandir interrupted. With barely contained fury Denethor listened to the whining of the Wizard. He took some perverse joy in discomfiting the one who had spent so many years extolling Thorongil’s virtues to Ecthelion. He did not want to reveal too much, yet the Wizard’s barbs of Gondor’s ignorance rankled him and he spoke.

“Yea,” he said, “for though the Stones be lost, they say, still the lords of Gondor have keener sight than lesser men, and many messages come to them.” In the end, Denethor relented and turned his attention back to the Halfling. “But sit now!” He noted Peregrin twitched when he spoke of the stone and realized he had, in truth, been correct. This one had dared to touch the Palantír and live. His regard grew. “Now tell me your tale, my liege,” said Denethor, half kindly; half mockingly. “For the words of one whom my son so befriended will be welcome indeed.”

For over an hour, Denethor sat and listened, questioned the Halfling, and watched, with no small delight, as Mithrandir fumed and raged at being disregarded. But Denethor did not ignore the Wizard. He watched every nuance, every twitch, every growl that escaped Mithrandir’s lips. Though he questioned long and hard, he did naught to harm the Halfling, just extracted every piece of information he could from the guileless little thing.

At last, he released the Halfling, reminding him of his oath, and ordering him to present himself later in the day, but Mithrandir would not leave with his thoughts unspoken. Denethor lost his temper and reminded the Wizard of the one thing that galled the Steward of Gondor the most. His suppression of all the things Denethor needed to know! “If you understand it, then be content,” returned Denethor. “Pride would be folly that disdained help and counsel at need; but you deal out such gifts according to your own designs. Yet the Lord of Gondor is not to be made the tool of other men's purposes, however worthy. And to him there is no purpose higher in the world as it now stands than the good of Gondor; and the rule of Gondor, my lord, is mine and no other man's, unless the king should come again.”

Another sharp word and Denethor watched as the Wizard left in a fury, the Halfling desperately running to keep up with Mithrandir’s long strides. If Denethor had not been so angry, he would have laughed at the sight. But again, he chaffed at the silence of the Wizard upon the things that mattered most to him – the weal of Gondor. How he hated the machinations and schemes of this being.

When he rang the gong, the servants came and one tried valiantly to lead Mithrandir, but he also could not keep up with the Wizard. Denethor looked away, suddenly exhausted. It had been a battle, as he had envisioned, but he had not dared to think he would engender such information. If it had been the Wizard he had to question, he would never have learned what he did. And for that, he was most grateful. He felt a deep sorrow for the Halfling. He had endured much. He promised himself he would be kind to Peregrin, son of Paladin.

~*~

Denethor sat on the great Chair in the Great Hall in the great City of Minas Tirith and waited for his stomach to settle and his head to stop spinning. The incongruity of it all bemused him. He was Steward and yet… his brow rose… still a boy to the Wizard. His stomach would not cease its roiling; much as he willed himself to calm, his body still shook, trembled, in fact, by what had just transpired.

A battle he had called it. A battle already lost. The Wizard had always had the upper hand; there was no denying it. Yet, someway, somewhere, Denethor had hoped he might somehow win. This day, his very bones told him all was lost. Had been lost since Thorongil had entered the Great Gate as an unkempt ranger who soon commanded Ecthelion’s army.

His father was dead. Ecthelion had listened to the Wizard, took his counsel, and thrust his own son aside for the love of the Northerner. Thorongil was Ecthelion’s son, had been since he arrived in Minas Tirith. No matter what Denethor did, Thorongil did better.

Finduilas was dead. He had not won over her decline into despair. No matter what he had done, she left him. She only looked to the mountain, let its evil sink into her spirit and darken it, and lost all hope.

Amdir was dead. Fighting for him. All that mattered to his dearest friend was that Denethor suffered grief and Amdir came to his aid. And because of that, when the Orcs attacked, Amdir protected him with his very life.

Indis was dead. Probably poisoned. He loved his sister with his every thought. She had been mother, sister, friend, confidant – everything to him. He had accepted all she gave him as if it were his due, and he had failed her. Murder unavenged.

Boromir was dead. Sent off on some foolish quest that should have been Faramir’s. His youngest son would have known how to deal with Elves. Cunning, conniving creatures. Boromir was as a babe sent into the lion’s den. A warrior in a bramble patch. The stone had not lied; no matter what Denethor tried to do, Boromir died.

Faramir –

“My Lord,” Húrin stood before him, touching his knee and looking at him as if he were some strange beast. “My Lord. Are you well?”

“What need have you?” Denethor pulled himself from the mire of grief.

“Your captains are assembled. Would you meet with them here?”

“I did not hear the bell.”

“It rang the third hour from sun’s rise.”

“Come with me, then. It is time to order the evacuation.” He handed the Rod and the broken pieces of Boromir’s Horn to the Chamberlain.

Húrin nodded and followed his lord, saying naught.

When they came into Denethor’s study, the chief captains, their aides, and those in charge of the evacuation saluted and moved aside for him. He returned their salutes and stood at his desk. When he motioned, they moved forward and sat in various chairs placed about the large room, their aides standing behind them. The fire was not lit, as the morning was already grown warm. Denethor had his great cloak still wrapped about him.

“It is time. You have your assignments for this day’s work. The people have already assembled at their waiting points. We must begin the evacuation.”

They all nodded. “Then, are there questions?”

“The wains from the Fourth Circle are greater than we expected,” Captain Mardil said. “I have put another company on detail to help them.”

“How could this be? The plans have been set since last year.”

“The refugees from the Pelennor, my Lord, and Anórien,” Húrin interposed. “They have swelled our ranks. Even with that, all is proceeding as planned.” Gondor’s Warden of the Keys stopped as Mithrandir entered the chamber.

Denethor watched as the grizzled old wizard took a pipe from his mouth and blew smoke into the air. His skin prickled, wondering what new devilry he was about. Silently he screamed his frustration, but none could see it in his physical form. “Lord Mithrandir.” He motioned for the Wizard to take a seat to the right of him. He watched as Mithrandir walked steadily forward and sat. ‘White?’ Denethor chided himself; he had not noted that the Wizard’s garb was different. ‘As is his hair and beard. What betook him to evidence such changes?’

“The North Gate is just now being strengthened?” The Wizard’s voice was smooth, non-committal, but Denethor felt its chiding.

“The last of the fortifications to be done.” How the Steward hated the fact that he was explaining himself. “The Rammas has been raised. As you well know.”

The Wizard nodded and continued to smoke.

“The evacuation will begin.” Denethor stopped himself. He would not further enlighten this one, for he sensed Mithrandir already knew all his plans. “Those of you who are in charge of the evacuation, leave us now. The road must be cleared for a league before the noon hour, for we need it open for those who come to our aid from the South.” Seven men stood, saluted, and left the chamber. Denethor pulled forth a scroll and unrolled it for his remaining captains. “Here is the Enemy, as far as reports can tell.”

His chief captains stood and moved toward the map, murmuring to each other as they came forward.

Mithrandir never moved, but Denethor knew the Wizard could see clearly enough from his seat next to the desk. None of the soldiers moved close enough to hinder the Wizard’s sight. Denethor bit the inside of his cheek.

A rider entered. “My Lord Steward.” He bowed and offered a missive.

Denethor took it, read it quickly, and handed it to the Wizard who nodded as if he expected what he read. Once again, Denethor’s aggravation at Mithrandir’s penchant for hiding all knowledge from him grew. He turned to his captains. “The darkening spreads. It now covers the Ephel Dúath.” His skin prickled as he spoke. ‘How could the Enemy control the very skies?’

He watched as several of his captains blanched. Others stood stalwart, hands on the hilts of their swords. ‘These are the ones I can trust,’ he thought. “Come. Let us continue.” He turned his back on the window, tempted as he was to look out and see for himself the progress of the darkness, but instead, poured over his maps once again.

“They will bring siege weapons. We must ensure our trebuchets target these first.” He looked up and was heartened to see the calm courage covering the faces of his captains.

“Will they dig trenches, my Lord?”

“They will. I would have them stopped before that, but, though the range of our weapons is great, they will dig, hide, then dig some more. Ever moving forward. That is when we must have our archers ready.”

He heard an aide ask his captain, “Can they not dig under the walls and enter?”

“We have flooded the lower caves, the dungeons, and the sewers. None can enter below.” Denethor motioned, and the captain ordered his aide gone. “Any other questions?” He was gratified to see the remaining aides shuffle and bow their heads. ‘Another Faramir,’ he thought bitterly, ‘questioning what he does not know!’

Well into the day’s planning, Denethor looked towards the Wizard and paused. Mithrandir’s eyes were wide, the hand holding the pipe stilled in mid-air, and his head cocked towards the window. ‘What now, Wizard? What do you hear or see in the depths of your cold heart? But no, you will not share it; ever is your purpose kept unto yourself. Even if said purpose may have some small impact upon Gondor’s safety, yet you would keep all to yourself.’

Another messenger entered, panting, eyes wild. “There has been a sighting, my Lord. Some strange creature riding in the sky. Its fell voice frightens even the horses.”

Denethor stared at Mithrandir. The Wizard, after another moment, seemed to pull himself together, bringing the pipe to his lips, sucking the hideous thing, and releasing dense, foul smelling smoke. For one moment, Denethor remembered the smell that lingered upon Thorongil’s clothing and missed his once-friend. With an imperceptible shake of his head, he turned back to the scrolls.

At last, the noon bells rang and Denethor straightened. “We are now as well prepared as possible, until we know the number of those who come from the south to our aid. Take this time to rest and refresh yourselves. I would have you return here after the daymeal.” He stepped away from the desk and walked to the window. Finally, he looked upon the sight that had skewered his back these last three hours.

“So the darkening begins.” The Wizard spoke as if he were commenting upon the quality of Denethor’s wine.

“You did not see it?”

“I was here with you, Lord Denethor. The darkening had not begun when first I entered Minas Tirith.”

“Well, then, come join me and look upon it. And if you may, tell me your thoughts.”

The Wizard stood and moved towards the window, standing next to Denethor. “It is still far enough away.”

“That it is. I wonder when it will encompass the entire sky? Tell me, Mithrandir, does it have purpose?”

“You know as well as I, Lord Denethor. Terror is the Enemy’s main weapon. He uses it well.”

“You felt the creature?”

“I did. I have felt it before, upon the plains of Rohan.”

“And what can you tell me of it? What defense might we use against it?” he asked as impatience flamed his anger.

“I am told an Elf took one with only one arrow.”

Denethor choked on laughter. “How many Elves do you imagine I have in Gondor’s army?”

The Wizard, to his credit, chuckled. “If an Elf can take one down, so can a man. The archers of Gondor are well known and prized for their skill.”

Denethor looked once more upon the graying sky and turned away. “Would you join me for nuncheon?”

“Yes.”

For a brief moment, Denethor looked upon the Pelennor and wondered where Faramir was and how he fared; then he turned and led the Wizard towards his dining chambers.

~*~

Denethor stood up and went to his window, opened it, and sighed in deep gratitude as the air was filled with shouting, dust and huzzahs. ‘The men of the South are come to Gondor’s aid.’

While he waited for Húrin to bring the report of their numbers, their equipment, and their horses, he poured himself wine. The Wizard had left him an hour before, and he did not know nor care where he had gone. He felt safe and strong, now that Mithrandir was away from him; sometimes, when the Wizard was about, Denethor felt more like the scorned captain of his father’s time. Though he expected the Wizard to return for the daymeal, he took great comfort in being alone for the nonce. He returned to the window and drank in the sound of his people as they shouted out what he presumed were the names and fiefdoms of those who marched in through the Great Gate; he was too far to hear anything but joy-filled noise. He sat on the window’s ledge and quaffed his wine.

After many long hours, Húrin entered and found his lord back at his desk poring over reports. “Forlong the Fat, my Lord, of Lossarnach,” Húrin began, “brings two hundreds, horsed.” He blanched at Denethor’s look. “They are well armed,” he explained. “Their battles axes shine.”

“I had expected ten times that number. The black fleet proves deadly and it has not yet touched the Harlond.”

“Lord Dervorin’s son,” Húrin continued, “and the men of Ringló Vale striding on foot are three hundreds. Morthond’s lord, Duinhir with his sons, Duilin and Derufin, come with five hundred bowmen. From the Anfalas, Lord Golasgil brings a long line of men of many sorts, hunters and herdsmen and men of little villages, though scantily equipped. From Lamedon, a few hillmen come without a captain, along with fisher-folk of the Ethir, some hundred or more spared from the ships. Hirluin the Fair of the Green Hills from Pinnath Gelin with three hundreds of gallant green-clad men.”

Denethor’s deep sigh echoed through the chamber. “Imrahil?” he asked, his voice heavy with apprehension.

“Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, kinsman of my Lord, with gilded banners bearing his token of the Ship and the Silver Swan, and a company of knights in full harness riding gray horses are come, and behind them seven hundreds of men at arms.”

“I suppose they were singing?”

Húrin smiled. “You know the men of Belfalas.”

“We of Minas Tirith should be singing a dirge. Less than three thousands. My people are not fools, Húrin. They know full well it should have been at least ten thousands. At least.” He bit his lip. “We cannot allow despair to fill our City.”

Húrin nodded, unsure of what reply his cousin and Steward would have him make.

“Lamedon came not, as I expected. They will come once the ships have passed by.” Another sigh passed the Steward’s lips. “It is dusk, Húrin, and these men must be billeted.”

“It will be as has been arranged. The lords and captains will meet with you at the beginning of First Watch.”

“Make sure the men are well fed. We begin rationing tomorrow,” his brow furrowed, “though the need will not be as great, what with the lesser numbers of men. Will you join me for the daymeal? No. I am sorry. You should not. Go to your wife and son.”

“My wife was in the wains that left for Tumladen. My son eats with his friends and the esquires left in the Tower. I would be pleased to join you.” He did not ask about the Wizard. After all these years, though Húrin knew he was not as quick-witted as his cousin, he was wise enough not to bring the Wizard into any conversation if he could possibly help it.

“Mithrandir will be joining us, as will Imrahil and the other lords.”

“I will arrange the meal then?”

“Yes. Ask Belegorn to join us.”

Húrin nodded and left the room.

Denethor heard the trumpet for the closing of the Gate and waited. A bitter smile swept across his face as the sundown-bells tolled. He could not see, but knew the lights in the quarters of those left in the City were being lit. Faintly, he could hear the sound of song as the men of arms of his beloved Gondor, and those few women who helped in the Houses, filled the air and wafted up to the Tower. Night dropped like a cloak about him and the sky was black, compounded by his order to dim the lights and cover the windows. Not a star broke through the blackening.

Mithrandir entered upon his order and walked to the fireplace, the ever-present pipe securely held between teeth almost as white as the Wizard’s hair. Denethor had not asked and Mithrandir did not tell what happenstance had made his visage change. The Wizard had the grace to bow and Denethor motioned for him to sit. He half-smiled as Mithrandir took the most comfortable chair in the study. They played one game of ‘Stewards and Kings.’

~*~

Merethrond was well appointed this night. The hall was full as Denethor walked through the large doors. Those gathered stood and saluted. A faint memory, of one of his father’s council meetings where none rose when he entered, sent shivers up his spine. He acknowledged their obeisance and sat.

He did not speak but motioned for the repast to begin. Servers ran forward with great decanters of wine, others brought out covered bowls with all sorts of breads filling them, while others carried great casks filled with ale and placed them on the sideboards. The lords began their meal.

Imrahil sat at Denethor’s left with Mithrandir at his right. The Prince of Dol Amroth took the proffered wine from a servant’s hand without looking. His focus was on his brother by law. “Denethor,” he said at last, “where is Faramir?”

Drawing in a breath, the Steward said, “He will be here by morning, at the latest.”

“Good. I wish to see him. How fares he with the news of B…? I am sorry.”

“He does not sit idly while Ithilien is o’er run, Imrahil. He does what he must. He comes when he may.”

“Denethor, well I know that, but he belongs here this night, with the lords of the land, to discuss the war plans. He is your heir.”

Denethor all but hissed. Those seated nearby looked away, wondering at Imrahil’s temerity. The Wizard smiled, which only exacerbated Denethor’s deep loathing.

Quaffing his wine, Denethor put down the glass and turned to Imrahil, his face white. “Faramir is well-loved by you and your wife.”

Imrahil shrugged. “As was Boromir.”

“I think not. Your deference has always been upon my youngest. Boromir knew it.”

“My Lord,” Imrahil said, his voice deep and quiet. “Your deference was always upon your eldest.”

Denethor pushed his chair back and stood. He motioned and turned, striding angrily from the room. Imrahil followed him into the Steward’s study.

“You would chide me now! While Boromir lies dead in some swamp!”

“I loved Boromir with my whole heart, Denethor. He knew it well. He knew I gave an added portion of love and affection to Faramir to counter your cold-heartedness. He was grateful, not envious!”

Denethor grappled with sanity. His whole being poised as if to pounce while his hand clenched and unclenched the sword hilt at his side. “Does my youngest whine when he is with you? Does he complain of my treatment? Does he show you bruises?”

Imrahil turned away in disgust. It was a mistake.

Denethor grabbed him by the shoulder and flung him around. “Do not turn your back on me!” A dagger pointed at Imrahil’s throat.

“Denethor.” Imrahil’s voice was low but steady. “What is this about? Why are you angry with me? We are brothers.” His voice faltered and his brow knit. “Do you doubt my loyalty? My love? Did I not come when you called? Did I not bring my Swan Knights with me?”

The Steward of Gondor swallowed visibly. He dropped his weapon and moved away from Imrahil. “All night, I have been accosted by visions of my father. Council meetings, practice sessions, nights in his study with the Wizard and…. And Thorongil. I am shaken.” His face blazed.

“You have never drawn a weapon against me before, brother,” Imrahil said. “Why tonight?”

“I fear I am encompassed about by enemies.”

“Your lords are not your enemies, Denethor. They obeyed you quickly enough, even sending their own sons to battle for you. The Enemy is across the Ephel Dúath. Not in Minas Tirith. Have you slept?”

“Little.”

“I thought as much. Lie on the settle, here in your own study, and rest for but a moment. I will sit with you and guard the door so that you be not disturbed. The night will be long, brother. You know that. Each lord will want his own say in where his men are posted. The arguing will go on into the dawn. Rest now.”

“I---”

“Speak not, brother. I know your heart. Rest.”

Denethor nodded; his head felt as if a Mûmak stood upon his neck, crushing him. He moved to the settle and lay upon it. Fidgeting with a throw, he grunted, then smiled as Imrahil took the unruly thing and draped it over him. “Thank you,” he said and immediately slept.

Imrahil sat in a nearby chair and wept.

~*~

A/N – 1) "Mithrandir! Mithrandir!" men cried. "Now we know that the storm is indeed nigh!" "It is upon you," said Gandalf. "I have ridden on its wings. Let me pass! I must come to your Lord Denethor, while his stewardship lasts. Whatever betide, you have come to the end of the Gondor that you have known. Let me pass!" RotK: Book V: Chapter 1: Minas Tirith. 2) From this point on, there will be many ‘passages’ taken directly from RotK. They will be noted here, but not in the body of the text. It is not an effort to make it seem these are MY words, but to keep the flow of the tale moving. For those who are familiar with this book, you will know. Those who are not familiar really, really should read the Book – it is a treasure, a blessing, a gift. It is precious. 3) ‘But soon Pippin saw that all was in fact well-ordered: the wains were moving in three lines, one swifter drawn by horses; another slower, great waggons with fair housings of many colours, drawn by oxen; and along the west rim of the road many smaller carts hauled by trudging men.’ RotK: Book V: Chapter 1: Minas Tirith; 4) According to Michael Perry in his ‘Untangling Tolkien,’ Théoden traveled as hidden as possible, to prevent the Enemy from seeing his troops and guessing they were going to Gondor’s aid. Unfortunately, this also meant Denethor probably could not see that the Rohirric army was, in fact, coming to Gondor.

Dark covered the Tower room as Denethor pulled his hands from the Palantír. Though the days were become warmer, the nights were still cold, and dawn yet to come upon the City. He pulled his heavy cloak about him as he stepped back from the plinth. He could hardly remember walking up the stairs – so heavy was his heart.

The meeting with the lords the previous evening had been as fruitless and frustrating as he had imagined. They quibbled long into the night. It sickened him as many of them vied for postings where the fighting would not be fierce. Duinhir, Hurluin, and Imrahil said naught, leaving the placement of their men up to the Steward of Gondor. ‘If only more lords were like these three,’ he thought. At last, holding his anger, he dismissed them and proceeded to ascend to the Tower Room.

The Lord of Gondor spent the night there in another kind of battle. Despair clawed at his shoulders as he put the cloth back upon the now-silent stone and returned to the Great Hall. As he walked along between the statues of the kings, a great lassitude filled him. He sat and accepted the Rod from his waiting Chamberlain. Soon the Hall would fill – for now, he took some comfort in the quiet, willing himself to fight the ache in his head that the Palantír always induced. It slowly subsided.

A few minutes later, Denethor found himself strangely pleased when the Halfling entered with Mithrandir. His heart lifted and, though he did not at first acknowledge the small one, he watched him from the corner of his eye, smiling to himself as Peregrin fidgeted, shifting from one hair-covered, shoeless foot to the other. But at last, Denethor felt the little one could bear the wait no longer. The Steward of Gondor turned and asked of his day, noting with pleasure the Halfling’s surprise at his mention of the scarcity of food for the breaking of the day’s fast. ‘This one was so very easy to read.’ Denethor breathed a bit deeper to keep from laughing aloud at Peregrin’s obvious discomfiture.

However, the weight of the day returned with the appearance of four or five lords at the Door. “I understand, Master Peregrin,” Denethor began, determined to let them wait, “that my soldiers think less of me for the lateness of the lighting of the beacons?” The Halfling started in surprise, but said not a word. The thought of soldiers filled Denethor with a deep sadness. He suddenly wished for a song, like unto the ones he and his company oft sang on a long march. He had not thought of his old days in a long time – his days with Amdir and stalwart men like Duilin and Derufin. He vowed to meet with the sons of Dúinhir before the battle began. For a brief moment, his thoughts strayed further, wondering upon Faramir and where his youngest – his only son – now rode.

Denethor steeled himself, as he had learned to do when he was but twelve, and knew that not even the Wizard, for all his wiles, could sense the longing in his heart for simpler times: with his soldiers as a young, almost care-free lieutenant, with his beloved Finduilas as they rode out upon the Pelennor, with Boromir… His jaw clenched imperceptibly. He had, under his father’s hard hand, become adept at presenting an emotionless exterior to the world.

The Steward of Gondor finally took pity upon Peregrin, sending him off to the armories, for he found he could not bear the sight of the ragged, homespun clothes and travel-stained cloak that covered the Halfling. He stifled another smile as the little thing ran from the room – and was surprised to find the same such urge for escape in his own heart. To be free from care and duty!

Imrahil entered without announcement as the Halfling ran past him. Húrin followed closely behind the Prince of Dol Amroth. The Warden of the Keys brought with him Forlong and Dervorin. The Chamberlain stepped forward and announced the other five lords who stood now in apparent impatience. Denethor beckoned and they came forward. The Lord of Lossarnach saluted, then sat on one of the seats set up in front of Denethor’s Chair, releasing a loud belch.

Denethor turned to him as Imrahil and the other lords sat. “I see you had sufficient food for the breaking of your fast.”

Forlong squirmed, trying to settle himself comfortably. At last he gave up the attempt.

“Lord Chamberlain,” he called, forgetting Denethor in his discomfort. “Bring me a larger chair, will you? This seat is not fit for a warrior such as myself.” He grumbled loudly. “Could hardly fit my wife.”

Remembering that Denethor had questioned him, he stood and faced the Steward. “My Lord, I brought my own meals, knowing we are probably in for a long siege. Though we have paid extra taxes these past three years to furnish supplies for just such an inevitability, I thought Minas Tirith might yet be pressed to provide the meals I need to keep up my strength. No offense meant.”

He muttered again under his breath, though loud enough for all to hear him in the echoing Hall: “Though from the scant dole I saw Dervorin receive this morning for his portion, I was more than right in providing my own. Not enough for even a mouse.” He sat upon the larger, stuffed chair that a servant had brought while he was speaking. “This is much better.” Another belch echoed through the Hall.

At that moment, Peregrin, in full livery, returned. Denethor, however, did not note it. The Steward’s eyes were filled with fury at Forlong’s insult. “My men ate what all in the City ate.” His voice, though low and quiet, barely hid his anger. “Perhaps if the taxes agreed upon had been paid…” A barely noticeable shiver ran through him; Faramir had almost died on that march to collect the lords’ promised coin. His son still suffered from bouts of the fever that had raked his body last year. Controlling himself, he turned to Imrahil. “Is there a possibility you brought trained trebuchet men with you?”

Imrahil looked up in surprise. He had been clutching the hilt of his sword as Forlong spoke. The Lord of Lossarnach was a good leader, valiant warrior, and loyal fief lord, but his avarice for food and coin, though legendary, was ill suited for this grave hour. “Forgive me, my Lord.” He stood but immediately sat at Denethor’s motion. “I have brought a half company. I regret it is not more. My own keep must be protected with so many of my Knights here.”

Denethor nodded. Imrahil never failed him. “Húrin, have them sent to Captain Ragnor. Tell him to take first pick and then send the others off to the other stations.” He turned again to Imrahil. “Those of your men who are horsed will be stationed in the First Circle, in case a sortie must be sent out upon the Pelennor. The others I would place at the Second and Third Gates. None have ever breached Minas Tirith, but I will not tempt fate.”

“Dervorin…” Denethor stopped as Mithrandir stood, gave him a stiff bow and left the room. Striving mightily to keep from calling the Wizard back, Denethor continued with the placement of Dervorin’s men.

The morning went on. None of the lords received the postings they had so fought for the night before. At last, the Chamberlain stepped forward. Denethor nodded and the man announced nuncheon. The lords filed out of the Hall to Merethrond, their discourse none to gentle.

Peregrin looked about him. Denethor smiled. “That livery fits you well. Go with Húrin and see that the men are fed. After they are done, you may eat. Go.” With alacrity, the little one left him. Denethor held Imrahil back with a look. “Come with me,” he said and left the Hall through the back door. They walked along the cold inside corridor until they reached Denethor’s private chambers. The guard saluted and opened the door. “Have nuncheon brought here,” the Steward ordered then closed the door behind him.

Imrahil sat and accepted a glass of wine. Denethor sat opposite him. A fire crackled in the brazier. “I cannot seem to rid myself of this chill.” Denethor sighed. “I hope it is not too warm for you?”

“Well enough. Just chilled. The Hall is cold, even on the warmest of days, and today is not one of those.”

The food came; two men stayed and served them. They ate in silence. When finished, Denethor sat back. The servants stepped forward, removed the platters, dishes, linen and such and left. The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable.

“If you wait for an apology,” Imrahil began but stopped when Denethor rose; the high-backed chair fell back with a deafening thud.

“Morgoth take you,” the Steward whispered. Pain-filled eyes skirted across Imrahil’s face and then quickly turned away.

The Prince of Dol Amroth stood, strode to Denethor’s side, and took his arms. “Denethor!” Concern skittered across his proud face. “You are ill!”

“Not ill but tired. Beyond tired, my brother.” He swayed into Imrahil’s hands and cursed himself for this show of weakness. “I have not slept the night since Boromir left us.”

Imrahil pulled him quietly to the settle in front of the brazier, took his wine glass, and replaced it with a shot glass filled with whiskey. “Drink this.”

Denethor accepted it gratefully and downed it quickly. A hot fire filled his stomach. He laid his head back against the settle and closed his eyes.

“It is I who must apologize,” Denethor said, his voice tired and low. “I know you love Boromir. Loved.” He nearly choked. “I have held his Horn and tears will not come. My mind tells me he is dead but my heart refuses to believe it. How Faramir endures this, I cannot say. He doted upon Boromir. I pray he does nothing foolish in the midst of his grief. I can ill afford to lose him.”

“If I could, I would keep him here, but I could not do that, even for Boromir. Imrahil,” Denethor sat forward, “Faramir should be here shortly. After he finishes giving report, will you not go to him, spend some time with him? I cannot. There will be another Council meeting where I will share the news he brings.”

Denethor leaned back, his shoulders slumping. “It is time to return to the Hall.”

The Steward motioned to Húrin as he entered the Hall and his Warden walked soundlessly to his side.

“I know the love Boromir had for Beregond, and that Faramir now holds for the guard,” Denethor began slowly, “but the man speaks treason. Take him aside, then report back to me.”

Húrin’s mouth hung agape. “He is as loyal to the House of Stewards as any soldier I have ever known, my Lord. Who speaks ill of him?”

“I saw it in the Halfling’s eyes. Doubt has been sewn there – and not by the Wizard. Peregrin spent the day in Beregond’s company. His captain told me there are reports of a loose tongue. The guard questions me – the lighting of the beacons, the shoring of the North Gate, the…”

“But my Lord, he knows not that the Rohirrim were in battle and could not possibly come! That we still are not sure if Théoden King lives. That the North Gate was left till last, due to our trust in our Rohirric ally.”

“Do you question me, Húrin?” Denethor’s tone held that edge of harshness that often quailed his cousin.

“Ah ha! Therein lies the rub. I strove to earn my men’s trust. And in most, I deem I have it. And loyalty! Yet, there will always be ones like Beregond…” His mind whispered, ‘And Faramir.’ He pulled his cloak tighter, “who believe they know better.”

“Beregond does not trust me. I should have banished him when I discovered his disobedience two years ago, but I let Boromir dissuade me and had the man only lose his rank!”

Húrin bit his lip – obedience and loyalty had always been of paramount importance to his cousin.

“Keep him under watch, Húrin, and report to me any further transgressions.”

“I will, my Lord, though he is away from the city on errand to the Guard Towers upon the Causeway. With Hirgon and two other riders away, I had to send him. He will not return before sun sets. Nuncheon is over. Would you have me call the lords together?”

Peregrin came into the Hall, ran forward when Denethor beckoned, and stood slightly behind and to the left of Denethor’s Chair. After a little less than an hour, Denethor motioned the Halfling forward. Putting the maps aside, he said, “Though you have told me something of Boromir’s death, I know naught of your times together on the journey here. We have one hour.” He hesitated. “Ingold told me he saved your life?”

Uninvited, the Halfling sat on the bottom step, much to Denethor’s surprise, and began. The Steward listened to the account of near-death on Caradhras. At Denethor’s encouragment, Peregrin launched into the tale of his first meeting with Boromir and how much he had liked him – a lordly and kind man.

“The other man who helped my son carry your party from the blizzard, did he have a name?”

“Strider,” Peregrin said without hesitation. “We met him in Bree. We’d have never reached Rivendell if not for Strider.”

The bell rang for the ninth hour. Denethor looked up towards the entrance and noted Húrin stood waiting. “We must leave further tales aside for now. And even thought of song.” The Steward stifled a smile at Peregrin’s obvious look of horror. Denethor had noted the little one’s shiver when first he had mentioned it earlier in the day. Peregrin stood and moved to his appointed place near the Chair. Denethor motioned and the lords came forth, occupying their former places.

At the eleventh hour, Denethor released them and the Halfling. As the lords passed by, the Chamberlain strode forward and whispered in Húrin’s ear. The Warden came back through the metal doors and strode back to the Chair. “Beregond returns.”

The Steward of Gondor sat in his private chamber, allowing the anger and disappointment of the last few hours to leach from him. The room was warm, the brazier had a few coals left upon it, but Denethor was in need of more comfort than a fire could give him; his fury at Faramir’s treachery lay upon his heart, unabated.

His City still swayed after the onslaught of the great beast’s calls from the sky. Though he had been deep within his chambers, the knife-sharp cry of the winged Riders reached him. He had sat, near frozen, and waited. At last the sound faded. He had heard it before, many times in the Palantír; it did not quite immobilize him, but it still caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise.

Húrin, visibly shaken, had reported what he had seen. And brought the news that Faramir had returned alive, only it seemed, by the hand of the Wizard. Denethor had ordered the relighting of the brazier, the bringing of bread and wine, and the room arranged before Faramir came to him.

When his son first entered the room, Denethor had noted the dark circles under Faramir’s eyes, the leaden cast to his walk, the dirt-spattered riding boots and cloak. But what caught and held Denethor most was the look in his youngest’ eyes. He blanched in sorrow. ‘Old before his time,’ he thought sadly. ‘By the end of all this,’ he considered, ‘Faramir, if he survives, will be forever changed.’ The eyes that looked back at him were Finduilas’, but where hers were frightened as a stalked doe’s, Faramir’s were proud and brave.

Denethor remembered sitting with his hands held lightly upon the arms of his chair, waiting for the Wizard and Faramir to sit. The Halfling followed behind. Faramir ate a bit of bread and drank some wine before he sat on his father’s left. The Wizard took a chair on Denethor’s right as the Halfling stood behind the Steward.

Denethor’s heart stopped at the remembrance of Faramir’s report; nothing that the Steward did not already know until Faramir looked at the Halfling. The air in the chamber fairly cracked with tension.

Sitting back, Denethor willed himself to look once again upon the meeting with open eyes unclouded by the bitter disappointment he felt. In Ithilien, Faramir had betrayed him. It was a simple enough thought, but not so simple to swallow without a fire raging through his belly. He near wept at the remembrance of his son’s pandering to Mithrandir. The sight still stuck in his craw, over shadowing even Faramir’s flaunting of the Steward’s edict.

The Lord of Gondor was tired beyond description, yet the night’s work had just begun. Still stinging from the Wizard’s contempt… No, not contempt. The Wizard’s belief that Denethor was helpless when it concerned Isildur’s Bane, Denethor walked the Tower stairs slowly, leaning wearily upon the iron balustrade. He chided himself for expending so much energy against the Wizard, when in truth, the die had already been cast. There was nothing further he could do but wait for the Nameless One to catch and kill the wretched Halfling that Faramir failed to hold, and turn its power against Gondor. Well, he had vowed he would fight to the end, and so he would.

The Steward reached the Tower Room and opened the door. Flames greeted him. Stepping back, he covered his face with his arms and realized there was no heat but that cast by the torch he held. He lowered his arms and watched the Pelennor, bathed in fire. The Enemy had dug great trenches and fire filled them. Siege engines of all kinds were poised, ready to strike. The ground itself was covered with thousands of men, Orcs and beasts, so numerous with the Enemy’s forces that he could not see the fields nor even a blade of grass beneath their feet. In the distance, he saw amassed against the horizon, Mûmakil, their great shapes made larger by the looming war-towers atop their backs. All were moving forward, encroaching upon his City. He gasped at the sight, reminiscent of the vision he had seen but as a new lieutenant; now the scene before him was ten times worse. His legs shook.

This was what Faramir did not understand. It was not just one company of soldiers, nor even one person who was affected by his foolish, headstrong actions, but all of Minas Tirith. After that, Gondor. Faramir had let their one sure weapon fall through his fingers. If it had been any other captain that had done this thing, he would now be hanging from a noose in the First Circle!

Denethor clenched his teeth, turning his anger away from his only son and to Mithrandir. That fool Wizard! He thought the rest of Middle-earth, his supposed stewardship, would be saved! How? If Gondor fell, and this sight before him bespoke it, then Rohan and Belfalas, the lands of the Elves, and further west, all would be lost!

The Steward shuddered as the vision continued. Siege engines loosed; the City, his City, was bombarded with flaming projectiles. He cried out in horror, “Mithrandir!” and sank to the floor. The vision cleared and the Room glowed with the light of the torch. Why had he called upon the Wizard? Denethor’s cheeks flamed with shame. Nothing could save his City, if what he saw were true. Yet, the Palantír had never lied to him.

“Faramir! Faramir!” he cried out. “What have you done?” He put his head in his hands, breathing deeply, and tried to steady himself.

At last, his heart strengthened and he pulled himself up, standing before the plinth that held the stone. He removed the cloth from it and began his nightly vigil. The stone wakened to his touch.

An army wended its way through the hills and vales of Northern Ithilien: the end of the column passed close by the Dead Marshes, the vanguard almost through the Wetwang. Their path turned and led directly south.

A shiver ran up and down Denethor’s spine as he realized: the attack had begun. These would cross the River near Cair Andros. No time to warn the garrison there. They would be decimated. After that, probably into Rohan; that would be the tack he would take. Then… – Minas Tirith. There was nothing he could do.

He turned his eyes southward. The Corsair ships still harboured in the docks of Pelargir. Soon, they would leave aside their plundering and make their way north – to Minas Tirith. How would he stay their forward progress? Imrahil had left his ships patrolling the seas of Belfalas. There were not enough to save Minas Tirith too. He hoped the forces that stayed behind would harry them as they sailed northward. It was a fool’s hope and he knew it. Imrahil would be relieved at the news. Dol Amroth would be safe, for the nonce.

Thinking upon the Prince, Denethor pulled away from the stone, covered it and left the Room and the Tower. The guard in front of Imrahil’s chambers saluted and opened the door. A servant appeared, offered wine, and stepped to the fire, lighting it without command, leaving as silently as he had arrived. The Steward sat before the fire and waited.

“Denethor!” Imrahil walked in and embraced him. “Have you eaten?” He did not wait for an answer but rang and ordered a light meal from the servant. The Prince poured himself wine, then sat by his brother’s side.

“I sent Nerdanel and Amrothos west to the Edhellond. The garrison there is well hidden.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Elphir commands Dol Amroth in my absence; Erchirion captains Linhir.” He waited, but Denethor only nodded.

The food came and was served. Denethor did not rise from the settle, so Imrahil prepared a plate and set it down before the Steward. “Eat something.” He took a bite of bread himself and drank his wine. As Denethor made no move to join him in the meal, the Prince returned to the table.

“Faramir regrets causing you anger; he sorrows.” Their was no reply, not even a raised eyebrow. “He was wrong, according to your will, Denethor, but do you not trust his judgement?” When Denethor did not speak, Imrahil stood in frustration. “I know not what he did that causes such anger, but you will send him out again to battle. Speak with him before you do.”

“When the end comes, Imrahil, and my City falls, try to reach your wife and son. Stay with them and comfort them, as I am not able to comfort my own son.” Denethor stood, then rubbed his forehead. “I know not how long you will have before the Enemy moves on. I believe they will spend at least a month here, enjoying the spoils of my City.” Denethor swallowed hard. “Do not stay to burn my body; it will not matter, in the end.” He turned and left the room.

‘But it does matter!’ he thought furiously as he walked across the hall to his own chambers. ‘I do not want my body defiled, my head hung on a pike outside my walls!’ His fists clenched. ‘Nor Faramir’s.’

When he reached his own rooms, he pulled the rope and waited. Within a moment, Belegorn entered. “Send for Haldan, then take some rest. Tomorrow will be long.” He watched as his aide left him.

His manservant entered. “Haldan, what I tell you now must be kept secret. Take a cartload of faggots and oil to the House of Stewards in Rath Dínen. Pile them along the wall near the center table, enough to build a pyre to burn two bodies.” He waved a hand as Haldan began to protest. “Do it! If the worst happens, find my body and Faramir’s. Bring them there and set fire to them. I do not want the Enemy finding us. You know what they do to their victims. Also, bring a sharp knife and place it on the table. Then, flee the City if you are able.”

The servant wept. Denethor turned away, went into his bedchamber, and lay down. His hand stroked the cool linen next to him. “Finduilas,” he whispered. “I have tried. I have done my best. I cannot save Faramir. I hope he will die at my side so that I might save his body from shame, but I do not know. I hope, when I come to you, that I will be greeted warmly.”

Disclaimer: As always, controversy surrounds Tolkien's writings. Many chronologies show that Cair Andros was attacked on 10 March. Yet, if one does a day-by-day study of the book itself, Denethor specifically states that he knew of the fall on the night of the 11^th. Therefore, I am placing the attack on the 11^th – though the forces left the Black Gate on the 10^th. Please see author notes below.

Denethor returned to his chambers from the Tower Room. The day's trumpets would soon call, but the Lord of Gondor had been awake for hours, watching the progress of the forces coming from the north and the other from the south. He knew, deep in his heart, that the attack would come from East Osgiliath, but as yet there was no activity. He had searched the night for Théoden and the Rohirric army. The Wizard swore that the King of Rohan lived and would soon wend his way towards Minas Tirith, but Denethor could find no sign of him. With the Great West Road blocked, he knew not how an army that size could find its way into the City.

The Steward of Gondor exuded anger; he was filled with the bitterest wrath he could ever remember. He clenched his teeth as he tried to walk down the stairs. 'Too weak,' he thought tiredly. He would have to send men to Osgiliath; there was no other choice, no other action he could take. And – he would have to send someone to captain them. He shivered halfway down, pausing on one of the cold marble steps to catch himself before he fell, so violent did the shaking assail him. Faramir would have to go. Faramir would have to captain this last sortie. For all his long years, Denethor had hoped and planned, connived – and in the end, it was all for naught, useless. He had already lost Boromir. Now, if he were not careful, he would lose Faramir.

Yet, what recourse did he have? The Enemy had to be slowed. None with sane thought could think Gondor could stop Him, but He had to be slowed long enough to give Théoden or whoever commanded Rohan, the chance, the time, to come to Gondor's aid. Denethor could not do it alone; he knew that in the depths of his very being. Who could he trust to understand and to take the challenge, if not Faramir? His mind groped for any shred of hope, but he could find none. Men must be sacrificed. He leaned against the curved wall and held his hands to his face. He would not weep.

A few deep breaths and he began walking down the final stairs before the entrance into the family's quarters. He snorted in disgust. He could not remember when last he had thought of them as family. When Finduilas died, she had taken their family to the grave with her. It was his fault, if any fault need be laid. He could not breathe without her. In retrospect, he had discovered that his sons too could not breathe without her. And so the family had gasped out its last breaths and each had drawn into themselves until there was no family left. Yet, he still called them his sons. They still called him Father. 'He,' Denethor thought bitterly, 'he still calls me Father.' He would not walk down that path. He had done and been what Gondor needed. Boromir had understood; Faramir – Faramir was different. Denethor shook his head. He never had understood his youngest. Yet – he loved him with every fiber of his being. Differently than Boromir. Boromir understood that too. A soft moan issued from his very depths. Faramir would understand, too. One day when Faramir became Steward, he would understand.

Denethor pulled himself together. He would prepare cavalry; they would wait until his signal and then – then they would ride to Faramir's aid when the retreat began. For there would be a retreat. Faramir could not hold the Enemy at bay for long; even Boromir would not have been able to do so, after what Denethor saw in the Palantír. But if his son could hold out till the last moment, give Rohan another few hours, then perhaps Gondor could…

The Steward remembered his vision – the Pelennor overrun with a host greater than the sands of the beaches of Dol Amroth. He recalled the beasts waiting to attack, the siege engines, the tents along the Rammas, the great fires, and lastly, the long, snake-like ditches that gutted his Pelennor, the farmlands in waste and fire and mûmak dung. He clenched his teeth to keep from wailing aloud. It would not be a suicide mission! He vowed that. He would save what men he could, along with his son, but they must go and fight and harry the Enemy until Rohan's forces came. Or until Faramir decided to end the fight and retreat.

Faramir would know the hour. Would give Gondor the needed time. This one time – this one moment – Faramir's penchant for putting his own counsel before Denethor's – that is what would be needed. Faramir would have to make the decision himself, when to call the retreat. Denethor would be ready, watching the signs and the plain, and sending the sortie out to rescue the last remaining men of Osgiliath and the Causeway Fort. Perilous? – Yes! Necessary? – More so!

Standing still upon the last of the Tower stairs, Denethor breathed deeply. If Indis were alive, he would leave the defense of the City in her hands. If Amdir were alive, he would ride with him to Osgiliath. If Boromir, his jaw tightened, were alive, he would stand next to him on the remnants of the bridge and face their enemy. If… His eyes stung and his breath caught. His teeth clenched and he found his hand gripping the pommel of his sword. Pulling himself together, he shook his head, trying to clear it of the despair that threatened him. He was alone. That was the beginning and the end of it. He was alone and he would do what had to be done. He would send Faramir. And hope that his son would return. Alive.

Denethor reached his own chambers firmly resolved. After he ate a few pieces of cheese and drank a quick draught of wine, he called Húrin to his side and ordered the summoning of his chief captains. He was in a foul mood and he knew it. What he had seen had only confirmed his deepest fears; fears that his captains and his counselors would, no doubt, deride. Before the others responded to his summons, Denethor ordered Húrin to begin the rationing of food.

His Warden turned to him in surprise. "We have prepared for this for many years, Denethor. The storerooms are full. Why would you ration food now?"

The Steward of Gondor turned to his cousin and sighed. "We have much. We have done what we could, but Húrin, the siege may last long, perhaps a year or more. Water is abundant, but even with the preparations and the silos, even with our women and children gone from the City, yet Rohan will need supplies. If I expect Théoden to arrive with speed, then he must ride light. He knows that and will not carry supplies with him for the siege, only enough for the journey. We also have the forces from the south. These men will need provisioning. Not many brought more than their armor and swords. Though my planning and your work these past years have been more than adequate, I cannot chance the lack of food. I will not have Minas Tirith fall because of ill planning. Hence, the rationing."

Húrin's brow furrowed. "I thought we had enough. The granaries are full. Even the tunnels…"

"The tunnels have been flooded. I had the provisions moved to the Fourth Circle."

Nodding his head, Húrin turned and walked towards the door. "I will do as you command."

Denethor watched his friend and cousin leave, then he walked swiftly to his bedchamber and undressed, did a quick wash and called for his manservant. "Help me dress," he called and walked to the cupboard. Within moments, he felt refreshed and clean. The hauberk of mail pulled on his shoulders as his man adjusted it, but Denethor hardly noticed the pain. His eyes were upon the window and the Pelennor before him. The darkness was complete. He could barely see the lit watchtower at the halfway point between Minas Tirith and the Causeway.

Taking a piece of bread and a leg of chicken, he carried it with him to the Great Hall, eating on the way. His captains had not yet arrived, but Faramir was there. Denethor acknowledge his son's presence and wondered if he should tell him of his plans, but decided against it. Perhaps he would be wrong about his counselors and his captains; perhaps they would agree to his plans. He snorted in disgust. They would not, of that he was sure. His opinion of them lessoned as each day passed, and by now, the Lord of Gondor was thoroughly disgusted with all those about him.

Faramir stood next to him as he sat in the Chair. "Father, has Hirgon returned?"

Denethor looked up in surprise. "He has not. I expect him today, perhaps tonight."

"Mithrandir," Faramir stopped as Denethor drew in a deep breath, but then continued. "He believes that Théoden will come. He believes he is alive." As the silence that greeted his statement continued, Faramir had a hard time not to shuffle his feet.

He bit his lip in consternation and Denethor, seeing a remembrance of the boy's childhood custom, caught himself before shouting at his son to stop and stand up straight. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

The other Captains arrived and with them, his friend, his one resolute friend. He acknowledged his brother by law with a nod and gestured for the Prince of Dol Amroth to sit at his side. The others sat in front of him. Forlong, of course, sat chewing on a large shank of lamb and belching at every opportunity.

"Is there a Captain…?" he almost said, but bit his tongue. The Steward of Gondor knew, in the depths of his heart that Faramir was a better warrior than he. Not quite as good as Boromir, but a great warrior nonetheless. Denethor knew his son's weaknesses, but Faramir had courage, of that he had no doubt. However, Boromir would not be standing here in the Hall waiting for an order; he would be on his horse and riding for Osgiliath, with a band of stalwart men enthusiastically riding with him. There was never a question of what to do with Boromir; he understood the perils about them, the needs of Gondor, and the sacrifices that must be made. Faramir deliberated too long, let his heart guide him, and listened to the Wizard. The hairs on the back of Denethor's neck bristled. Mithrandir.

Denethor did not doubt that Faramir and the Wizard spent the night together. They both had bloodshot eyes this morn, and there was that air of deference that the boy always exhibited when he was near Mithrandir. It grated on Denethor's nerves. He could see the boy casting furtive glances towards the Wizard and he wanted to shake him, scream at him to be his own man, and to renounce Mithrandir. But he bit his tongue again and listened to his Captains and Lords whine about the plans the Steward placed before them.

They would not counsel, each said when his turn to speak came, riding forth to battle. No, no. They preferred to sit here in the Hall, with their goblets of wine in their hands, and wait it out. Wait until Rohan came. 'As if Rohan will come.' Denethor near choked in his despair!

The Steward of Gondor clenched his teeth further as he listened to them and a quiet fury grew in his heart. He would not bow to these pompous fools, too concerned with their own safety to see that the Pelennor had to be held at least for a few more days so that Rohan might come. 'Rohan might come.' His head throbbed as the words echoed through it. Rohan might come. There was still hope. Rohan might come.

He stood and their whining silenced. He began by telling them he would not abandon the outer defenses; that Boromir had held Osgiliath and it must still be held; that the crossings at Cair Andros and Lebennin were too difficult for the enemy to cross; that… He was interrupted by Faramir. The words his son used were fair and thoughtful, but the boy did not understand. Imrahil joined in opposition. But Denethor would not be swayed. Cair Andros would have to do with the men it had. Lebennin would probably be lost too. Osgiliath… that is where the attack would come.

Anger, still simmering in the dark recesses of his mind, again flared. "Much must be risked in war," said Denethor. "Cair Andros is manned and no more can be sent so far. But I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought - not if there is a Captain here who has still the courage to do his lord's will." *

His heart stopped as silence filled the Great Hall. None spoke. Was he surprised? He supposed not. He sat back in his Chair and waited. Faramir moved forward. He was not startled at this show of courage and strength. The boy, when he put his mind to it, understood well the sacrifice.

Their parting was not as Denethor wished it though. Ever the streak of insolence ran through Faramir's words. Once again, he was not content with a simple, 'I will go, Father.' No. He had to dig viciously, using Denethor's grief over Boromir to wound him to the quick. He responded in like manner and then rued the words spoken. 'The manner of your return.' How could he have said such a thing? Even if the boy returned with his tail between his legs and crawling on all fours, Denethor would welcome him for this sacrifice. He must prepare the sortie.

Turning away from the rest of his Councilors and Captains, he motioned to Húrin, who dismissed them. He pulled a map from the clutter laying about his Chair and opened it. Osgiliath spread before him. He took in a short breath and furrowed his brow. Had they sealed all the openings to the river? The inns and docks and pleasure boat piers? If not, the Enemy would find it easy enough to enter the city. Faramir and his men had been working on those weak spots for months now. He could only hope the boy had secured the areas.

He looked up at a noise and discovered Imrahil had not left the Hall. "Is there aught you need, Brother?"

Denethor's cheeks blazed. "I would remind you that I have already ordered the sortie to stand ready."

"Plunge the dagger deeper," Denethor whispered. "I am a fool and have always been a fool."

"You are not and that is what makes this so distressing. Twice now you have wounded your son to the quick. What causes this?"

Denethor remained silent, not wishing to divulge his jealousy of Mithrandir. That he should be so incensed by the Wizard's machinations… No, that was not what bothered him. He was steeling his heart in the event Faramir did not return. Boromir's death was a blow he would never recover from. How could he endure… After Finduilas and Indis. The list grew too long. Too long. "I will speak with him when he returns."

They were interrupted by two errand-riders. The Chamberlain held them back but at the Steward's command they strode swiftly forward. The senior of them saluted and spoke. "The West Road to Minas Tirith is now blocked, my Lord. The enemy's forces cannot be breached. They came down the Entwash. Rohan cannot reach us. The North Gate will be under siege ere long."

"That is not news, man! We already knew Pelargir has fallen. Why bring you this report?"

"The Corsairs now hold the Road to the River Erui. They will be here within days."

"Of course they do. Why should they not? There are riches in the city. The warehouses were full. How many of our people were able to escape before they landed, I know not. That means the despoiling of our women. They will take the children for chattel and worse. They will not leave for another two or three days, perhaps more. They are not as easily ruled by the Enemy as others of his minions."

Imrahil stood as if to leave. "Stay, Brother." Denethor motioned and the riders left them. "Join me for nuncheon." The Steward turned and left by the rear door, the one that led up the stairs to his private quarters.

When Imrahil joined him, Denethor poured wine and offered a goblet to the prince. "Speak now, truly, of what you wish to say."

"I wish to say," and the Prince of Dol Amroth waved away the proffered wine, "that your son needs you. It is as simple as that."

"As I need him. As Gondor needs him. I send him not out on a fool's errand, not like that fool of a Wizard."

"That fool of a Wizard holds you in deep regard. I heard him tell Faramir to have hope for your love."

"Imrahil. You go too far. We have spoken of this before. The boy knows his value to me."

"Value!" Imrahil stood and paced in front of the fireplace. "Value – as if he is some piece of armor or a horse! Denethor, not oft do I say such things, but today I will, after what I saw in the Hall. You are a fool. I have never known you to be one, but today you…"

He stopped as Denethor raised a hand in warning. "I will take much from you because of the love I have for you, Brother, but you go too far."

"Denethor," Imrahil tried a different tack, "I know you love him. What causes this aberrant behavior? Why do you show your back to him? Tell me, Brother. And I do not use that term in contempt as you just did."

"The mission to Osgiliath," Denethor began, his voice so low Imrahil had to strain to hear it. "I know not if he will return. I know not if he has the wisdom to see when the time for retreat is needed. I know not if he has the courage to face me, defeated by the Enemy." Denethor sat, hands clenched in front of him, as he leaned his head forward. "I cannot bear the thought, Imrahil, of his not returning. I will surely die."

"Nay, Brother. You are stronger than that. But he will return and he has the wisdom to call for retreat. Believe me. He will return and with glory and honor."

"I did not say that. The rumors of Boromir's duplicity are only that. Mithrandir speaks glowingly of his time with the Fellowship. The Halfling speaks with a fair bit of awe… and sorrow at his last hours. Boromir died a hero, of that I am sure."

Denethor stood and walked to the window, grimacing at the dark skies overhead. 'When will this interminable day end?' He turned. "Imrahil. I value your friendship. Let us leave it at that. Now, leave me. I must prepare for Rohan's arrival."

"My esquire believes it." Denethor gave a small smirk. "As does the Wizard. We will see."

He turned and Imrahil realized he was dismissed. The Swan Prince shook his head and left the room.

Denethor stood over the maps for another hour, then laved his face, put on a fresh tunic, and wrapped his cloak about him. He trudged up the stairs and opened the door. A sigh passed his lips, more silent than the sound of a dove's wings. He was tired beyond endurance, but the stone called to him.

He did not know how long he stayed, but the mountains rumble tore him from the globe. The very earth rocked. Denethor ran to the window and looked eastward. The sun, what there had been of it, was now totally gone and the darkness was complete. A great red flash tore through the sky, beyond the Mountains of Shadow. "Orodruin!" he whispered. "You are alive." Thunder rumbled, faint but clear. Denethor swallowed convulsively. "It begins." As if in answer, vivid lightning, a whole cascade of lighting, flooded the firmament above the region that held Minas Morgul. Blue flame flew up and shimmered against the black, cloud-filled sky. Denethor, compelled to cower, fought the feeling, knew it somehow came from the dark stone that glared at him from the plinth. He would not give in. He would not!

At last, his heart slowed. His fingers let go the sill. He stumbled backwards and, in the deep darkness of the Tower, found his way to the stone. Orodruin filled the sky with blazing red light. Molten rock flowed through deep crevices. Almost, he could feel the heat. There was no one there. Nothing to explain why the mountain had once again actively spewed its filth. Denethor shook his head and turned his attention to the Morgul vale. He had been correct in his deduction; the blue flame came from Minas Morgul. 'What power, what force, makes such flame that can be seen even from my City?'

He pulled himself away and walked slowly down the stairs. He could hear cries of terror in the night. Though the women and children were gone, his men feared. 'They have every right. Who could envision such a sky as this?' His heart sank further, wondering what Faramir saw and heard from his vantage point in Ithilien. His men must be cowering. Nay. Faramir must be in Osgiliath now. He would have a clear view of the fireworks of Minas Morgul from there.

"My Lord," Húrin met him as he descended the stairs. "Did you hear? Did you feel it? The mountain shook? We were just beginning the daymeal." Other lords stood about, along with a fair number of soldiers. However, as Denethor looked towards the escarpment, he noted it was filled with soldiers, looking eastward.

"Bring them away from there, Húrin. Send them to their barracks. It does no good to have them wandering about, worrying themselves over things we have no control over."

"Yes, my Lord." Húrin scrambled towards the wall, shouting all the while to disperse. The men seemed not to hear. He shouted louder, grabbed the arm of one of the Captains, and ordered the man to help him disperse the crowd.

Denethor could watch the fiasco no longer. He turned and went into the Great Hall. There, Imrahil, his Captains, and the Lords of his Council greeted him. He waved them to silence and walked to the Chair. The Chamberlain scurried in and passed the Rod to Denethor. With his back to those in the Hall, Denethor sighed, took the Rod, and sat upon the Chair. A brief moment's thought: 'I wonder, if I were King instead of Steward, if their faces would show such alarm?' But the moment passed and he motioned.

Imrahil strode forward. "We seem to be experiencing a quake of the earth. I cannot quite understand the spectacle in the sky. Mayhap the Evil Lord has decided to grace us with a bit of light, to compensate for the darkness he allows to cover our lands."

Imrahil bowed. "I am here to serve you, my Lord." He stood next to the Chair and whispered, "Do you know aught of this?"

Denethor sat back in the Chair. "My Captains. It seems the Dark Lord has decided, as Prince Imrahil suggests, to grace us with light. Pretty, is it not?"

The Captains chuckled, but Baranor strode forward. "This is not a laughing matter, my Lord. What can be done about it?"

"You do not have earth quakes in your fiefdom, Lord Baranor? It is a pity. Long have we endured such things, while your lands lie safe and quiet. Lord Forlong, do you not feel the earth's trembles upon occasion?"

"Not often, my Lord Steward. But we are closer to the White Mountains than the people of Lebennin."

"You are correct, of course. Well, Lord Baranor. I think it time you enjoyed the further pastimes of Minas Tirith."

Imrahil put his hand on Denethor's arm and whispered, "Now is not the time to deride your Lords, my Brother."

"Do you not give a thought to those of Gondor's Knights stationed in Osgiliath, Lord Baranor? Do you not suppose their fear is less than yours? Would you send your men to help them endure this?"

Baranor's deep intake of breath was heard by all. "If it would help, I would send my men to Osgiliath."

"Thank you," Denethor said, a hint of respect in his eyes. "It may come to that. For now, return to your meal, all of you. When the report comes, I will call for you." He turned towards Imrahil and Húrin motioned for the Lords and Captains to leave.

"I do not know what this is, Imrahil. Never, in all my long years, and in my studies of ancient tomes, have I ever seen or heard of such a thing. The red from Orodruin is easily explained. New fissures of molten rock have been opened. The color and intensity is beyond what I would consider usual, but what astounds me is the blue flames from the Morgul Vale." He bit his lip and sighed heavily. "Something untoward has happened. Perhaps it is some signal from Mordor to his troops at Minas Morgul. Perhaps this is the sign of the beginning of our doom."

"Nay, not doom, Denethor, but battle, surely. May I stay with you until the errand-rider arrives?"

"I would appreciate it. And where is that Wizard? You would think he would be here gloating at our discomfiture."

Imrahil scowled and Denethor saw it and smiled. "Let us away to my study. Húrin," he gestured as Húrin reentered the Hall. "Come along with us. And make sure someone knows where we are. I want the rider from Osgiliath sent to me as soon as he arrives. You too, Peregrin. I want you by my side."

More than four hours later, the horns of the City blew. The errand-rider from Osgiliath rode through the Great Gate. His horse was taken at the First Level and he was given another mount for the last miles' ride to the Citadel. Denethor reached the Throne Room only moments before the Chamberlain led the messenger into the Hall. The man saluted and gave the missive to Húrin, who checked the seal and gave it to the Steward. The rider saluted and stood at the ready.

At that very moment, Mithrandir stepped through the door. Denethor, his head bowed as he read the missive, did not even have to look up; he knew the Wizard had entered the room. Denethor turned and whispered to Peregrin, "Ask Lord Mithrandir to step forward."

The stench of pipe smoke filled the air. "We have a missive from Faramir. Come with me." He stood, the Chamberlain rapped his staff, and the court stood. Denethor, followed by Imrahil, Mithrandir, Húrin and Pippin went to the Steward's study. He sat and motioned; they waited upon him. His aide, Belegorn, offered wine.

After a quick cursory glance, he read aloud. "A great host has issued from Minas Morgul. They draw nigh to Osgiliath. Regiments from the South, Haradrim with mûmakil, have joined the Dark Lord's forces. I cannot even tell the enemy's number, they are so great. Though he has not been seen, Father, the Black Captain leads them, of that I am sure for I feel it in my very bones. Fear already assails my men. Even the animals are wary. Our defenses are as ready as I could make them. I thank you for the extra maps. They were helpful. May I ask you to remember me with fondness. I will do what I can."

Imrahil stepped forward and asked for the missive. Denethor handed it to him, noting the tears in Faramir's uncle's eyes. "He will be well, Imrahil. The defenses are good. When the time comes, he will know to retreat. The Causeway Fort has been fortified; an extra company has been sent to help with the retreat. I hope it will be orderly."

"I think not." Denethor sighed deeply. "I have errand-riders stationed at the Causeway and at the midpoint. We will hear. I think they will attack as soon as they reach the bridge."

"Have we not crossed unbridged rivers? The enemy will bring anything they can use to cross the river. It is the easiest way to enter Osgiliath. They will cross, and with nary a problem. I give us perhaps four hours before we must take action. Return to your rooms, have the men ready, and rest. I will summon you when the next missive arrives."

The Captains and Lords departed and Imrahil faced Denethor. "Can you not send him more men? I will go."

"Dear Brother. You and your men are needed here. Faramir understands. He will hold as long as he is able and then he will retreat."

"They take long to receive, Denethor. An hour, one way or the other, could seal Faramir's fate."

"I have other means, besides riders. Go and get your rest. Come to me in four hours. Nothing will be known before then."

"You, too, must rest, Belegorn. I will be in the Tower if needed." He waited until his aide left, then walked up the stairs.

"But I do not have other means," the Steward of Gondor whispered. "It will not show me." He shook his head and opened the Tower Room door.

A/N – I have tried not to stretch what Denethor is able to see in the Palantír. As far as the forces against him on this day, we read in The Siege of Gondor that Denethor knows of these events and the fall of Cair Andros before Gandalf does; 2) Denethor is not as ill-prepared as a cursory reading of the books would tell. "We have very great store long prepared," answered Hirgon (to Théoden). Ride now as light and as swift as you may!" HIRGON speaking of Denethor's preparedness. RotK: Book V: Chapter Three: The Muster of Rohan; 3) According to Michael Perry in his 'Untangling Tolkien,' Théoden traveled as hidden as possible, to prevent the Enemy from seeing his troops and guessing they were going to Gondor's aid. Unfortunately, this also meant Denethor probably could not see that the Rohirric army was, in fact, coming to Gondor's aid; 4) "In truth Faramir did not go by his own choosing. But the Lord of the City was master of his Council, and he was in no mood that day to bow to others. Early in the morning the Council had been summoned. There all the captains judged that because of the threat in the South their force was too weak to make any stroke of war on their own part, unless perchance the Riders of Rohan yet should come. Meanwhile they must man the walls and wait." RotK: Book V: Ch. 4: The Siege of Gondor.

A little past midnight and the first errand-rider approached the Chair. The lords and captains of Gondor stood about. Imrahil had his place at Denethor's left with Húrin. Pippin stood slightly behind and to the right of Denethor.

“I have heard that some in this Hall believe there is no small hope that Faramir can hold the fords. You know I hold in my hands the missive stating the attack has begun. I believe Captain Faramir and his men will hold the ford and the bridge. I will not discuss this further. Beyond that, we must prepare ourselves. For the last five years, my Warden of the Keys and I have prepared this City for battle. And beyond. Our defenses are sound. Our food and water supply is adequate. Our men are the best trained in all of Middle-earth. And the best armored. Now it comes to us to prepare our hearts. Faramir speaks of a nameless fear assailing his men. You have seen and felt the Nazgûl as they fly overhead. Think what it feels like to have them swoop down upon you. They have remained high in the sky here, and all we hear is the echo of their terror. I would bid you prepare your men for an assault upon their senses, even before an assault upon their bodies. Rags need to be cut, dipped in wax and placed in our ears. It will not totally obstruct the sound, but it should give us another moment to regain our wits and respond. Haradrim march with the Enemy’s army. You have heard tales of the tortures placed upon their captives by these foul creatures. Command your men to hold firm, but tell them not be captured alive.

“I have heard murmurings. Rohan, I am assured by the Wizard, will come to our aid. Faramir is stout and true and will assuredly do his duty. Control your men. Give them work if you find their tongues wag. We have not the time nor the strength to battle rumors. The Enemy has long been known to whisper foul tidings, in order to dampen our resolve and deepen fear without our hearts. It is now your responsibility to hearten your men. Go now. You will hear the trumpets when the next errand-rider arrives. Until then, go about your duties, as I go about mine.” Denethor stood and left the Hall.

But an hour later the trumpets again sounded. Denethor had tried to sleep, but to no avail. He did not go to the Tower this day. It would not show him Faramir and, for the nonce, Faramir was the only one he wanted to see. Denethor entered the Hall and waited for the rider to be shown forth.

“The East Emnet, my lord,” this second rider of the day began, “is under attack. Orcs and others came down from Rauros Falls.”

Denethor nodded and sent the man off. Another flourish of horns and Húrin stepped forward. “One of the riders sent to Rohan has been discovered near the North Gate. They are bringing him to the Houses.”

“He does, my Lord. I… he seems noble and kind, like Boromir, but also… I felt like I… He comforts me.”

“And I? Nay. I will not ask. Go and break your fast. It will be at least two hours before the next rider from Osgiliath comes.” He watched as the Halfling scampered from the Hall. “Would that I had the heart to be so free,” he whispered. “Would that I could love Faramir as he does.” He bit his lip. “Would that I could trust Faramir, after what he did in Ithilien.”

“What Faramir did,” the Wizard stood by his side, much to Denethor surprise, “will be heralded for ages as wise.”

“Wise!” Denethor snorted. “In just a few short hours, my son will have to retreat from Osgiliath. We will lose it again. I can assure you, this will be the last time. There will be none left to win it back. And all because of Faramir’s high-mindedness. If I had the Ring, if it was hidden in the depths of Minas Tirith, I might have hope. Faramir has stolen even the shadow of hope from Gondor.”

“I understand this, Lord Mithrandir. Faramir has bequeathed the weapon to our enemy as surely as if he had handed it personally to him. The Halfling has neither the wit nor the strength to hold onto it. We will die and then Belfalas, Rohan, that Shire you are so fond of… all will die.”

“I know.” Denethor’s terse smile hurt. “But all of Middle-earth will pay if you are wrong.”

The trumpets sounded once again. Denethor looked up, startled, as the rider strode forward. He sucked in his breath and waited. ‘Too soon,’ he thought. ‘Something is amiss.’

“My Lord Steward,” the man saluted. “Captain Faramir reports that Osgiliath has been overrun. He retreats to the Causeway Forts. He handed Denethor the missive.

“The Enemy came in even greater force than I first believed, my Lord, with Southrons and mûmakil. As I reported earlier, the Black Captain led them. More than half our numbers were slain before we even reached Osgiliath. I rallied my men, those with the strength and courage to stay and fight, for many ran. I cannot hold them to blame. The terror that lies upon my spirit is great.

“I left the wounded and dead lying in mounds on the Pelennor. My bravest have been left to guard them. I cannot protect the wounded for long. We ran back to the city, to hold it further, give us some degree of cover. But all was for naught. We fought in close quarters and our bows proved worthless. Only sword, spear and dagger could be used. Eventually, it came down to hand against hand as they pressed in upon us. They came in waves, Father, waves.”

Denethor stopped reading and wondered. Was Faramir’s dream coming true? Was a great wave about to engulf them? He shuddered, in the hidden depths of his being, and read on.

“The Enemy is bridging the River. Mûmakil and war machines, their size beyond description, pass over. I will hold the Causeway for as long as I am able. But know this, Father, I am ten times outnumbered. I am unable to give you the time you needed. I am sorry. Your son, Faramir.”

The messenger spoke up. “If Captain Faramir wins back at all, his enemies will still be on his heels. They have not paid as dearly as you had hoped, my Lord, for the crossing. Captain Faramir does not say it in so many words, but it is the Black Captain that defeats us.”

Mithrandir did not wait for Denethor’s reply. He stood and walked to the door. “Then I am needed there more than here.”

Denethor watched the Wizard leave. His heart jumped with hope. For Faramir. Then, he berated himself. ‘I cannot worry about one man. There are hundreds dying today. Yet, Faramir is my hope and the hope of Minas Tirith. If he falls…. Oh, if he falls…’

“Duilin and Derufin. I vowed to meet with the sons of Dúinhir before the battle began. Perhaps Húrin knows where they are stationed. Peregrin, send for the Warden and ask him to find them as quickly as possible.”

Within moments, Húrin was at his side. “Duilin and Derufin will be along presently, my Lord. They were watching Prince Imrahil’s men practice at the trebuchet. They have not seen the like and are easily impressed.”

“The trebuchet is a might weapon, Húrin, and not to be taken lightly. They will be worth their weight in mithril, when the battle comes to us.”

“Already?” Denethor stood in alarm. “I will return. Keep Duilin and Derufin here until I return.” With that, he strode from the Hall, up the back stairs to the Tower Room. Before he would look, he had to see what he might find upon the Pelennor. His eyes could only see smoke from Osgiliath. The Causeway Forts seemed still and quiet, yet he knew Faramir battled for his life there. Swearing loudly, he walked to the plinth, viciously tore the covering from it, and grasped the stone in his hands. “Show me my son,” he screamed. “Show me my son!” He collapsed in helpless anger at the feet of the stand, his hands taut from holding the globe for well over an hour. “Why will you not show me my son,” he whimpered. A hollow laugh filled the Room. Denethor cowered under his cloak. Shivering, he took three deep breaths and stood, held the stone again, and looked eastward. The River was covered with the dead. Three bridges spanned the Anduin; all were filled with an unending sea of Orcs, Haradrim, and Southrons. Mûmakil and beasts the like of which he had never seen made the bridges sag as they walked across to Osgiliath. He did not look further. He could not chance ‘seeing’ the Dark Lord.

To the west, there was still no sign of Théoden. Denethor scoured the Mark for hours, but could find no sign of the Rohirric army. He did, however, find the Enemy’s troops that blocked the Great West Road. No hope that Théoden could pass through that force. Denethor pulled himself away and walked back to the Hall.

“Some piece of warfare passed down from my fathers. But you, how fare you? Are you ready? Are your men?”

“We are, Denethor. Fear not for the sons of Dúinhir. Our archers, though few, are ready, stationed on the First Circle. The enemy will be surprised as we hew them down.”

Denethor laughed. “As tall as the men of Blackroot Vale are, they will easily overcome any who try to battle them. I am grateful,” he placed his hands on their shoulders, “that you have answered Minas Tirith’s call.”

“Not Minis Tirith’s call, Denethor, but yours,” Derufin stated. “We would not let an adventure such as you have planned, go ahead without us.”

“Besides,” Duilin stated, “we are your friends. Is this not what friends are for? To show off their prowess?”

“Prowess indeed. Come to my dining hall and we will share wine and tales from the past. I would listen to your remembrances of our times in Henneth Annûn.”

“We may only stay for a short time, Denethor. Our men are not accustomed to high walls and closed byways.”

“Yes. I understand. Rationing has begun, but I have a bottle or two of Dorwinion left. I can think of no others I would wish to share it with.”

The three spent an hour reminiscing. When their time was done, Denethor was loath to let them leave. “When the battle is done, return to me. We will drink to our victory.”

Denethor sat for close to an hour, holding an empty wine glass, and shuddering at the fate that awaited them all, the fate he knew would be theirs.

The night proved restless for the defenders of the great city. None slept. At least none that Denethor knew of.

The Captains and lords met again, an hour before first light, or what could mockingly be called first light since the dark permeated the skies above Minas Tirith. There was naught to report. Osgiliath had fallen and all were aware of that. All knew that Faramir and only a handful of men, out of over a thousand, were left to defend the Causeway. Denethor dismissed those about him, all but Pippin, and sat silent upon his Chair.

The bells of the day had rung out again when Denethor stood. “Peregrin, come with me. I am told you have sharp eyes.” They walked to the uttermost edge of the escarpment. “Do you see what I see?”

Even as the Halfling spoke, Denethor heard cries from below him. Shouts of the watchmen and the answering call of the soldiers in the City, running to arms.

“I can hear it. What devilry is the enemy using? What have we not prepared for?” Denethor heard shouts.

“Where is Faramir?” cried Beregond, coming up behind them. “Say not that he has fallen!”

Húrin ran forward and chided the soldier. “Go back to your post. You do no one any good with your timorous tongue. I had thought better of you, Beregond.”

Another hour passed and the earth’s trembling, along with the flashes of fire, continued.

“I see something, but cannot make it out.” Denethor turned to the Halfling. “See the dust, Master Peregrin. What does it signify?”

“Gandalf is coming.” The Halfling’s voice filled with excitement. “I can see his white horse. He rides before a large grouping of carts or wagons. I can’t make out what they are.”

“I have readied a sortie, to help him, when he reaches the mid-point of the Pelennor. If he keeps his head about him, he will be safe.” Denethor lowered his head to his hands, willing the tears away. He raised it again. “He will be safe. Let us return to the Hall. My men will think me weak if we continue to stand here, seeming unable to command.”

He proceeded to the high chamber above the Hall of the White Tower. As he waited for the Wizard to join him, he listened, listened ever northward.

“Do you hear anything, my Lord?” Pippin asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What do you listen for?”

“Horses, Master Peregrin. And horns announcing Théoden’s approach.” He sighed. “Look out the north window for me. Do you see anything?”

“Nay. No need to be sorry for something you cannot control. Though,” the Steward’s brow furrowed, “did you not say a friend of yours rode with the Rohirrim?”

Sudden misery covered the little face and Denethor paused. “The Wizard forever tells me I am not alone. Mayhap I might pass that advice on to you? That comfort?”

Before Pippin could answer, Mithrandir entered and confirmed Denethor’s fears. The enemy had, indeed, a new weapon. “You could not have told me before of how he used this at Helm’s Deep?” Denethor sneered.

“What preparation could you have made, Denethor? There is no weapon you have that can be used against it. A liquid fire that seems unquenchable.”

“No,” the Wizard said. “But he still lived when I left him. Yet he is resolved to stay with the rearguard, lest the retreat over the Pelennor become a rout. He may, perhaps, hold his men together long enough, but I doubt it. He is pitted against a foe too great. For one has come that I feared.” *

Denethor laughed bitterly. “Nay, not yet, Master Peregrin! He waits behind his army. He can wield a sword, but he lets his minions battle. Then, he will come forth. I do the same. Even though I am able to do battle myself.” He whipped open his cloak and showed the mail beneath. The mail he had worn now for many years, waking or sleeping. His sword hung heavy at his side. The Wizard did nothing, made no sign or acknowledgement, but the Halfling stepped back. Denethor did not know if it were from fear, surprise, or awe. ‘Nay, not awe,’ he thought. Again, the Steward of Gondor looked at the little one with no little respect. ‘Standing at my son’s side battling Orcs.’

He turned his attention back to Mithrandir who was spouting the Dark Lord’s many titles. Denethor scowled at the Wizard’s apparent stupidity. The Steward of Gondor knew, all along, who he battled. Not Saruman, not Orcs, not even Haradrim, but the Dark Lord himself. It seemed, from what the Wizard said, that he was just now realizing what Denethor had known since the first time he ‘touched’ pure evil in the Palantir. The Steward knew his tone was harsh and mocking, but he could not help himself. However, he flinched when he saw the Halfling trembling before him – and almost rued his words.

“And I came chiefly to say this,” the Wizard did not respond to Denethor’s obvious challenge. “Soon there will be battle on the fields. A sortie must be made ready. Let it be of mounted men. In them lies our brief hope, for in one thing only is the enemy still poorly provided: he has few horsemen.”*

Again, as the Wizard spoke of the fall of Cair Andros and the army coming hither from the Black Gate, Denethor scoffed. “You delight in bearing ill news, but I have known of this since nightfall yesterday. And as for the sortie. Did you think I would leave my son helpless? Thought I would do naught, at the last hour, to save him? The sortie is prepared and ready. Let us go down.”

Without a shred of doubt, I begin what I know to be my last journal entry.

Denethor put down the pencil, closed his eyes, and rubbed them hard with the heels of his hands, hard into the sockets. His eyes burned with unshed tears. His mind visualized the row of journals that lined his study wall. Eighty-two. One for each year since he began to journal as a five year old. He caressed the deer-skin leather of this last one. He bit his lip and picked up the pencil again.

My son lies dying – my youngest lies dying upon a make-shift bed next to me. I have given all I have to Gondor. And yet, my most vulnerable now gives the ultimate – his very life. Now, as the Wizard said, I see the boy’s quality. Nay! How can I call him yet a boy? He lies here with an arrow wound in his shoulder and the Black Breath coursing through him. How can I consider him anything but a man, full grown, doughty and valiant? Oh my son! Would that you could hear my voice one last time. That I could tell you how my heart would burst with pride, if it were not already burst with sorrow. You have finally equaled your brother in deeds of valor. I always knew you were capable of such deeds. And yet, at what price? Even now, I weigh you against your brother. Is there a greater fool than I? I doubt it.

Once again, Denethor put down the pencil. The Halfling stepped forward and offered a goblet. Denethor waved it aside.

“It is of no use, Master Halfling. I am beyond succor. Drink it yourself if you fear its wasting.” His breath caught in a sob. ‘My son is wasting away.’ Denethor picked up the pencil and began to write again.

The horrors I have seen today defy description. Worse than any vision, than any of my nightmares. And yet, I fear… Nay! I know tomorrow will bring the ultimate horror. Minas Tirith will fall…

He clenched his teeth to keep the tears from spilling. After a moment’s struggle, he returned to writing.

My errand-riders have worn themselves to exhaustion this day, riding from the Forts, back and forth, carrying messages of carnage and despair. But – they have done their duty. There will be no further need of them. I have ordered the Great Gate closed and sealed. Our fate now awaits us. From the very first missive I received this morning, a lifetime ago, I knew, in the deepest part of my very spirit, that all was lost. My son’s final sacrifice was for naught. Rohan has not come. Whether because their army lies dead on some field of battle, or turned aside by our foe, I do not know.

So much death. Osgiliath has been lost to us. Finally. After so many years. So many lives spent in its defense. Its recapturing. Its loss. The Causeway Forts are overrun. The Rammos is breached. The Pelennor in flames. Farms, barns and fields lay torched. The sight of them still burns my eyes. As does the sight of the Corsairs’ black sails, covering the River for miles. It will take them days to reach us. But by then, my walls will have fallen. Never has Minas Tirith been breached. But never have I seen such instruments of death. The flowing fire courses over the Pelennor, racing to my very doors.

Imrahil did as he was asked. He led the sortie out onto the Pelennor. And the people shouted ‘Amroth for Gondor.’ What does Imrahil give Gondor? What sacrifice has he made? Are my people fools? Do they not see what I have done? What I have given? Yet they praise Imrahil for a brief ride. How many times have I ridden out to battle? How many times have I been wounded? Or my sons? Yet did we hear calls of praise?

Yes, yes my Boromir heard such calls. And well deserved. And Faramir too, when his time came. But my father’s calls were for Thorongil. As were the people’s.

Little need have I for such things now. I cannot begrudge the people their hero’s worship. The Knights must have some hope. I cannot give it to them. I have seen the rout, watched my men fall as Evil swept down upon them. Nazgûl! Their cries could be heard, and felt, even in the Citadel. The men scattered, defenseless. I could hear their screams, in my mind’s eye. I could feel their terror. And so I had the trumpet winded, the sortie sent. And the Wizard accompanying them, with his staff on fire. Lit with some unearthly light. The Nazgûl fled, to my surprise. My men rallied and began to counter-attack. The retreat became an offensive. But I could not let them go too far. There was a wall of willing foe behind them, waiting to pounce. I had the trumpet sound again and the men returned.

‘Where is Faramir?’ I heard the cry and my heart lodged in my throat. ‘Faramir! Faramir!’ The cry turned into a wail. I never thought my son would fall. Never envisioned his body being carried to me. His uncle placing him in my arms.

I looked upon my son’s face as Imrahil told of his valor, his mighty deeds. I remained still. Silent. As was ever my wont with my youngest son. I rue all that has come between us.

So now Faramir lies in this bed and all I can do is hold his hand. I saw the fear in the Halflings eyes when I returned from the Tower Room. I had to take one last look, and beheld things that no man should have to see.

He would fear further if he knew what I have seen. His cousin, his friend lost, captured. Along with the weapon.

Our only hope – now in the hands of the Enemy. I have heard of its power all my long life. Its name is Terror. Death. Destruction. How will he use it against us?

A/N - 1) "It was night again ere news came. A man rode in haste from the fords, saying that a host had issued from Minas Morgul and was already drawing nigh to Osgiliath; and it had been joined by regiments from the South, Haradrim, cruel and tall. "And we have learned " said the messenger, "that the Black Captain leads them once again, and the fear of him has passed before him over the River." RotK: Book V: Ch. 4: The Siege of Gondor; 2) At that moment the rock quivered and trembled beneath them. The great rumbling noise, louder than ever before, rolled in the ground and echoed in the mountains. Then with searing suddenness there came a great red flash. Far beyond the eastern mountains it leapt into the sky and splashed the lowering clouds with crimson. In that valley of shadow and cold deathly light it seemed unbearably violent and fierce. Peaks of stone and ridges like notched knives sprang out in staring black against the uprushing flame in Gorgoroth. Then came a great crack of thunder. And Minas Morgul answered. There was a flare of livid lightnings: forks of blue flame springing up from the tower and from the encircling hills into the sullen clouds. TTT: Book IV, Chapter 8: The Stairs of Cirith Ungol.

Late into the night, Denethor held Faramir’s hand, feeling the fire that raced through his son’s body. His tears fell; he did naught to check them or to wipe them away. He deserved no such comfort. Vaguely, he was aware of the Halfling standing by the door. Often, men would come, asking for permission to speak with him. He turned a deaf ear to them. Did they not know his every thought was for his only remaining son? They would wait for his answer, and when one did not come, they would salute and leave.

He did not know how long he sat thusly; he only knew Faramir did not stir. The Warden of the Houses of Healing came in once and held a mirror before the boy’s mouth. A faint breath fogged it. The Warden checked Faramir’s eyes, pulling back a lid, then letting it drop. He bent and listened to the boy’s chest, felt his brow, and then left, shaking his head. He did not return.

Denethor racked his brain to remember any passages from the books in the Great Library that spoke of this fevered state; Morgoth’s Breath or the Black Breath, he could not recall the proper name of this thing that assailed his son. A light sparked and then quickly extinguished. ‘The Hands of the King; but Gondor has no King.’ If Thorongil were King, as Denethor had deemed years ago, where was he? Why did he not return with the Wizard and claim the Throne? He could touch Faramir… In the Palantír, Denethor had seen the man riding on the plains of Rohan. Why did he not come? Did he think it would be easier to battle Sauron, once the White City fell, and then take the Crown? It made no sense. Perhaps he should call Mithrandir to his side. Nay. Mithrandir had been there, in the center of the Citadel when they brought Faramir’s body to him. He had said nothing. The Wizard knew his son was dying and that there was nothing anyone could do for the boy.

A sob broke from him, bubbling up from the depths of his spirit, and he noted the Halfling took a step towards him, as if to help. The Steward waved him back. Nay. There was no hope for Faramir, just fevered torment till his body could no longer fight; then, his son would succumb and die.

Men came in again; the Halfling let them in, saying their need was great, but they frantically shouted at him. Denethor told them to go away, to decide how they wanted to die, and then to leave him alone. As they ran from the room, failing even to salute him, a germ of an idea lifted his heart. He scanned Faramir’s face, kissed him on the forehead, then walked from the room, motioning for the Halfling to stand guard over the boy. The Steward of Gondor climbed the Tower’s stairs, his fatigued legs dragging. He unlocked and opened the door, and stepped inside for the last time. He placed his hands on the globe, letting the covering fall to the floor, and looked upon the Pelennor.

If he had any strength left, he would have gasped. It was as the stone had shone him two days previously, covered with the Enemy’s army, fell beasts, and wicked machines of war. He could see naught of the fields themselves, so totally did the enemy cover the ground. He gave it barely a glance, moving the stone slowly northward. ‘No sign of Théoden,’ he sighed. The great East-West Road was blocked by another part of the Enemy’s forces. Théoden could not break through such a force; Gondor was alone in this battle. He turned and pointed the globe southward and shuddered. The Anduin was filled from just a little south of the Harlond to Pelargir with Corsair ships. Their black sails billowed in the wind. The ships of Dol Amroth lay beached and burning on the River’s shores. A sob escaped him as he realized the futility of Gondor’s defenses, the inevitable conclusion to the assault that now was launched against him.

Pulling himself away from that sight, he once again looked upon the Pelennor, but his sight was drawn further east. To the Tower of Cirith Ungol. There in the uppermost room, beaten and bloodied, lay the naked body of a Halfling. Denethor willed the stone to look closer, and it obeyed him, so much so that he could see the Halfling’s hands. There was no sign of a ring, no sign of the Ring, the Ring that Faramir swore the Halfling carried when his son captured and then released him in Ithilien. Great, hulking Orcs stood over the little creature, still whipping him brutally. For a fleeting moment, Denethor felt sad for the little thing. He turned from the sight, his overwhelming concern for the Halfling immediately usurped by the knowledge that all was indeed lost. The Enemy had the weapon Denethor had hoped to hide from Him, or else use against Him at the last possible moment. His legs buckled as the horror of Sauron possessing the Ring engulfed him. He sat on the marble floor and closed his mind.

After a time, he stirred himself, grabbed onto the plinth, pulled himself up, and walked out of the room, holding the Palantír in his hands. At last, he knew what he must do.

Húrin walked into the chamber, looked with deep sadness upon the countenance of Faramir, then turned to his Lord. “The Pelennor is taken, Denethor. There is not a blade of grass to be seen, so deep does the enemy cover it. Great tent camps and beasts and allies of the Nameless One.” His cousin did not stir, so the Warden continued. “They are digging trenches. Deep and out of bowshot of even the Blackroot Vale’s archers. Not even our trebuchets can reach them yet. Once dug, they set them on fire, though fed by art or devilry, I do not know. Never have I seen the like.” Denethor remained still. Húrin pressed on. “They bring siege engines.” Húrin’s brow furrowed. “Denethor?”

A messenger ran into the chamber, passed a note to the Warden, and quickly ran out. Húrin offered it to Denethor, but the Steward never moved. Opening it, Húrin read aloud, “The enemy’s catapults reach beyond the battlements and missiles are falling within the First Circle. They burst into flames as they hit the ground. Our esquires are quenching the fires, but they are growing too numerous.” Húrin bit his lip in despair. Another runner came into the room. Húrin motioned for the man to give the missive directly to Denethor, but the Steward would not accept it. In frustration, Húrin opened and read it. “By the Valar!” He clutched his chest. “Now they are casting… It is too horrible to speak of.” Yet, Denethor did not blink nor show any sign of life. “Heads, Denethor. The severed heads of those who have fallen.” He wept. “Those from Osgiliath, the Rammas, even the Pelennor, branded with the sign of the Lidless Eye.” He could not continue.

The Warden pulled on his nose to keep tears from falling. “You promised I might be in the battle. May I join the Fifth Company?” Denethor waved him away, and for that, Húrin was grateful. The Warden of the Keys looked once more upon Faramir’s face, then put his hand upon the Halfling’s shoulder and squeezed it tight, saluted his cousin and Lord, and left the room.

Well past mid night, Peregrin shuddered. “My Lord,” he cried, “the Nazgûl! Can you hear them?” He began to shake. He stepped towards Denethor, but the Steward only looked at him with glazed eyes. “My Lord? Your men need you.”

“Nay, Master Peregrin. They have no need but to die. It is the end. All will soon lie in the dust of my City, witless, wandering in desperate fever, even as my son does now. There is no hope. My son is dying.” Tears fell in endless streams upon Denethor’s cheeks, but he did naught to wipe them away.

“Do not weep, Lord,” the Halfling stammered. “Perhaps he will get well. Have you asked Gandalf?”*

“Comfort me not with wizards!” said Denethor. “Have I not told you? The Enemy has found it. And now – all is lost. I sent my son, my Faramir, forth, unthanked, unblessed, out into needless peril, and here he lies with poison in his veins. The House of Stewards has failed. And Minas Tirith will fall.”

Urgent knocking sounded. Pippin opened the door. The shouts of men echoed in the chamber, but, when Pippin relayed their message, Denethor refused to answer them. “I will not come down. I must stay beside Faramir. He might still speak. Tell them to follow whom they will. Here I stay.”

The Steward watched his son writhe in pain, fever devouring Faramir’s already too thin body. “Where is the King? The mighty King who would save Gondor? Where is he now?” Sobs racked his body. “Betrayed. We have been betrayed by all.”

There was no answer; he had not expected one. “Now is the time, Master Peregrin. It is time to bid you farewell. You have been loyal – to both me and my sons. I release you from your oath. Go – and die as you will. Send my servants to me and then go. Farewell” He was astounded when the Halfling knelt before him and refused to bid him farewell.

“I will take your leave, but only for a moment. I want to see Gandalf, very much. We Hobbits do not give our word lightly. I do not wish to be released while you live. I want to be here, by your side, if they come to the Citadel. And perhaps earn the arms that you have given me.” Pippin then stood.

“My life is ended. I have naught to live for. My City will fall. And my son will die. Do what you will, Master Halfling.” He turned and walked to Faramir’s side. He could hardly move; his legs refused to hold him. He cast about, looking for something, and spied his father’s old staff, sitting in a corner where it had been left years ago. Briefly, he wondered why it had not been removed, upon his father’s death. He took it, nonetheless, and was disheartened when he felt no kinship to it. It was but a staff.

He did not hear the door close behind the Halfling. The servants came soon after, and Peregrin with them. They trembled before him and he sorrowed. Keeping his voice low, he bade them lay warm coverlets on Faramir's bed and take it up. They did so, and lifting up the bed they bore it from the chamber. Slowly the company walked, keeping their pace even to trouble the fevered man as little as might be, and Denethor, now bending on the staff, followed them; and last came Pippin.

Darkness covered the land, but Denethor did not note it. He kept his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. A faint red light flickered, but none in the group looked to see where it came from. Softly they walked across the Courtyard of the Fountain. Denethor called to them to halt by the White Tree. All was silent. The water dripped sadly from the dead branches of the tree into the dark pool. He remembered, as a child, wondering why no one had dug the old tree out and put a new one in. He remembered the feeling of desolation that overcame him when he later discovered the Tree’s history and significance. He stared at it and wept. Finally, he signaled and the entourage went on through the Sixth Gate. Beregond, standing at attention at his post, stared at them in wonder and dismay. Turning, they passed the Houses of Healing, and went through the door in the rearward wall of the Sixth Circle. The door to Fen Hollen. Walking steadily, they entered the winding road that descended. A porter guarded the door. At Denethor’s command, he unlocked it, swung it back, and watched as they walked past him, down to Rath Dínen, the Silent Street. At last, they entered the House of the Stewards and set down their burden.

One table near at hand stood broad and bare. Denethor looked upon it. Cold and hard. ‘So this will be our bed, Faramir’s and mine. I suppose it is only fitting. I have been cold to him, these last years. But he, he does not deserve…’ he chuckled dryly. ‘It will soon be very warm indeed. No need to be concerned.’ He motioned and the servants laid Faramir upon it, then they helped Denethor climb up. ‘Here we lie,’ he thought. ‘How strange that we should be joined at last, but in such a manner…’ The servants covered them with one covering, and stood then with bowed heads as mourners beside a bed of death. Then Denethor spoke in a low voice.

“Here we will wait, until the appointed time,” he said. “Send not for the embalmers. Bring the wood and oil that I commanded be stored here, and lay it about us, and beneath. Pour the oil upon it. When I bid you, thrust in a torch. Do this and speak no more to me. Farewell!”

“By your leave, Lord!” he heard Pippin cry, but he gave it no thought as the Halfling fled from the Houses.

He lay there, waiting. He wondered for what. Was he waiting for Théoden to come? Was he waiting for Thorongil? Perhaps the Wizard? Nay. He waited for the courage to do the deed.

“What is that noise?” he shouted. The sounds of clanging swords cut through the silence of the House. “Who is there?”

His servants, all but Belegorn, ran to the door. “It is Beregond!” one shouted. “He seeks to stay your hand.”

“Light the fire! Light the oil!” Denethor screamed but the servants had left him, gone to battle the traitorous soldier. “Belegorn. Light the oil.”

“Wait, my Lord, please. Let us see what causes Beregond to leave his post and enter here. Mayhap Rohan has come.”

“Two of your servants are slain, my Lord,” Belegorn reported, his own sword drawn. He stood by the foot of the table and waited. “It is no good news that causes Beregond’s treachery. I cannot fathom his disobedience. He is a good soldier.”

“Ever has he been a traitor. I should have had him hanged!” Denethor spat. The taste of oil coated his tongue as he spoke.

“Haste, haste! Do as I have bidden! Slay me this renegade! Or must I do so myself?” Denethor crawled from the table, ran to the door, and drew his own sword, standing next to Belegorn.

A bright white light filled the room as Mithrandir opened the door. Deep anger covered the Wizard’s face. He lifted up his hand, and in the very stroke, the sword of Denethor flew up, left his grasp and fell behind him in the shadows of the House. Denethor stepped backward before Gandalf as one amazed. Belegorn too retreated.

“What is this, my Lord?” said the Wizard. “The houses of the dead are no places for the living. And why do men fight here in the Hallows when there is war enough before the Gate? Or has our Enemy come even to Rath Dínen?”

“Since when has the Lord of Gondor been answerable to thee?” said Denethor. “Or may I not command my own servants?”

“You may,” said Gandalf. “But others may contest your will, when it is turned to madness and evil. Where is your son, Faramir?”

“He lies within,” said Denethor, “burning, already burning. They have set a fire in his flesh. But soon all shall be burned. The West has failed. It shall all go up in a great fire, and all shall be ended. Ash! Ash and smoke blown away on the wind!”

The Wizard pushed the Steward aside, as if he had been but a fallen leaf on a log, and ran into the room and to the table that still held Faramir. Beregond and Pippin ran in behind him.

Denethor made to swing at the soldier, but stayed his hand. The Halfling had stepped into his sword’s path. The grief-stricken father stood beside his son. “See! He is burning, consumed by the fever. Stop!” he screamed as the Wizard leapt up onto the faggots, picked Faramir up as if he were a feather, and sprang down again. He strode towards the door.

A gut-wrenching moan tore from Denethor’s lips as the madness left him. He wept. “Do not take my son from me! He calls for me.”

“He calls,” said Gandalf, “but you cannot come to him yet. For he must seek healing on the threshold of death, and maybe find it not. Whereas your part is to go out to the battle of your City, where maybe death awaits you. This you know in your heart.”

“He will not wake again,” said Denethor. “Battle is vain. Why should we wish to live longer? Why should we not go to death side by side? Give me my son.”

Passing through the door, Mithrandir took Faramir from the deadly House and laid him on the bier on which he had been brought, and which had now been set in the porch. Denethor followed him, and stood trembling, looking with longing on the face of his son. And for a moment, while all were silent and still, watching the Lord in his throes, he wavered.

“Come, Lord Denethor!” said Gandalf. “We are needed. There is much that you can yet do.”

Denethor backed away in horror. A laugh was wrenched from his throat. He stood tall and proud again, He walked back to the table, lifted the pillow, pulling an object from under it. He came to the doorway and stood next to the Wizard, drew aside the covering and triumphantly held the Palantír in front of the Wizard’s nose. It began to glow; fire filled it. Denethor’s face reflected the red hue. The hard edges of the Steward’s face were cast against black shadows, noble, proud, and terrible. His eyes glittered in the light.

“Pride and despair!” he cried. “Didst thou think that the eyes of the White Tower were blind? Nay, I have seen more than thou knowest, Grey Fool. For thy hope is but ignorance. Go then and labor in healing! Go forth and fight! Vanity. For a little space you may triumph on the field, for a day. But against the Power that now arises there is no victory. To this City only the first finger of its hand has yet been stretched. All the East is moving. And even now the wind of thy hope cheats thee and wafts up Anduin a fleet with black sails. The West has failed. It is time for all to depart who would not be slaves.”

“Such counsels will make the Enemy’s victory certain indeed,” said Gandalf.

“Hope on then!” laughed Denethor. “Do I not know thee, Mithrandir? Thy hope is to rule in my stead, to stand behind every throne, north, south, or west. I have read thy mind and its policies. Do I not know that you commanded this Halfling here to keep silence? That you brought him hither to be a spy within my very chamber? And yet in our speech together I have learned the names and purpose of all thy companions. So! With the left hand thou wouldst use me for a little while as a shield against Mordor, and with the right bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me.

“But I say to thee, Gandalf Mithrandir, I will not be thy tool! I am Steward of the House of Anárion. I will not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart. Even were his claim proved to me, still he comes but of the line of Isildur. I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity.”

“What then would you have,” said Gandalf, “if your will could have its way?”

“I would have things as they were in all the days of my life,” answered Denethor, “and in the days of my longfathers before me: to be the Lord of this City in peace, and leave my Chair to a son after me, who would be his own master and no Wizard's pupil. But if doom denies this to me, then I will have naught: neither life diminished, nor love halved, nor honor abated.”

“To me it would not seem that a Steward who faithfully surrenders his charge is diminished in love or in honor,” said Gandalf. “And at the least you shall not rob your son of his choice while his death is still in doubt.”

At those words Denethor’s eyes flamed again, and taking the Stone under his arm he drew a knife and strode towards the bier. But Beregond sprang forward and set himself before Faramir.

“So!” cried Denethor. “Thou hadst already stolen half my son's love. Now thou stealest the hearts of my Knights also, so that they rob me wholly of my son at the last. But in this at least thou shalt not defy my will: to rule my own end.”

“Come hither!” he cried to his servants. “Come, if you are not all recreant!” Then two of them ran up the steps to him. Swiftly he snatched a torch from the hand of one and sprang back into the house. Before Gandalf could hinder him he thrust the brand amid the fuel, and at once it crackled and roared into flame.

“We will be waiting for you,” Denethor heard Belegorn shout and watched as the soldier sliced the throats of the servants standing nearby. One fled and the soldier whipped his dirk from his boot. It planted deep into the servants back. Then, Denethor’s aide saluted and slit his own throat.

Looking about him, the Steward sighed deeply, then leapt upon the table, holding the Rod in his hands, the stone still tucked under his arm. “None left. None to give it to. Boromir is dead. Faramir taken from me, but he will not live long. He will not wield it. If he live, though I think it not possible, he would be a servant of him and I will not let it be held by that upstart.” Wreathed in flames, he took the Rod and clasped it to his breast for a moment, one long moment as the history, the significance of the emblem of his family’s Stewardship, the White Rod, ran through his mind. He took a long and deep breath, as was his wont when an action of gravity was required of him, put it over his knee – and broke it in half. The pieces he flung upon the flames as they crackled higher and higher.

He bowed and lay down upon the table, holding the Palantír clasped tightly to his chest. He would not look into it, never again, but he would not let any other have it. As Steward, it had been entrusted to his care. He would not leave it behind to be fondled by that upstart. He closed his eyes and held his breath. He heard the great door close behind the Wizard. One moment he was bereft of all hope. The next – he saw Boromir! Boromir stood before him, his face filled with sadness as tears flowed down the beloved cheeks. “Boromir,” he whispered. Hope rekindled. He must live. He must go to his son. “Mithrandir! Save me!” But the words were choked by the smoke and flames that rose about him. “Save me,” he whispered once again as the heat became unbearable. The image of Boromir faded. Denethor’s fingers began to tingle; the Palantír remained cool. He felt the flames licking at his slippers and his elbows. He pulled his arms tighter to his body. The Palantír turned red hot. His fingers, his palms began to melt onto the stone. He stared in disbelief; he was becoming one with it. A sudden laugh filled the chamber. The Enemy! And then Denethor’s hair began to smoke and melt. The heavy mail turned to fire, searing his body, link by link. The flames wholly engulfed him. He screamed in horror and pain and, as he did, his lungs took in the fire and drowned him.

Thus ended the life of Denethor II, son of Ecthelion II, Twenty-Sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor, of the House of Húrin.

A/N - These last moments of Denethor's life (the early morning hours of 15 March) were a challenge, in that the discourse between Gandalf and him, as they stood by the door of the Houses, Faramir already whisked away to safety, could not be totally paraphrased or copied or deleted – or not used. Therefore, though I have rarely done so, I decided to keep the original 'Tolkien' text in many places. From the (*) in the above entry onward, there are instances where I literally followed the book word for word. However, intermixed are my own interpretations of Denethor's thoughts, feelings, and actions. The power of Tolkien's words here could not be trifled with – IMHO. (PS – I researched how long and how horrible being burned at the stake was, and used the information for Denethor's own death.)

Additional A/N - On another board, a reader suggested that I made a minor mistake concerning the Rod of Gondor. In actuality, like Boromir losing his horse at Tharbad, I suppose it is an overlooked fact. Denethor did indeed break and burn the Rod of the Stewards - see The Pyre of Denethor, RotK, Book V, Chapter 7. The Rod Faramir uses at the Great Gate upon meeting Aragorn and 'allowing' him to enter the City is not the original Rod of Gondor. After much research, I believe another Rod was found in the Treasury (probably a failsafe kind of thing for when a Steward goes mad and burns the real Rod), OR Faramir (or Hurin) has a new one made. :)

The people, gathered around the White Tree, fanned out to the very edges of the escarpment, and waited in silence.

Their King, Elessar Telcontar, stood on the steps of the Tower. He was clad in black mail girt with silver, and he wore a long mantle of pure white clasped at the throat with a great jewel of green that shone from afar. Upon his head lay the ancient crown, shaped like the helms of the Guards of the Citadel, save that it was loftier. It was all white, and the wings at either side were wrought of pearl and silver in the likeness of the wings of a sea-bird, for it was the emblem of Kings who came over the Sea. Seven gems of adamant were set in the circlet, and upon its summit was set a single jewel the light of which went up like a flame. Tall as the sea-kings of old, Elessar stood, a light about him.

Next to him, the banner of the Tree of Gondor and the Seven Stars and Crown of Elendil waved in the breeze. On the King’s right side stood Mithrandir, dressed all in white. On Elessar’s left stood the Steward of Gondor, Faramir of the House of Húrin. Still garbed in the colors of the forest, his tunic displayed the White Tree. He held the Rod in his right hand. Standing on the steps on either side were the Halflings. Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin, garbed in finery, yet with no shoes upon their feet. Legolas and Gimli stood, side by side, behind Frodo and Sam.

Elessar began: “Today we look forward, to Gondor’s future, and the future of Men, Elves, and Dwarves. And,” he smiled down fondly upon the four before him, “Hobbits.” They stirred and the crowd burst into applause. Elessar waited.

When the cacophony quieted, he spoke further. “It is customary, at the turning of the year, for the Lords of Gondor to meet and remember those who have fallen. However, I deem it impossible to begin rebuilding our city until we have remembered the valiant dead who have made this day possible. Therefore, I proclaim this day our Day of Remembrance.

One bell, the highest placed in all of Gondor, tolled out. The people bowed their heads.

Elessar began the litany of names.

Gondorians:
Denethor
Boromir
Forlong
Belegorn
Duilin
Derufin
Damrod
Gundor
Hirgon
Hirluin
Humleth
Malach
Malantur
Ragnor
Ulrad…
The King’s voice droned on………….. and the bell echoed each name.

Eorlingas:
Théoden
Théodred and those of his Éored
Ceorl
Déorwine and his Six Knights
Dúnhere
Fastred
Gárulf
Grimbold
Guthláf
Háma
Harding
Herefara
Herubrand
Horn
Marhari
Walda…
The King’s voice droned on… and the bell echoed each name.

Dunedain of the North:
Estelmo
Halbarad…

And the King’s voice droned on long into the night… The bell echoed each name.

2930	Rían	Wife of Ecthelion; mother of Denethor
	Ecthelion	Heir to the Steward of Gondor; father of Denethor
	Turgon	Steward of Gondor; father of Ecthelion
	Adanedhel	Master Healer
	***Events	Denethor is born; Rían dies

2936	***Events	Denethor catches his first 'Orc' at age 6

2937	Indis	Eldest daughter of Ecthelion; sister to Denethor
	Morwen	Middle child of Ecthelion; sister to Denethor
	Fengel	King of Rohan; father to Thengel
	Thengel	Fengel's son; Prince of Rohan; living in Minas Tirith; Captain in
		Ecthelion's personal guard
	Angelimir	Prince of Dol Amroth and Belfalas
	Curunír	White Wizard
	Amdir	Friend to Denethor
		Lords of Lamedon, Lossarnach, Lebennin, etc.
	***Events	Denethor receives his first horn; meets Curunír for the first time

2939	Cranthir	Captain of Osgiliath; brother of Rían; uncle of Denethor
	Ingold	Captain of the Horse Guard; Amdir's father
	Elleth	Ingold's wife; Amdir's mother
	***Events	Adventure in Ithilien; Denethor relegated to Ingold's care in punishment

2941	***Events	Ingold Promoted to Captain of the Tower Guard; family moves from 4^th to 6^th Level
		Thengel Promoted to Captain of Horse Guard

2942	Gwinhir	Swordmaster to Denethor
	***Events	Denethor turns 12; Amdir made esquire with Horse Guard; Cranthir dies in
		Orc ambush; Denethor moves back into his quarters in the Citadel;
		Indis meets Elleth; Denethor meets Curunír in the library; Ingold promoted to
		Captain of the Tower Guard; Ecthelion and Denethor reconciled;
		Denethor is stationed under Thengel in Horse Guard

2943	Morwen	Of Lossarnach in the bloodline of Angelimir; Thengel's affianced
	***Events	Thengel & Morwen wed; take house on the 6^th Level;
		Denethor has frightening meeting with Curunír in library

2945	Húrin	Captain of Osgiliath
	Durahil	Lord of Gondor; member of Ecthelion's Council
	Horses	Nahir, Thengil's mount; Rochallor, Denethor's mount; Hros, Amdir's mount
	Berthil	Father of Morwen
	Ciramir	2^nd to Thengel; Captain
	Arciryas	Healer stationed with Thengel's Horse Guard
	Council	Ingold, Gwinhir, Durahil & Inlach
	Inlach	Captain of the Rangers
	Firieth	Healer's assistant
	***Events	Denethor promoted to lieutenant; Amdir promoted to lieutenant; assigned to Horse
		Guard; Visit to Morwen's village-Lossarnach - 11 leagues from MT;
		Farm on the banks of the River Erui; Surprise fishing trip with Thengel and
		Amdir on Mindolluin; Denethor receives his first battle wound;
		Amdir runs from the battle; Morwen loses her unborn babe
	Battle***	Battle of the Crossings; site 15 leagues from MT; South Road in good condition

2947	Ivriniel	Princess of Dol Amroth; born this year
	Listöwel	Friend of Indis; was handmade for one of Adrahil's cousins
	Damrod	Soldier of Gondor
	Findegon	Ranger and Captain of Gondor
	Hild	1^st child of Thengel; born this year
	***Events	Vision of beleaguered Minas Tirith by Denethor; Indis, Thengel, Morwen, and
		Amdir travel to Dol Amroth; Amdir meets Listöwel; Mapping expedition to
		North Anórien; Denethor and Amdir wounded in ambush by Orcs;
		Expedition to find hidden garrison in Ithilien; Cair Andros Refortified;
		Amdir recalls fire in Rath Dínen; Henneth Annûn found;
		Denethor must break a promise and loses face.
	Battle***	Battle of the Entwash, Northern Anórien

2948	Dúinhir	Of Blackroot Vale: Denethor's aide; field commission to lieutenant by Ciramir
	Baranor	New recruit from Lebennin; raised to Denethor's aide
	Damrod	Baby; only survivor of attack on Emyn Arnen; grandchild of Findegon
	Eledhwen	Morwen's maidservant; Shieldmaiden of Rohan
	Théoden	Morwen and Thengel's son born
	Thorongil	Man from the North serving Thengel
	***Events	Morwen pregnant; Thengel leads sortie to Emyn Arnen with Denethor and Amdir;
		Discover Orcs have attacked Ranger village; Denethor and Amdir badly burned;
		Henneth Annûn's men recalled by Thengel's order; Denethor and Amdir recover;
		Denethor recalls a meeting with Curunír in which the wizard shows him a Palantír;
		Indis, Morwen, and Listöwel begin sword training; Indis marries Arciryas;
		Amdir marries Listöwel; Amdir promoted to First Lieutenant; Ciramir promoted to
		Captain of the Horse Guard; Ingold promoted to Captain of the Armies;
		Thengel promoted to Captain of the Tower Guard; Denethor demoted to esquire;
		banished to Amon Anwar; Théoden born to Morwen; Húrin still captains Osgiliath

2950	***Events	Amdir sent to garrison at Pelargir
	Battle***	Battle of Fenmarch in Rohan

2953	Walda	Third Marshal of the Riddermark; sister-son of Fengel
	Thorongil	Man of the North serving Théoden
	***Events	Turgon dies; Ecthelion becomes Steward; Fengel dies; Thengel recalled to Rohan as
		King; Dúinhir promoted to lieutenant in the Horse Guard and aide to Ciramir;
		Ingold promoted to Captain of Ecthelion's Private Guard; 'Wen murdered by
		Haradrim in Emyn Arnen; Amdir wounded; Denethor recalled from exile in Amon
		Anwar, made lieutenant; Dúinhir, Denethor's aide; Ciramir, Captain of Tower Guard.
	Battle***	Battle of Emyn Arnen

2960	Éomund	In charge of the Rohirric garrison at the Mering Stream
	Amlach	Captain of Eilenach (beacon-hill)
	Wose	People of the hills and forests of Drúadan; Wild Men
	***Events	Dúinhir promoted to Captain of Rangers now deployed at HA; Damrod -soldier;
		Denethor Captain of Amon Dîn; Amdir is Denethor's aide and first lieutenant;
		Denethor makes a promise to Walda; Walda dies of wound fever after Orc ambush;
		Unease between Rohan & Gondor; Easterlings in Denethor's company;
		Denethor kidnapped by Wose; has fevered visions; Indis, Listöwel and Arciryas ride
		to Amon Din for news; Thengel rides to the Drúadan to help in search with three
		éoreds; Thorongil is Thengel's aide; helps heal Denethor; Thengel returns to Edoras;
		Thorongil goes to Minas Tirith with Denethor at Thengel's urging;
		Thorongil joins Ecthelion's army.

2970	***Events	Denethor stationed at Dol Amroth; Denethor asks for Finduilas' hand; she says yes;
		Thorongil becomes Captain of Ecthelion's personal guard.

2973	Adrahil	Prince of Dol Amroth: son of Prince Angelimir; father of Finduilas
	Finduilas	Princess of Dol Amroth; daughter of Prince Adrahil
	Amandil	Lord of Gondor; council member; wealthy
	Almarian	Lady of Gondor: Amandil's daughter
	***Events	Amdir - Captain of Pelargir garrison; Thorongil sent to Dol Amroth to negotiate
		Denethor's espousal to Finduilas; Denethor stationed at Cair Andros; sortie to
		North Ithilien; ambushed by Easterlings; Denethor badly wounded; Rochallor killed:
		Damrod - 2nd in command and aide to Denethor; saved Denethor's life
		Denethor demoted to lieutenant for incompetence
	Battle***	North Ithilien ambush

2976	Hathol	Captain of Cair Andros
	Éomund	Marshal of the Rohirric garrison of Fenmarch
	Guthláf	Banner-bearer of Éomund's company
	***Events	Finduilas and Prince Adrahil arrive in Minas Tirith; Denethor sent with full battalion
		to Cair Andros; Finds battle already won; Damrod, Denethor's aide;
		Denethor travels to the Rohirric garrison at Fenmarch to procure horses; meets
		Éomund; Ecthelion gives Thorongil the dirk of Denethor's grandmother;
		Denethor promoted; Denethor marries Finduilas; Thorongil made
		Captain of Pelargir; Amdir recalled from Pelargir; captains Amon Dîn;
	Battle***	Battle of Cair Andros


2978	Elfhild	Theoden's wife; dies in childbirth
	Théodred	Born this year to Elfhild and Théoden
	Boromir	First son of Denethor and Finduilas
	Éofor	Walda's son; Marshal in Thengel's service
	***Events	Arciryas promoted to Master Healer; Finduilas is pregnant; Elfhild,
		Théoden's wife is pregnant with Théodred; Denethor sent to Cair Andros on sortie;
		Thorongil returns to Minas Tirith and meets with Ecthelion; Boromir, Heir to the
		Steward, is born; Amdir injured in battle; Damrod is Amdir's aide; Massacre at
		Amon Dîn; Amdir relieved of his command; Thengel and Morwen visit Minas Tirith.
	Battle***	Massacre of Amon Dîn

2980	Berelach	Aide to Thorongil
	Siriondil	Healer of the Houses of Healing
	***Events	Thorongil wins Battle of Umbar; leaves Gondor; Amdir made Captain of Osgiliath;
		Ciramir made Captain of Pelargir; Thengel dies; Théoden becomes King of Rohan;
		Listöwel, Indis, Amdir, Arciryas and Denethor travel to Edoras for memorial and
		Théoden's coronation; Mt. Orodruin erupts; Three earthquakes hit; Finduilas suffers;
		Denethor returns to Minas Tirith; Firieth caregiver for Finduilas; Denethor takes
		Finduilas to Dol Amroth; Adrahil sends Imrahil to Minas Tirith.
	Battle***	Battle of Umbar

2983	Faramir	Second son of Denethor born
	Ioreth	Daughter of Firieth; healer's assistant in Houses of Healing
	***Events	Denethor made Captain-General; Berelach becomes aide to Denethor
		Indis, Elleth, Listöwel and Finduilas serve in the Houses of Healing;
		Denethor takes Imrahil to Osgiliath for training; Denethor wounded in Orc ambush;
	Battle***	Battle of the Harad Road

2984	***Events	Dúinhir becomes Lord of Blackroot Vale; Finduilas goes with Indis and
		Listöwel to Osgiliath; Finduilas finds 'Kings and Stewards' game;
		Denethor teaches Boromir how to fish; Ecthelion dies;
		Denethor becomes 26^th Ruling Steward of Gondor

2987	Elphir	Son of Imrahil born

2988	***Events	Firieth dies of fever; Arciryas becomes Denethor's family healer; Siriondil becomes
		Master Healer; Denethor sends Finduilas to Dol Amroth with Listöwel;
		Finduilas dies on the road; Denethor goes to Emyn Arnen to mourn;
		Amdir dies in Orc ambush; Berelach is aide to Denethor

2989	***Events	Listöwel returns from Dol Amroth; she becomes Faramir's nanny;
		Elleth, Amdir's mother, dies; Ingold rides to Ithilien and is killed by Orcs;
		Denethor uses the Palantír; Húrin made Captain of East Osgiliath;
		Amlach made Captain of West Osgiliath; Baranor returns to Lossarnach as Lord;
		Éomund weds Théodwyn; Denethor, Indis, Arciryas, Boromir and Faramir attend;
		Denethor and the boys go for an outing.


2990	Gelmir	Captain of Henneth Amrûn
	Durahil	Captain of Cair Andros
	Gwinhir	Captain of Pelargir
	Erchirion	Son of Imrahil born
	***Events	Boromir becomes esquire in Gondor's army; Théodwyn pregnant with Éomer;
		Denethor sees the Plains of Gorgoroth and Barad-dûr in the Palantír;
		Mithrandir visits Minas Tirith; Faramir meets him; Listöwel, Boromir and
		Faramir sent to Dol Amroth; Boromir to represent Denethor; Indis and
		Denethor go to Osgiliath to meet with captains and plan strategies;
		Forges built in Pelargir and Osgiliath; Imrahil takes Boromir and Faramir to
		Edhellond; Faramir sees an Elf; Denethor arrives in Dol Amroth;
		Argument with Adrahil; Denethor follows and meets with his sons in Edhellond

2994	***Events	Faramir - Becomes esquire in Gondor's army

2995	***Events	Boromir - 1^st stationed at Amon Din
		Amlach - Captain of West Osgiliath; wounded - retired; becomes tutor to Boromir

2997	Derufin	Aide to Gildor; Dúinhir's son
	Duilin	Aide to Gorlim; Dúinhir's son
	Gildor	Captain of the First Company of the Citadel; commander of the united forces of
		South Ithilien during the battle of Emyn Arnen.
	Gorlim	Captain of the Second Company of the Citadel; nickname 'Tall Man'; commander of
		the united forces of North Ithilien during the battle of Emyn Arnen.
	Guilin	Captain of Osgiliath; 4 years older than Boromir
	Iorlas	Soldier and friend of Boromir
	Arthad	Boromir's lieutenant and second; stationed in West Osgiliath for the last 5 years
	Ragnor	Lieutenant with Second Company of the Citadel; asks to become Boromir's 2^nd
	***Events	Faramir - falls and almost dies on Mindolluin; Boromir - made Captain-General and
		Heir to the Stewardship; given the Keys of the Realm; Estrangement between
		Denethor and Faramir begins; Húrin - Newly promoted Captain of the Third
		Company of the Citadel, just returned from captaincy of East Osgiliath;
		Denethor tells Boromir of Curunír; Orcs from the Ephel Dúath attack Osgiliath;
		Easterlings from the Black Gate attack Cair Andros; Haradrim attack Emyn Arnen;
	Battle***	Battle of Emyn Arnen; mûmak is part of Haradric forces against Denethor

3002	***Events	Éomund - Killed by Orcs, early spring; Théodwyn - Dies in grief, late summer
		Denethor and Faramir go to Osgiliath to meet with Boromir after long absence;
		Denethor battles, loses over one thousand men, uses Palantír regularly,
		casts Faramir from him, repents later; Mithrandir visits Minas Tirith;
		Théodred - Coming of age ceremony; later that year becomes Third Marshal of the
		Riddermark; Éomer and Éowyn become wards of Rohan; taken in by Théoden;
		Faramir confides in Indis; Faramir and Indis go to Edoras; Faramir promoted to
		Captain of Dol Amroth garrison; Faramir, Imrahil, Elphir and Erchirion go to
		Edhellond on an adventure; Boromir sent to garrison at base of the Falls of Rauros;
		returns to Minas Tirith in the late fall; Faramir discovers abandoned Corsair ship.
3010	***Events	Assassination attempt upon Denethor; Berelach (aide) saves him;
		Boromir is at Cair Andros; Prince Adrahil dies; Faramir goes as Denethor's
		representative; Berelach promoted to Captain of Cair Andros; Faramir promoted to
		Captain of Pelargir; Boromir sent to Dol Amroth.

3014	Grima	Son of Galmod; councilor to Théoden
	Háma	Doorward of the Golden Hall (Edoras)
	***Events	Denethor and family travel to Edoras; Morwen Dies; Indis Dies; Listöwel Dies

3016	***Events	Arciryas dies

March 1^stDenethor sees Thorongil in the Palantír (late evening); Supper with Boromir; Faramir still in Pelargir.

March 3^rdThorongil/Gollum (Palantír); Boromir remembers a battle by the Falls of Rauros and the Nindalf (lost 67 men); Supper with Denethor – discussing Faramir and Osgiliath.

March 4^thFaramir returns from Pelargir; Nuncheon with Denethor, Boromir and Faramir.

March 5^thBoromir and Faramir visit Indis’ grave in Rath Dínen - go on to Mindolluin; Denethor sees the past in the Palantír; then Finduilas; Misses daymeal with his sons; They also miss it – stay too long on the mountain; Boromir & Faramir begin search for Denethor.

March 6^thDenethor awakes in the tower; Meets Faramir in his rooms; Reunion and breakfast with Boromir and Denethor and Faramir; Faramir and Boromir discuss Denethor’s behavior; Great Hall – Boromir contemplates the King and the Steward’s role; Boromir and Faramir have words - ends in friendly tussle; Húrin chastises them; Denethor sees attack on patrol at Henneth-Annûn by Easterlings; Sees Easterling army amassed at the Wetwang (Nindalf); Sends errand-rider to Henneth-Annûn to warn them; Boromir takes a company and rides north to prepare for battle (pre-dawn).

March 7^thFull Council meeting; Denethor & Faramir bid each other good night; Denethor looks for signs of Boromir; Sees Henneth-Annûn in rest – knows rider has not arrived; Denethor confused - Faramir calms him; Boromir arrives Amon Dîn around 1am; Leaves around 4am; Arrives Cair Andros around 11am; Practice session with men around 6pm; Denethor sends Faramir to Osgiliath; Orders a full battalion to Henneth-Annûn under Faramir; Damrod and Mablung join Faramir.

March 8^thFaramir arrives Osgiliath around 1am; Rests; Heads for Henneth-Annûn around 5am; Ambush at 11am; Faramir wounded; Boromir meets the enemy in battle at around 1pm; Battle over by 4pm; Company rests for the night; Denethor ‘sees’ Sauron; Damrod saves Faramir and leads the battalion back towards Osgiliath; Around 4pm – Damrod tends to Faramir’s wounds; Resumes trip to Osgiliath; Faramir unconscious – arrows were poisoned; Denethor and Húrin discuss Warden’s duties, wife for Boromir, and Faramir’s duties; Denethor ‘sees’ signs of Boromir’s victory and vision of Faramir; Faramir and company arrive Osgiliath around 8pm; Damrod decides to leave Osgiliath; Council meeting.

March 9^thBoromir leads troops towards Henneth-Annûn; Damrod takes the wounded Faramir and a small company across the Pelennor to Minas Tirith 8am - the trip takes all day; Arrive 9pm; Denethor questions his choice of Húrin as Warden of the Keys; Denethor and Húrin discuss evacuation; Denethor stays by his son’s side all night and most of the next day.

March 10^thDenethor heads to Osgiliath; Stopped by Damrod; Sends Derufin instead; Boromir and company reach the pool near Henneth-Annûn; Boromir leaves his troops and heads with Arthad, his aide, to Henneth-Annûn; Leaves Henneth-Annûn around 1pm; Rider meets him and his company around 5pm; Boromir arrives at the Harad campsite at 6pm; Immediately departs with half a company towards ambush sight.

March 11^thBoromir reaches the ambush sight around 2am; Knows Faramir must have commanded the troops; Searches for Faramir; Boromir leaves at 3am and arrives in Osgiliath at around 10am; Mablung and Derufin greet him; Derufin is temporary head of the troops at Osgiliath; Denethor spends half the day with Húrin and Imrahil; Mablung tells Boromir of attack and Faramir’s wounding; Boromir and Derufin reunited; Boromir leaves for Minas Tirith around 2pm; Arrives in the City at 7pm; Immediately goes to the Houses; Faramir and Boromir are reunited; Boromir is too weary to meet with Denethor; He is excused; Denethor again spends the night at Faramir’s sick bed.

March 12^thFaramir wakes and shares a dream with Denethor; Their relationship strains even further; Denethor meets with Imrahil, Húrin and Boromir in his study; Boromir visits Faramir, then goes to captain Osgiliath; Council meeting.

March 22^ndBoromir returns from Osgiliath; ‘Rescues’ Faramir from the Houses; Meets with Denethor and Imrahil

March 23^rdBetrothal announcement; Awards given; Boromir heads towards Rohan; Denethor and the Palantír; Boromir meets with an angry Captain Guilin; Éomer sets out from the Mering Stream to Edoras; Faramir has relapse; Spring Festival (Tuilérë).

March 24^thBoromir sets out from Amon Dîn to the Mering Stream; Faramir meets with Denethor; Ordered to Osgiliath; Boromir arrives at Eilenach.

March 25^thFaramir’s message reaches Boromir; Faramir starts out for Osgiliath; Boromir starts for Nardol and further; Denethor meets with Húrin and Imrahil regarding granaries and such.

March 26^thFaramir wakes late afternoon and meets with Derufin; Council meeting.

March 27^thFaramir, Derufin, Damrod and Mablung begin refortifying the garrison at Osgiliath; Denethor and Imrahil ride to the Harlond; Denethor turns aside and heads for Osgiliath; Faramir and Denethor meet.

March 28^thBoromir reaches the Rohirric garrison at Mering Stream; Refused entry into Rohan; Denethor inspects the Rammas at the Forts and the Harlond.

March 29^thBoromir leaves one company behind and rides with the other to Amon Anwar; Company attacked; Arthad in charge of the betrothal ceremony.

March 30^thDenethor senses the Palantír only shows his sons when they are dead; Boromir is surrounded and taken captive; Orcs wait until nightfall, then prepare to leave; Faramir comes to Boromir in a dream; Éomer rescues Boromir; Long night’s vigil over Boromir’s broken body; Éomer sends errand-riders to Minas Tirith to notify Denethor of Boromir’s wounding;

April 1^st Mardil meets with Éomer; Mardil sends troops to find and destroy the Orcs; Denethor and Faramir both have misgivings.

April 2^nd Boromir worsens - decision made to bring him to Minas Tirith; Rohirrim ride as scouts; Healer refuses to let them leave that night; Tends Boromir.

April 3^rdHealer says Boromir is strong enough to move; Three Gondorian companies (one that was left by Boromir at the Mering and two from Amon Anwar) leave with Éomer’s éored for Minas Tirith.

April 8^th Lady Míriel enters Minas Tirith; Boromir reaches Eilenach; Ethuil begins (spring); Spring Ball is held in Merethrond; Treachery discovered at Boromir’s camp.

April 9^th Faramir rides to Amon Dîn; Receives new mount; Rides to Eilenach and meets with Boromir, Mardil and Éomer.

April 10^th Betrothal ceremony rescheduled; Boromir reaches Amon Dîn; Mardil returns to Amon Anwar; Éomer accompanies Boromir; Faramir sends healer under guard to Edoras; Concerns of treachery in the City.

April 11^th Boromir arrives in Minas Tirith; Denethor hears the tale of Boromir’s journey.

April 12^th Boromir wakes; Denethor has second thoughts about Míriel; Denethor meets with Éomer.

May 30^th Attack on the homesteads of Anórien; Boromir and Arthad leave for Cair Andros; Miriel notified not to come to Minas Tirith for Loëndë.

June 21^st Mithrandir comes to Minas Tirith; Hirgon placed in charge of errand-riders; sent to Cair Andros with orders for Boromir

Loëndë Midsummer’s Day (June 22^nd our calendar). Council meeting. Imrahil does not attend.

June 24^th Tarostar hanged as traitor; two more supply wagons to sent to Cair Andros; Hirgon is made Captain of Errand-Riders

June 25^th Faramir arrives at Dol Amroth; Míriel accosts him in Finduilas’ garden; Miriel dies; Damrod takes knife meant for Faramir; Galador arrested.

June 28^th Boromir battles Easterlings; Arthad dies in battle; Egalmoth becomes Boromir’s Aide; Belegorn becomes Denethor’s aide.

June 29^th Faramir leaves Dol Amroth; Galador and wife banished to Athrad; Battleof Cair Andros continues.

June 30^th Boromir returns to garrison of Cair Andros, then heads for Minas Tirith; discovers massacre.

August 1^st Boromir returns to Minas Tirith; meets with Mithrandir and Denethor.

August 15^th Imrahil arrives in Minas Tirith; Faramir arrives at Pelargir; stays for three days; meets with Lord Amandil.

Oct. 20^th Faramir leaves for Henneth-Annûn whilst Boromir leaves for Amon Dîn.

Mettarë Midwinter day; last day of the year 3017 (December 21^st our calendar).

Arthad † Boromir’s aide after Derufin leaves him; does various duties in Minas Tirith whilst Boromir is in Rohan; dies at Battle of Cair Andros.

Baranor Aide to Captain Guilin at Amon Dîn; father to Beregond; Recalled to Minas Tirith and made tutor for esquires.

Belegorn Lieutenant under Mardil at Amon Anwar; recalled to Minas Tirith as Denethor’s aide.

Beregond Guard at the Causeway Forts; promoted to Captain of Amon Dîn; demoted and made Boromir’s aide.

Guilin † Captain of Amon Dîn; then Captain in Boromir’s company; Dies at the Mering Stream

Gwinhir Captain of the garrison at Pelargir – 2997; given the post again in 3017

Hirgon Lieutenant in charge of the outpost at the Causeway Forts; Promoted to Captain of Errand-Riders

Fengel. He was the third son and fourth child of Folcwine. He is not remembered with praise. He was greedy of food and of gold, and at strife with his marshals, and with his children. Thengel, his third child and only son, left Rohan when he came to manhood and lived long in Gondor, and won honour in the service of Turgon.

2905-80 Thengel. He took no wife until late, but in 2943 he wedded Morwen of Lossarnach in Gondor, though she was seventeen years the younger. She bore him three children in Gondor, of whom Théoden, the second, was his only son. When Fengel died the Rohirrim recalled him, and he returned unwillingly. But he proved a good and wise king; though the speech of Gondor was used in his house, and not all men thought that good. Morwen bore him two more daughters in Rohan; and the last, Théodwyn, was the fairest, though she came late (2963), the child of his age. Her brother loved her dearly. It was soon after Thengel's return that Saruman declared himself Lord of Isengard and began to give trouble to Rohan, encroaching on its borders and supporting its enemies.

Mithril - Book: Return of the King...chapter Minas Tirith..."but the helms gleamed with a flame of silver, for they were indeed wrought of mithril, heirlooms from the glory of old days." This is when Pippin and Gandalf go to Gondor/Minas Tirith. So I felt mithril was, though rare, a part of Gondor and it's trappings.

2937 - The story of the Horn from LOTR – JRRT
Oath paraphrased from one on dragonbear.com With many thanks for much help – Linaewen, you rock!

2953 Chapter 13 - - Please note - much of this was postulated based upon ROTK – Chapter Five and also thoughts from – 'The Men Who Would Be Steward' by Michael Martinez.

2988
AUTHOR'S NOTES: From a deep-seated belief that I am unable to change or help a person who has chosen to die. I can do everything in my power to try to help them, from prayer to forcing them to seek counsel, to personally attacking them, to whining, to tears, to separation, to loving them. I can do everything – but they must chose to live. Someone near and dear to me, my sweet and precious husband, chose not to live. I have lived through the description of the tears and the odd questions that surface in the midst of despair and heartache and death.

I ran from writing this part of 2988 because of this. But standing upon the rocks of New Zealand, with my dear friends Indis and Elentari above a seashore that could have been Dol Amroth, Denethor cried out to me – write of her death, tell of my sorrow, speak my pain. And so, after three days of tears in the midst of the beauty of that island, I wrote of Finduilas death. May Eru be praised that I was able to write it. Amdir's death just happened. One morning, I woke up and knew he had to die. Sometimes, I hate my muse.

The 'Dol Amroth' room that Boromir created is based upon a room in a mansion that I was blessed to visit this summer. I knew it was Finduilas' room as soon as I saw it.

NOTES: *My apologies for the language used… see Tolkien's notes below… regarding the familiar form I use for Denethor, Finduilas and their children…. Forgive me if I am wrong, but it brings warmth to my heart to hear them speak thus.
Appendix F - I The languages and Peoples of the Third Age
So that at the time of the War of the Ring the Elven-tongue was known to only a small part of the peoples of Gondor, and spoken daily by fewer. These dwelt mostly in Minas Tirith and the townlands adjacent, and in the land of the tributary princes of Dol Amroth.

(The Rohirrim) They still spoke their ancestral tongue …. But the lords of that people used the Common Speech freely, and spoke it nobly after the manner of their allies in Gondor; for in Gondor whence it came the Westron kept still a more gracious and antique style.

The Westron tongue made in the pronouns of the second person (and often also in those of the third) a distinction, independent of number, between 'familiar' and 'deferential' forms…. This was one of the things referred to when people of Gondor spoke of the strangeness of Hobbit-speech. Peregrin Took, for instance, in his first few days in Minas Tirith used the familiar forms to people of all ranks, including the Lord Denethor himself. This may have amused the aged Steward, but it must have astonished his servants. No doubt this free use of the familiar forms helped to spread the popular rumour that Peregrin was a person of very high rank in his own country

For TA 2997 - as for mumakil - I can find no entries prior to the time of Denethor about these great beasts... so I am taking a little leeway (not usual for me) and suggesting that they might have just been bred within this age. Therefore, they are new to the men of Gondor. Just my own thoughts on this.

Secondly - I think JRRT would have been appalled at the response to his Denethor - Tolkien hardly knew his father but was raised with love by the parish priest. For people to believe that Denethor was a cruel father - I think would have been unthinkable to Tollers. He had to cut so much of his book and never ever would have thought, when he took out the few lines below, that people would assume otherwise. I feel IMHO that Tolkien's Denethor was a good and loving father (Please see quote below)

JRRT on pg. 328 of the hardcover copy of The War of the Ring from the Siege of Gondor chapter....

"My son, your father is old, but he is not yet a dotard. I can see and hear as is my wont, and not much of what you have left unsaid or half said is now hidden. I know the answer to the riddling words and to other riddles besides. Now I understand the ...? of Boromir and his (death).

"If you (are)angry, father," said Faramir, "tell me what other courses you would have had me take."

"You have done as I should have expected, for I know you well," said Denethor. "Ever your desire is to be lordly and generous as a king of old - gracious and gentle. And that well befits men of high lineage who sit in power amid peace. But in these black hours gentleness may be bought with death."

"So be it," said Denethor; "but not by your death only. The death also of your father and of all your people whom it will be your part to rule ere long - now Boromir is no more." He paused, clutching his (wand).

"Yes, I wish that indeed," said Denethor. "Or no," and then he shook his head; and rising suddenly laid his hand on his son's shoulder. "Do not judge me harshly, my son," he said, "or think that I am harsh. Love is not blind. I knew your brother also. I would wish only that he had been in your place, if I were sure of one thing."

"That he was as strong in heart as you, and as trustworthy. That taking this thing he had brought it to me, and not fallen under thraldom.

Ten Thousand Years Will Not Suffice by Agape4Gondor