Faramir pressed down the handle with dread, expecting to find... find what? Would he encounter the ghost of his father haunting these apartments? The touch of his style was certainly visible in the furniture, the carpets and the wall hangings. He had only a vague recollection of it ever being otherwise, of bright colours and warmth, and of the gentle touch of a woman's hand. All that had changed with the death of Faramir's mother all those years ago. With her all the joy had left these rooms, making way to lingering sadness.

Relief washed over Faramir at the thought that it would not be his fate to work and live in this place that carried more negative memories than Faramir cared to remember. He smiled grimly. Next to the Stewardship, Faramir had also inherited a townhouse, which had to be opened and cleaned for his own use after he relinquished the rule to the King Returned. But first he had to see to it that the royal apartments were brought into order. There were Denethor's personal possessions to be taken care of and he must decide which of them to keep and what to throw away. Faramir sighed at the prospect of this emotionally draining task. It was at times like these that he missed his brother most. Boromir had always been the strong one who would boldly walk into danger and worry about the consequences when he faced them. Faramir, on the other hand, was the one who made the clever plans and went through them until he was satisfied with every detail. And so it was not surprising that he had come here with a list and now dreaded to execute his plan.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the antechamber. The room was gloomy and Faramir's eyes needed a moment to accustom to the dimness. He shuffled his way over to the great window and drew back the black velvet curtain. As the heavy fabric came away, the bright sunlight of the spring afternoon illuminated the chamber, bathing everything in a golden light. There was not much to see here, though. Two long couches and a low table were the only furniture and the white walls were bare except for the painting of a lady. Faramir walked over and looked into her face.

It was a beautiful woman; her complexion was as pure as newly fallen snow; her lips red like ripe cherries, and her hair, black as the night-sky, cascaded loosely down her back and was adorned by star-shaped hairpins with inlaid diamonds. The familiar blue mantle that was draped around her shoulders gleamed with the same stars. But both were outshone by the twinkle of her sea-grey eyes. Faramir gazed at her face for a long while, trying to see her alive in his memories. She was smiling in the portrait, but before his inner eyes Faramir beheld a face that radiated profound sadness. Had he ever witnessed her as happy as this likeness showed her to be?

“Naneth!” he spoke out the unfamiliar word. He reached out his hand towards her until he could almost touch the canvas. But only almost. His hand lingered in the air for a time as if wondering whether it should continue its journey or return to its owner's side. With a tremor Faramir drew back his hand and made a step backwards, willing himself to return to reality and the task at hand. Deciding that he would leave the painting where it was, he turned around to have a look at the next room.

The great reception room looked exactly as he remembered it. He could almost see them sitting in the comfortable chairs before the great hearth, though its fire was now extinguished. As he looked at it more closely, Faramir felt a chill overcome him that had nothing to do with the relatively warm temperatures of the early spring. Ashes. They were all that was left of the welcoming warmth that was home. And so it was with... no, he would not think such thoughts! 'Leave me in peace and haunt me no more', he wanted to shout at the invisible presence. But no sound came through his suddenly parched throat.

He let himself fall into one of the chairs, closing his eyes and making himself think more pleasant thoughts. There was the great tapestry that depicted Círion and Eorl the Young and beneath it the great table that they would eat at if all members of the family happened to be here. Here they had entertained their intimate guests; Uncle Imrahil and his family as well as those of his father's elder sisters. Emeldir, Ecthelion's middle child, had taken on the role of a mother after Faramir and Boromir had lost their own. He remembered her sheltering arms when he came to her after another scolding by his father. She had declined his plea for help for this task, though, claiming that it was Faramir's duty. He had wanted to be mad at her, to say that Denethor was her brother and that she had a responsibility, too. But she had looked at him with those eyes that could make the strongest man quail and he had fallen silent before he could even raise his voice.

He let his hands wander over the intricately carved armrests of the chair, recognising every curve as belonging to a particular design. But what should he do with all the furniture? Should he have it brought to his house once it was cleaned? But he could not leave these apartments bare when the King was to move in there! 'Do you really care about them?' the little voice in his head asked. 'You have all the furniture that you need at the moment and all other things can be acquired in time - after your tastes and also after those of Éowyn. Leave them here for the King to deal with.'

Having made his decision, he went to inspect the most important matter. He opened the door on the other side of the room and entered the intimate reception room. Even though the room was dominated by the same grey and back colours, it filled Faramir with a sense of comfort. Familiar faces smiled down from the walls at Faramir; brother, father, uncles, aunts and cousins were all gathered here to keep him company. There were two more doors in the room; one on the left, the other on the right. Faramir hesitated; where next? On the left lay the study with its heaps of paper, and on the right was the unknown territory of his father's bedchamber. Coming to the conclusion that it did not really matter where he started, he went to the left and tried the study door.

Faramir pulled a keyring from his pocket and after fiddling a bit he produced a key. He pushed it into the keyhole and the door swung open. It was already unlocked! Under normal circumstances that would not have puzzled Faramir further, but Húrin had insisted twice that he remember to bring the keys because he had personally locked the private doors the day Denethor had died. A quick look into the room confirmed the nagging suspicion in the back of his mind: The great lebethron desk that was normally so tidy was strewn with various kinds of papers. Drawers stood open and the heavy chair lay overturned. Whoever had been here must have been interrupted by someone. Faramir looked around, trying to detect some clue. But the room lay quiet; nothing moved. He walked back to the desk and picked up the chair, placing it in its old position. He was just about to turn to the papers when there was a scraping sound. Faramir went stock still - he was not alone after all. He gave the room a quick scan, searching for a possible hiding place. The dark paneling did not hide any secret doors so the possibilities were few. He walked around on silent feet, first checking the curtains, then the cupboard, and at last the fireplace. All, however, proved empty. He was just about to turn away from the fireplace when there was that strange sound again.Soot trickled down.

Faramir smiled, turned back and muttered to himself, “it is quite cold in here. Maybe I should light the fire.” He stooped and set fire to the – somewhat moist – remaining wood. Soon the whole fireplace was full of smoke. This time the scraping was accompanied by violent coughing.

Then, at last, down the chimney came the small form of a boy.

“Who do I have smoked out here?” Faramir asked in a half amused, half threatening voice, “but more importantly, what does he do up my chimney?”

The boy scrambled quickly out of the fireplace but retained his seated position. With a last cough he looked up at Faramir.

“Please, sir, do not punish me. I did not want to do any harm. Really! My father, you see, they will kill him if I do not help him!” He blurted all out in one breath, then looked up hopefully at Faramir.

“Steady, lad,” Faramir said as he knelt down at the boy's side, “tell me your name, your father's and then what he has done to deserve death.”

“My name is Bergil, sir, and my father is Beregond. He is a guardsman and killed some men he should not have.”

Beregond. Faramir was sure that he had already heard that name before, but he just could not place him.

“And what makes you think that you are helping your father by breaking into the Steward's study?” He scowled and Bergil squirmed.

“I thought that maybe if I steal the reports nobody will remember that it was my father and then he would not be killed.”

Faramir sighed. “You have a stout heart, my lad, and must love your father dearly. But what you did was a foolish thing to do. What made you believe that you would find the reports here?”

Bergil only shrugged and hung his sooty head.

“What ought I to do with you now?”

The boy fidgeted with his sleeves. “Maybe you could just let me go and forget that I was here?”

“Ha!” Faramir gave a bark of laughter. “This is how you would have it? Did your father not teach you that there is no mischief without punishment? The least you can do is to help me order the mess that you have created. But first you will go and clean yourself because in this state you are in you would ruin everything you touched. Now run along and come back right after you are done.”

Bergil scrambled up to his feet, saluted and with a quick “I will” was out of the door. Faramir breathed in deeply as the door closed behind the boy with a thud. Ignoring the mess of papers, he sat into the chair. Beregond. Faramir knew that he missed or lacked important information about him. He had heard people say his name when they thought that he was not listening. Faramir rubbed his chin in thought. He should know more about the case when he was to deal with the boy. He stood up and retracing his steps, he entered the antechamber and opened the door to the hallway. The servant that stood there looked at him in suprise at his early appearance.

“Herion, would you be able to organise the file of Beregond?”

The man looked as if he wanted to say something, but then he just nodded and said that he would try.

Back in the study Faramir smothered the smoking wood. He found that he was glad that he had found the little boy up in the chimney. He was a perfect distraction from the dreary task. And he had also given him reason to smile. But then his heart went out to Bergil who, in his desperation to save a person he loved, had been driven to attempt a theft.

A while later someone knocked at the door and in came Herion, bearing some sort of paper. He bowed and handed it to Faramir.

“Here is the file of Beregond's case. But are you sure, lord, that you want to look at this alone?” Herion sounded genuinely concerned and Faramir lifted an eyebrow.

“Yes, I do. But thank you for your concern, Herion. Wait outside in case I need you. And Herion, when you see a little boy, about ten years old, coming, let him enter.”

Herion bowed again and left the room.

Once on his own, Faramir opened the folder and began to read.

Name: Beregond
Parents: Baranor and Míriel
Date of Birth: 25th Cermië 2981
Place of Birth: Lossarnach
Current commission: Third Company of the Guard of the Citadel
Commissioned since: 30th Hísimë 3004

On the 15th of the month of Súlime in the year 3019 of this age, Beregond son of Baranor, member of the Third Company of the Guard of the Citadel, left his post without leave of either captain or lord. He went forthwith to Fen Hollen, where he slew its porter and stole the keys. Furthermore, he defied the orders of the lord Steward Denethor and slew two of the six men that had come to fulfill the lord Steward's orders.

Witnesses: Eradan, Hirgon, Mardil and Cirion, members of the household of the Steward

Mithrandir the Wizard

Peregrin the Pherian

Addition: According to the statement of Peregrin son of Paladin, Beregond acted on his bidding to protect the lord Steward Faramir from his father's madness if he could. Mithrandir concurs this.

Minas Tirith, 16th Súlime 3019

Farmir read it once, twice, three times, then let it sink down unto the desk. These words hit Faramir hard because nobody had told him the whole story yet. People had died, slain by the hands of a friend. He let his head fall into his hands and forced himself to take deep breaths. And all because of your father's madness, the little voice in his mind commented. It had been a dark day indeed. His thoughts returned to Beregond. Here was another whose life had been shattered by Denethor's last, mad deeds. The man had had most likely saved his life and now that courage should be rewarded with the death penalty? He felt suddenly sick at the very thought. It would be a sad and unjust world if an act of love and loyalty were to be requited by such severe a punishment. His motives had to be taken into consideration when his doom was decided. He would have to think of something clever enough for the King to agree with. Putting the file where Bergil would not see it when he returned, Faramir sat back with a heavy heart and waited for the boy. Maybe he could get more useful information out of him.

Time found Faramir pacing the study, on the one hand itching to clean the mess, on the other unwilling to do so without the culprit. But slowly doubt began to gnaw at Faramir; would Bergil have the courage to return and receive the punishment or had he taken flight when the opportunity had presented itself? He went to the great window and looked out; at least Denethor's presence had become less oppressive and for that alone Faramir was grateful.

He had just made up his mind to start on his own when there was a knock on the door and Bergil stuck his head, and also still wet hair, in.

"I hope that I am not intruding. The servant that is posted in front of your door does not look very friendly to me."

Faramir had to keep from smiling. "I have been waiting for many minutes. Where have you been all this time?"

Bergil shook his head and gestured at his fresh clothing. "I first had to explain why I was so dirty and got a good scolding. Then I had to wash myself and get something to to wear as you bid me do. It all takes its time, sir."

"Good," Faramir nodded, "you can begin, then." He went to the desk and gestured at the papers. "I imagine that you know your letters?"

Bergil nodded once. "Aye. I would not be here otherwise because I would not have recognised what I was searching for even were I holding it in my hands!"

"Yes, indeed," Faramir concurred. "What I want you to do now is to sort the papers. Since you probably know already better than I what we will find here, I leave it to you to determine the criteria. Oh, and you have to promise be to be discrete. None of the information you might find in here will leave the room. Understood?"

Faramir noticed the boy gulp, then setting to work hesitantly. He himself took a look at the drawer that was still locked. He tried every little key of the immense keyring, but none would open it. With a frustrated sigh he yanked at the handle. Nothing.

"Can you pick locks, Bergil?" Faramir asked at last.

Bergil got up from where he had been sitting amidst the papers and came over to see what Faramir was pointing at. "Ah, but of course I can. It is how I came in here in the first place." He took some sort of wire from his pocket and fumbled in the lock. A few moments later it opened with an audible click. Bergil grinned and stepped back a pace. "Here you are, sir. Your servant is ever glad to help."

"Thank you, lad. Now return to your task and let me look at mine."

The drawer stuck a bitand it took Faramir a considerable effort to wrench it open. He reached into it and removed two bundles of letters. The one was held together by a red ribbon, the other by a blue one. He unwoundthe blue ribbon and looked into a random letter.

My lovely Finduilas,

Faramir looked away quickly. He had found the love-letters of his father to his mother. A part of him wanted to sit down and read everyone of them, but the other shuddered at the thought of intruding in such private an affair. But they were both dead now and there was none to scold him for it. And it also promised to show him a side of his father he had never experienced while Denethor was still alive. He took up the letter again.

My lovely Finduilas,

It is now two weeks since your departure and already I feel the urge to stand high upon the walls and gaze upon Anduin to see if it might return your ship before the long months of my ordeal of waiting are passed. Life seems duller than I remember it being before our first meeting. The sun does not bring her accustomed joy nor the wind a welcome relief from the oppressive heat now that I miss your smile to greet it.

All is a semblance of normalcy here though it is obvious that the preparations for our joining have already started. Ah, how I wish we were not lord and lady! How I wish we could marry without all protocol and long preparation, that we could take horse or ship and escape all obligations. Just the two of us. But alas, such is not granted to us.

And so I have to tarry here with many miles between us. As my quill caresses this parchment so I wish I could caress your ivory skin and ebony hair.

I yearn for you in every waking and sleeping hour and in love am forever yours,

Denethor.

Faramir leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, letting the warm feelings of affection wash over him. It was both comforting and painful to know that the man he remembered as so hard and unforgiving had once been a man so deeply in love. As a man like Faramir was now. His thoughts returned to Éowyn and 'twas comforting, too. When he was finished here he would go and talk to her, tell her of today's new hurts. But before that he would find Húrin and get the whole story of his father's death out of him. He grimaced.

"Sir, are you well?" Bergil's voiced sounded concerned as he appeared next to Faramir. "You look as if you are in pain."

"Nay, Bergil. I found something that belonged to my father and was but lost in memories."

"Did you love your father, sir?"

Faramir turned to fully face Bergil. "Oh course I did. And I still do. He was my father."

"But he tried to kill you, sir. I do not know what I would feel if that had happened to me."

"Bergil, what do you know that story? And who else knows of it?"

"You may not remember it, but it was my father that saved your life. He told me what exactly happened in Rath Dínen and also what happened before. Afterwards I got the King his kingsfoil so that he could heal you. My father and I stayed with you in the Houses of Healing for a few hours after all was over. But you appeared to be asleep all the time so you might not know. As for who knows the story; probably many if not all in the Houses of Healing and your household."

Faramir thought about that for a moment. So people had lied to him for over two weeks! And now he had to find out through a file and a little boy!

"Bergil, now I understand better and I also know of your father's role. It is not in my power but in that of the King to decide his fate; but I will do all I can to see to it that his life will be spared."

Suddenly the boy flung himself into Faramir's arms and pressed his small frame tightly against him. They stayed for a moment as they were, taking comfort and new courage from each other.

*****

A few weeks later

Faramir walked through the antechamber and the great reception room behind the King. Elessar took his time looking at everything, looking as if he were re-acquainting himself with something familiar but long missed. This was, of course, ridiculous, Faramir knew. But there was, nonetheless, a light in the man's eyes that Faramir had not expected.

They wandered around the rooms, Faramir giving Elessar as much time as he needed. The great tapestry was still there, but the walls in the intimate reception room were empty, the family portraits having already been brought into Faramir's new home.

When they had inspected the bedroom, the King frowned and shook his head. Looking around, Faramir could not blame him. The black curtains and the dark walls prevented even the bright sunshine to completely illuminate the room and the enormous bed did not look very comfortable, either.

"That will not do, Faramir. This room has to be renovated entirely. It is much to heavy and dreary and it lacks colour. Until that is done I will sleep elsewhere because there is something that presses down heavily on my spirit." Elessar went over and touched the dark post of the canopy bed. "Please have this removed. It is not to my style, and neither to that of my Queen."

"Your Queen?"

Elessar smiled in a conspirational manner. "Oh, yes, there is someone who has been waiting for a long time to become Queen. And you should know that you are the the first whom I am telling this in the hopes that you might help me to keep the ambitious ladies and their fathers at a comfortable distance.”

“We will then have to prepare the Queen's rooms, too.” And unexpected boldness overcame Faramir and he continued with a wink. “She has a nice bedroom of her own and you might want to spend more of your time there than here.”

Elessar gave a loud guffaw at that and clapped Faramir on the shoulder. “You speak true, Faramir; and I like people who speak their mind. I prefer her to the ghost of your father.” He paused for a moment and looked closely at Faramir. “That was uncalled for and I apologise for this unthoughtful comment. It was unkind to speak thusly about Denethor to you who loved him so deeply. One of these days I hope to explain to you my mixed feelings towards him.”

Faramir shook his head. “No harm was done, my lord. I think I understand your sentiments.”

The King held up an index finger and sighed. “Aragorn, please! There are enough people who insist on calling me 'my lord'. I imagine we will become good friends yet; and for that we should address each other by the names our fathers gave us.”

Faramir felt a wave of happiness overcome him. The King, the King, offered him his friendship so unconditionally. This new age promised to begin gloriously.

“My l... Aragorn?”

“Hm?”

“When is your wife due to arrive, my lord?”

“She is not my wife. At least not yet.”

“You are not married? I heard that you are almost as old as my father was. Surely you are past the time to marry, even for one of your line.” As soon as the words had left his mouth, Faramir wished the floor would open up and swallow him. He looked down at his shoes. “Please forgive me.”

“Ah, please look at me. You are not the first to say so and I know that it is not meant to spite me. Let us suffice to say that this, too, is another story for a later time. What is important now is that we have my wedding to plan. I do not know when it will happen, though. We just have to wait and look to the north.”

Faramir nodded slowly and proceeded to lead Elessar, no, Aragorn, to the new King's study, where a particularly interesting file was waiting for the King's attention.