A/N:  Believe it or not, I do not own Lord of the Rings.  I’m a squatter in Middle Earth.  This is my first LotR fic, and constructive criticism is welcome.  Special thanks to Calenlass Greenleaf who noticed that the formatting on the original version of this story was a bit confusing.

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Arathorn paced furiously outside the door of his bedchamber.  From within the darkened room, he could hear from time to time Gilraen’s stifled cries and the muted coaxing of the midwives.  Arathorn cursed his foolishness, his impatience.  Gilraen was barely more than a child herself.  He had no right to subject her to this . . . this ordeal.  A scream rent his ears, as his wife’s iron control finally broke.  Arathorn snorted at the irony of the common wisdom that said Dunedain men, with their perilous profession, could better conceal pain than their wives and daughters. 

Arathorn cursed the acute senses that let him detect his wife’s every groan.  The child would surely rip Gilraen’s tiny body in half.  But, when he’d said as much to one of the midwives, the old matron had laughed and shooed him from the room.  Now, he paced the short hallway of their humble cabin.  The wooden planks under his feet creaked with every third step.  The smoky scent of beeswax wafted from the glass-encased lanterns, but their light did little to brighten the rough hewn walls.  What kind of place was this for a birth?  In generations past, his ancestors were birthed in cool stone chambers of grand palaces, surrounded by healers and friends, minstrels and historians.  Now, his wife labored in the fading light with only her mother and two aunts to help her.  She sweated and screamed, fighting with all her might to release another child into this life of wandering, another son or daughter to join the Rangers in the dark places where they walked unsung and unloved.

There was a long, piercing shriek that slowly died into a high-pitched hissing groan.  Arathorn’s breath caught in his throat.  The sound cut off suddenly.  For long moments, the only noise was ragged panting.

And then.  The sound.

It started barely louder than the chirp of a cricket; a soft, uncertain squawk.  After a moment, there was another squawk.  And another, each louder than the last until Arathorn’s ears were assaulted by a raucous, piercing wail, two tiny lungs screaming defiance at the world that had tried to keep them stifled.  It was the most beautiful racket Arathorn had ever heard.

After what felt like an eternity, the door swung open, and his mother-in-law waved him in with that infuriatingly calm smile.  “It’s a boy.”

For a moment, Arathorn could only stand in awe of the scene before him.  A white sheet clung to his wife’s sweat soaked body but stopped at the waist, where the two aunts were working calmly amid gore to rival any battlefield.  Gilraen’s dark hair clung to her brow and neck.  Her cheeks were stained with tear tracks, but her eyes were bright, and her face pulled into a dazzling smile.  And in her arms . . .

A tiny, red, wriggling ball of life fought to free itself from the swaddling wrap.  Ten tiny fingers beat at the air.  Ten perfect toes kicked ceaselessly.  Black scratches of hair sat like a crown over a face twisted in consternation.  Slowly, as if he were bowing at an altar, Arathorn eased his weight onto the bed and lifted a trembling hand to brush the feather-soft locks.  At the unexpected touch, the baby stilled.  The minute eyelashes fluttered upward, and two brilliant silver eyes appeared.  Gilraen’s smile broadened even further.  She held the babe close as her husband leaned down to rest his forehead against hers.

“Our Aragorn.”

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All was not well in the Tower of Guard.  Ecthelion, son and heir of Turgon, paced the wide atrium of the Houses of Healing until he was sure his boots would wear holes in the flagstones.  His two daughters sat quietly with their nurse, wide eyes fixed on their frantic father.  The Steward’s son could not spare a kind glance, even for his precious little ones.  Yet another wail echoed down the corridor, and the girls hid their faces in their nurse’s shoulder.

Ecthelion drew a deep breath to steady himself.  His wife was not as young as she used to be.  Now, for the third time she pitted her will against the dangers of the birthing chamber.  Please, the man offered a silent prayer to the Valar, please let this one be a boy, an heir.  Every day, the halls and chambers of the Citadel seemed to mock him.  Statues of ancient kings glared down on him.  Preserve the splendor of Gondor?  They seemed to whisper, You cannot even preserve your own bloodline.  And ever, the specter of Earnil hung over him, for a ruler without an heir is nothing. 

His wife’s scream again filled Ecthelion’s ears.  This would be her last child, of that he was certain.  If by some grace his love survived this, he could ask no more of her, not even to preserve his line.  Slowly, the man realized that the noise had ceased.  A ringing emptiness filled the solemn corridors.  He redoubled his pacing, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to barge into the healers’ chamber and demand to know what was happening.  Visions flickered through his mind, each more terrifying than the last.  His wife lying pale, her life’s blood leaking away, a child born blue and shriveled, destined never to walk, never to cry, never to breathe, his wife gasping her last breath even as the child expired within her . . . Ecthelion clenched his fists against the onslaught.

Lirael had started to cry, her tiny face still burrowed in the nurse’s gown.  Forcing down his apprehensions, Ecthelion stepped over and ran a gentle hand through her tousled curls.  At that moment, a courtier appeared and offered a formal bow.  Ecthelion’s hand tightened on his sword.  His glare promised wrath if the man didn’t swiftly deliver his message.

“The child is born, my lord.  You have a son.”

The man’s fury was forgotten in an instant as he brushed past the messenger and strode down the corridor, forcing himself not to run because lords of Gondor never ran.  The birthing chamber was abuzz.  Healers and attendants scurried around a bed where his wife lay, pale and exhausted but very much alive.  And there, squirming in the chief healer’s arms was a tiny, squawking heir.  Ten perfect fingers swatted at the strange, cold world.  Gray eyes appeared and disappeared under an ebony tuft of hair.  As the healer deposited the child in the father’s arms, Ecthelion could only breathe in amazement.  “I have a son.”

But the only word that reached Turgon was a brief message hurriedly whispered into the Steward’s ear.  “Your grandchild is born, my lord.  It is a boy.  Denethor.”

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Raven curls flew every which way as they framed a face obscured by sweat, dust, and laughter.  Elrohir jumped back from another wild swing and brought the flat of his own sword to block his opponent’s wooden weapon.  A grin split his normally grave features.  “Not bad, little brother,” he panted with mock exertion, “But are you ready to try the real thing?”

The smile fell from his adopted brother’s features, and the child suddenly looked as grim and solemn as it is possible for a ten-year-old to look.  Elrohir stepped behind the boy and lifted the toy sword from his nerveless fingers.  It its place, he set his own blade, long but light with a slim blade and a finely honed edge.  Small hands curled instinctively around the hilt, and Elrohir guided them into the proper grip.  Standing behind the child, the elf directed the little hands through the first few simple cuts.  Then, slowly, he backed up, giving the new swordsman a wide berth.

It made for a strange sight, the dusty boy in play clothes, his face grave as he cut and thrust with the gleaming blade.  The boy moved in slow motion, his arms adjusting to the new weight.  Each step was calculated.  Each stroke was definitive.  Elrohir frowned slightly.  He had expected wide-eyed excitement matched with clumsy chops from this, his brother’s first practice with a live weapon.  This focused intensity was strange, and altogether disconcerting. 

The boy spun, and his eyes flashed past Elrohir.  The gray orbs had taken on a strange light.  They burned with strange, unspoken power.  Then, the child’s foot caught on a root and the spell was broken.  He stumbled forward, nearly dropped the sword, and was again just a child playing at warrior.  A bell tolled, and his grin returned.  The boy offered the blade back to Elrohir, who grasped the hilt with slightly trembling fingers.  “Run along to your lesson, brother,” he said through his daze.  The boy took off at a run, leaving Elrohir eyeing the familiar weapon as if he had never seen it before.  The wooden sword lay forgotten in the shadow of the eaves.

“He senses already the path his life will take.”  Elrohir jumped at Lord Elrond’s voice.  He hadn’t heard his father’s approach.  “He sees and does not see the road before him, so he prepares without knowing why.”

Elrohir blinked at the child’s retreating form and nodded slowly.  “He’s a wonder, our Estel.”

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White clouds drifted lazily across a clear blue sky.  Gray eyes followed them longingly.

“Are you even listening to me?”  The tutor’s voice was cross.

The eyes blinked and darted back to the speaker.  “Sorry, Master Pelendur.”  The child breathed.  For child he was, despite the fine velvet tunic and intricately embroidered over robe he was arrayed in.  The boy’s dark hair was brushed carefully back from a face that was fastidiously clean.  The only wear on his rich robes was from where he leaned against the little desk.

The boy turned his face to the parchment with a sigh.  There was a reason his lessons were held in this high marble hall.  The only windows were narrow slits more than twelve feet above his head.  Through them light could filter into the chamber and the boy could glimpse the sky, but he could not be distracted by anything more momentous than a stray wisp of cloud.  He dipped his quill in the well-used inkpot and returned his attention to the Quenya vocabulary laid out in front of him.  Dreams were for lesser children.  They had no place in the life of a Lord of Gondor.

As soon as he was convinced that his charge was working diligently, Pelendur rose from his stool and ghosted to the back of the chamber where a stern man watched the boy’s progress.

“How goes my son’s tutelage?”

“The Lord Denethor is progressing nicely, my lord.”

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It was the talk of the city:  Thengel’s strange swordthain had left the Rohirrim and was poised to swear fealty to Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor.  All who could escape their jobs crowded the streets of Minas Tirith’s various levels, all straining for a glimpse as the mounted company rode by.  The whispers preceded them into the city.  Even as the rider passed the Seventh Circle gate, maids in the Citadel were gossiping with pages over the arrival of this mysterious warrior from Rohan.

Those lucky enough to be in the great hall did not have the luxury of gawking as the stranger approached their Steward.  Messengers and courtiers affected disinterest while stealing quick glances.  Few of these looks were spared for Ecthelion or the son who stood by his side.  All eyes were on the bare-headed, dark haired man who advanced.  Bright chain mail, the trademark of the Rohirrim, peeped out from under a travel-stained cloak.  A long sword was belted at the newcomer’s waist, and a fierce light was in his eyes.

So entranced were the servants of the Steward, that it took them a moment to notice the obvious.

“Look at his face.”

“Look at his eyes.”

“Spitting image of the Lord Denethor, he is.”

“And they called him Rohirrim.  What nonsense.”

“They could almost be brothers, you know.”

“ ‘Cept for their garb.”

“Aye, and their eyes.”

A clear voice interrupted their musings.  “I, Thorongil, do hereby swear fealty and service to Gondor in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth until my lord release me or death take me.”

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You’ve only a few minutes to pack.  Send the men on alone; they know the road back to Minas Tirith.  Give the message only to the man you most trust, to be delivered to the Steward’s ears alone.  Take nothing but what you arrived with:  a sharp sword, a few sets of travel-worn clothes, a stained cloak, an old ring—heirloom of a forgotten lineage.

Leave all else behind.  Leave the beautiful dun stallion, a gift from King Thengel.  Leave the gleaming plate mail that has protected you from enemy swords.  Leave the leather bracers with their image of the White Tree.  Leave the strong walls, the warm bed, the security of your next meal.  Leave the soldiers who have followed you with honor, the people who throw flowers before your mount.  Leave the respect you’ve gained, the safety you’ve fought for, the life you could have had.

Set your face to the Wilds.  Leave Gondor behind you.  Return to the dark places where you pass like a wraith.  Return to the fear, the scorn, the life of a wandering Ranger.  Don’t think about the life you almost had.  Don’t dwell on a city that welcomed you like one of its own.  Don’t think about the old man who would have ceded his kingdom to you—would have chosen you over his own son.  Don’t imagine the disappointment in the face of the man you called Father.  Above all, don’t remember her or see the longing in her eyes.

Take only your oath.  Fealty and service to Gondor.  Gondor is under attack, and you cannot defend her from within city walls.  You must go where no one else dares. 

In peace or war.  Once, you imagined a peaceful life in Minas Arnor.  It was a dream.  That is not who you were meant to be. 

In living or dying.  Death waits for you ever around the next corner.  The safety of seven guarded walls was an illusion, and a dangerous one at that. 

Until my lord release me.  You will never see the old man again. 

Or death take me.

Soon, now, you will pass over the Anduin into the gloom of Ithilien.  Thorongil . . . The very trees seem to whisper a parting, or perhaps it is in your mind.  Don’t hesitate.  Don’t falter.  Set your face to the Mountains of Shadow.

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You must keep up appearances; reassure the people that things are under control.  This unspoken mandate binds your hands and your tongue.  You may not show emotion, may not weep.  Not even at your father’s funeral. 

Your sisters stand off to one side, their heads bowed beneath flowing black veils.  A soft whimper comes from one of them.  They are beautiful in their mourning clothes.  For a month they, and you, will wear only black and gray, a sign of respect.  Your son lets out a loud sniff.  You place a bracing hand on his shoulder.  Boromir is barely more than a babe, but already he mimics you.  You hide your tears behind a mask of stone, and he tries his hardest to do likewise.  Finduilas stands behind you, with little Faramir in her arms.  She places a comforting hand on your shoulder, but you shrug it off.

It is time.  The pallbearers gently lower Ecthelion’s embalmed body onto the prepared slab.  They step back.  The last moments are for you alone.  The white rod of the Steward is still clasped in his lap.  You lift it slowly.  It’s so simple—just bleached wood worn smooth by time.  Is this what you’ve been preparing all your life to bear?  It’s heavier than you thought it would be.

Your father’s skin is cool and smooth.  It doesn’t feel like something that once lived.  You place a gentle kiss on the waxen brow; one final gesture of love.  For he did love you, you see now.  Though perhaps he loved his city more.  And perhaps that is no great crime.  A single wet drop falls on the pale face, but you brush it away before anyone can see.  When you step back, your face is graven stone.

For a month you will wear only black and no minstrels will sing in the Citadel.  You have a month to mourn, but only those few stolen seconds to grieve.  You reach for Boromir’s hand.  If nothing else, you will not repeat Ecthelion’s mistake.  Your heir will never doubt that he is also a son, and dearly loved.

As you leave the House of the Stewards, a herald blows a trumpet and takes up the cry.  “Hail Denethor, Steward of Gondor!”

You cast a silent glance over your shoulder.

I shall return.

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The tavern is noisy, crowded, and dim, but even so they can sense his approach.  For his part, the traveler takes no note of the rowdy patrons as he heads for his usual seat in the most shadowed corner.  Their eyes follow him, though.  They take in the worn green cloak, the stained clothes, the sword hilt gleaming dully.  The hobbits among them notice his mud-caked boots and the knife they conceal.  He’s picked up a limp since the last time he darkened these doors. 

Most of the patrons return immediately to their tankards.  A few of the bolder ones watch as he lifts a pipe and lights it.  The glow of the embers throws shadows across a visage that seems as weathered as the face of a mountain and just as hard.  Beneath the mask of grime, his face tightens slightly as if in pain.

It is then that one of the patrons, his tongue loosened by ale, dares to speak.

“So, you back again, Longshanks?”

The Ranger’s eyes dart across the room and the unfortunate speaker is trapped for a moment in their steely gaze.  The patron swallows hard.  He doesn’t understand what he sees in those eyes—just that they seem very terrible and make him feel very small.  The other man does nothing, though.  After a moment he responds “For a time,” in a soft voice that somehow carries easily.  Then he looks away and the patron is free. 

Bending his head gratefully to his tankard, the man takes a fortifying draught before muttering “Strange fellow, that Strider.”

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Faramir’s world was in flames.  His body was wracked by flashes of heat followed by bone-jarring cold, and over it all lingered a deep, crushing ache.  A flickering light stabbed at his eyes, and he turned his head as best he could.  He didn’t want to awake to the world that had killed his brother and stolen his father and left his country in ruin.

An anguished voice pierced the ringing in his ears.  “My son . . .”

As if the call were a summons, Faramir’s eyes fluttered open of their own accord.  The world was dark and bleary and stained orange and red.  In his muddled state of mind, it seemed only natural that there should be fire without as well as within.  But there was a figure silhouetted against the glare . . .

For one moment out of eternity, the gray eyes of the father met those of the son.  But the flames were rising.  Now they were devouring the rich fur robe, now the white rod, now the pale flesh.  Time seemed to slow.  Faramir could only watch transfixed as greedy flames crisped his father’s long hair, turned the white skin red, then black, then devoured it in great chunks so that the soot-blackened bone showed through.  As the light slowly faded, Faramir’s one lucid thought was a prayer.

Please, let it be a nightmare.

Please, let Father survive.

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The next thing Faramir was aware of was a gentle voice in his ear.  “Awake, son of Gondor.”  He opened his eyes, and for one wild moment, he thought his prayer had indeed been heard.

 For the man by his side was Denethor, or rather Denethor as he should have been.  His face was stern and held the glory of departed kings, elsewhere remembered only in sculpture.  But it also held love, and the strength and wisdom bred by long trials and many losses.  The gray eyes met, and Faramir had a vision of things he’d thought gone from Middle Earth forever. 

Here was justice. 

Here was nobility.

Here was the King Elessar.

Fin

Reviews and concrit are welcome and appreciated.