Chapter 1.

“Later, I would like to have some time to speak alone with the King,” Éowyn said as she and Faramir walked hand in hand through the First Circle of Minas Tirith. 

He smiled.  “A closure?  Or perhaps I should say, a new beginning.” 

Éowyn nodded.  “There are things I need to say to him.  I made matters rather difficult for him at Dunharrow. And in the Houses of Healing, I did not even thank him for healing me.” 

She looked at Faramir, studying him. “Are you not displeased, my lord, that I wish to speak alone with the King?” 

Still smiling, Faramir turned to her.  He seemed amused that she should ask such a question. “I am glad you have decided to do so.” 

Éowyn searched his face for any hint of discomfort.  Finding none, she asked again, “But are you truly not displeased, not even a little, that I wish to speak with another man?” She knew she sounded a little petulant. 

“Why should I,” he said tenderly, moving ever so slightly towards her, “when I know there can be no other man, Éowyn?” 

His closeness made her heart beat faster, yet she had no intention of stepping back.  For a moment, she thought he would again kiss her in full view of the City.  But some passers-by chose that very moment to approach their Steward and his lady and wish them well. 

The King had invited Faramir and Éowyn to dine at the Pelennor the evening before the crowning.  Sam is cooking, this alone is reason enough to come, he mentioned in his letter. 

As they approached the Great Gate, the guards saluted them, and the curious gazes of the City’s inhabitants followed their progress to the Pelennor.  Some children came forward, handing them flowers.  Faramir remarked how good it was to see children in the City again. 

They made their way to the largest pavilion on the Pelennor. The guards stationed at the entrance bowed as they approached. 

The front flap of the pavilion opened and the King emerged, with a smile on his face.  “Lord Steward, Lady Éowyn,” he greeted them, placing his arm around Faramir’s shoulder as he ushered them inside. 

The large pavilion was formed by sturdy timber and thick white sheets.  The lower half was draped with black sheets adorned with silver embroidery of the tree and the stars. Inside, cloths of silver and gold hung gracefully from the ceiling, and a thick carpet covered the floor.  A bed covered in fine sheets stood next to a stone table and chairs. 

Aragorn noticed Éowyn’s gaze sweeping across the room, observing the details. 

“Rather extravagant for a shelter that will be used only for one night, do you not think so, Lady Éowyn?” 

Éowyn nodded.  “It seems that in this matter, Minas Tirith has set a higher standard than Edoras.” 

“O, I believe this surpasses even Minas Tirith’s standard,” Aragorn replied, glancing at Faramir.  “I heard the instruction to use the cloths of gold came directly from the Lord Steward.” 

Faramir smiled. “It is not every day that Minas Tirith welcomes her king. And none of this will go to waste; we will keep it for future use.  When the King travels abroad to meet the rulers of other lands, a resplendent pavilion can have its use.” 

Aragorn tilted his head, an amused smile on his lips. “I have not even entered the City, and already you have planned tasks for me?” 

“I believe in an early start, my lord.” 

Aragorn chuckled.  He poured wine into silver goblets and handed one to each of them.  “Caraneth 3010,” he said, showing the bottle to Faramir.  “Another privilege for the King?  I thought we were still under food rationing.” 

“I suspended the rationing for two days, in honour of the crowning,” Faramir said.  “After that, I will brief you about our food storage and the extent of the destruction to our farmlands, and you can decide when to relax the rationing.” 

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully.  

“Tonight, we will gather at the Hobbits’ pavilion,” he said.  “You came early.  Would you like to stay here for a while, or shall we go to the Hobbits’ pavilion now?” 

Aragorn saw Éowyn and Faramir exchange glances as they sipped their wine, after which Faramir nodded. 

Then Éowyn spoke. “If I may, Lord Aragorn, I would like to speak with you before we join the others.”  

Aragorn looked at her, then at Faramir.  Clearly this was something that they had discussed before they arrived. 

“Certainly, lady,” he said.  “Let us keep the pavilion open, but I will ask the guards to keep their distance so we can talk without prying ears.” 

Faramir rose and bowed to Aragorn. “Let me visit my men; I will return before supper,” he said. “I will ensure the guards keep their distance and that you are not disturbed.”  He smiled to Éowyn, his hand resting for a moment on her arm, before stepping away. 

Éowyn watched him until he disappeared from view.  When she turned back to Aragorn, she found him regarding her with an amused yet tender expression. 

Éowyn took a deep breath, then she said, “We will speak of what happened at Dunharrow just this one time, lord, and we shall never speak of it anymore.” 

Aragorn nodded. 

“I owe you an apology...,” Éowyn began. 

At the same time, Aragorn said, “I must apologize to you...”. 

They both paused and looked at each other. “Would you like to speak first, lady?” 

Éowyn nodded. “I owe you an apology, lord. I was burdened by many things, and I took my unhappiness out on you that night at Dunharrow.  It was unfair of me to insist that you take me with you, when you were preparing for such a perilous journey.” 

Aragorn said, “For my part, lady, forgive me for leaving you near despair at Dunharrow.  Had time not been so pressing, I would have stayed longer and reasoned with you.  When I rode to the Paths of the Dead, I feared more for what might befall you, than feared the dreaded path.” 

Éowyn smiled slightly. “You came to Edoras when all seemed dark and lost, like a shining light in a bleak night, and no mightier man had I seen than you.  Is it any wonder that I wished to cleave to that light?  I told myself I loved you,” she blushed, “but perhaps I saw you as an escape from what I thought was my cage.” 

“I am honoured that you ever wished to cleave to me, Lady Éowyn,” Aragorn replied.  “Do not think for a moment that the reason I did not give you my heart was because you were not worthy.  I gave myself to another long ago. 

“But you, Éowyn, daughter of kings, you are most fair and brave, and I knew this before your mighty deeds in this very field.  A king of Númenor would be proud to have you as his queen.” 

Éowyn looked at him silently for some time, allowing his words to sink in.  “Thank you,” she said softly. “You tried to tell me this at Dunharrow, but I did not believe you.  I believe you now.” 

For a moment neither of them spoke.  Éowyn poured more wine into their goblets. 

“You were right about my duty being with my people,” she said calmly. “My duty was to remain at Dunharrow, which I deserted.” 

Aragorn replied, “I was wrong about this:  I said that you had no errand in the South.  Surely that was not true—you vanquished a great evil and fulfilled an ancient prophesy.” 

Éowyn nodded. “Aye, I accomplished a great deed.  Or perhaps we should say, a great deed was accomplished through me.  And yes, I deserted my duty.  Both are true; each does not make the other untrue.” 

Aragorn looked at her with admiration.  “You have grown wiser, lady.  Seeing you now, I believe you have also planned what amends you will make?” 

“I am still pondering that.  The first step is to return to Dunharrow and admit to my people that I did wrong.  Faramir said when I am there with my people, I will know what amends they need.” 

Aragorn smiled. “I spoke to you about duty, and you grew angry and despaired.  Faramir spoke to you about duty, and see what happened?” 

Éowyn pondered for a moment.  At length she said, “When you came to Dunharrow, lord, you came from the victory of Helm’s Deep.  And you were heading to another battle that would surely win you more renown, I thought.  So when you spoke to me about my duty to stay at home, I thought, easy for you to say, since your duty will win you glory, while mine is tedious and thankless.  Now that I can think more clearly, I see that you were heading to the Paths of the Dead—that was a thankless duty, too—but I did not see it at the time.” 

“But Lord Faramir ...” Éowyn paused, her face and voice growing tender.  “But Lord Faramir,” she continued, “he did his duty to hold the outposts, and a thankless task it was, what hope of renown was there?  Yet he did it faithfully.  And excellently, from what I have heard." 

“And the way he performs his duty now, preparing for someone who will replace him, without bitterness, with joy even...” Her eyes drifted to the cloths of gold hanging above them, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Seeing all this, I could not help being moved and chastised when he spoke of duty, though he never chastised me.” 

Aragorn was silent.  Then he said, “Rest assured, lady, what Lord Faramir has done for Gondor, and for me, will not go unnoticed.” 

He watched as she wiped away a tear.  “You are very brave, Lady Éowyn.” 

Éowyn smiled. “You will be our King and my lord loves you so.  I do not wish to be awkward every time I see you.  And I am glad we have this conversation.  I must admit, after that night, I thought ill of you.  Now I can return to liking and admiring you again.” 

Aragorn laughed.  “Thank you! I am relieved that I am back in your good graces.” 

He raised his goblet. “We will leave the sad things behind and have a new beginning, then?” 

Éowyn touched his goblet with hers. “To a new beginning,” she said, then she drank the wine. 

“I must admit,” said Aragorn, taking a sip, “that when I heard about you and Lord Faramir, I wondered whether you both had made a rash move.  But tonight, I am happy to see that I was mistaken.” 

“Ah,” said Éowyn. “I asked myself that question, too—whether I saw him as another escape, or a substitute?  But I do not need an escape now.  I am content to return to Rohan and do what I can for my people.  The only thing I dislike about returning to Rohan now is that it means parting from Faramir.  I desire to be with him, even when I am happy and content. 

“As for a substitute, I did not know you well enough, lord, to try and find someone to replace you.  But I know Faramir.” 

“I wish you joy, Éowyn. Both of you are brave and noble and deserve all the joy that could be found in Arda.” 

“Thank you,” said Éowyn. “And I am grateful to you, lord, for saving my life and Faramir’s.” 

Aragorn nodded. “I am very glad Gandalf called me that night.”  Then he added, “Would you call me by my name? You did before, and I would prefer you do so.  And I would call you by name, too, if you allow it.” 

“I am honoured, Aragorn,” Éowyn said. 

Aragorn rose, his hand outstretched towards her. “Shall we go find Lord Faramir now?” 

Éowyn took his hand as she rose, but as she straightened, she let go. 

They walked together, heading deeper into the encampment, the City gate growing distant behind them. 

“When you said you wished to speak with me, I thought you were going to ask me to honour Lord Faramir for his faithful service.” 

Éowyn shook her head. “If he were like other men, I would have done so.  But he takes pride in his decision to surrender his authority without any promise of reward; I will not take that from him.  Besides,” she looked at him steadily, “I trust you, Aragorn.” 

Aragorn returned her gaze.  “Your trust is not misplaced, Éowyn.” 

...

Sam was tending to large cauldrons outside the Halflings’ pavilion when they arrived.  Nearby, two soldiers were preparing roasted meats following Sam’s instructions. 

“How good to see you again, Sam,” Faramir said as he approached the busy cook. 

Sam looked up and a bright smile lit up his face. “Captain Faramir!” He ran to Faramir and hugged him.  “We do meet again, will wonder never cease?” 

“I feel the same way, Sam.”  He knelt and returned the embrace. “Wonder upon wonder.” 

Sam turned to greet Aragorn and Éowyn.  “You must be Lady Éowyn of Rohan.  Samwise Gamgee at your service, lady.” 

Éowyn gave him a courtesy, which made him blush. “Aye, Master Samwise, Éowyn daughter of Éomund I am, who is honoured to meet you.” 

At that moment the pavilion flap opened and Pippin appeared in his livery of the Tower Guard. 

“Lord Faramir!” he cried, rushing forward to give him a fierce embrace.  “Finally I get to see you again! And on your feet and with a lady! When Merry told me you were wooing, I told him it could not be, you almost died and in mourning and must be busy preparing the City for another siege.  But it seems you are even more capable than I thought!” 

Faramir laughed and knelt to embrace Pippin. “It is good to see you again, Pippin, and unquenchable as ever.  I heard of your deeds in the battle; you have done Gondor proud.” 

Pippin turned to Éowyn and bowed. “Peregrin Took at your service, fair Lady Éowyn.  Merry is right, you are very beautiful!” 

Éowyn laughed in delight.

After the feast at the Pelennor, they walked from the First Circle to the Sixth with the Dol Amroth family. Imrahil and Amrothos remained behind at the Pelennor, for in the morrow the Host of the West would march together to enter the City.  Erchirion was part of the Host, having fought valiantly at Mordor.  But for the night, he chose to join Elphir and Lothíriel at the Dol Amroth house in the Sixth Circle.  

As they reached the Sixth Circle, Faramir and Éowyn bade his cousins good night.  Then they were again walking hand in hand towards the Houses of Healing. 

Éowyn held his hand between hers. “Your last night as the Lord of Gondor.” 

Faramir nodded. 

“Have you any regrets?” 

Faramir shook his head.  He caressed Éowyn’s hand.   

“A touch of sadness?” 

Faramir nodded.  “Yes, a bittersweet feeling.  Joy for the return of the King and a new beginning for Gondor, pride and relief that my house has fulfilled our duty.  Yet of course I feel sad that the days of the Stewards—the only life I have ever known—will come to an end.” 

His gaze went towards the Citadel above them, where the banner of the Steward floated from the Tower of Ecthelion, as it had for as long as anyone could remember. 

“Tomorrow when the banner of the Steward is lowered, it will be unnatural if I do not feel sad,” he said. 

Éowyn wrapped her arms around his arm, and rest her head on his shoulder. “Did I tell you I am proud of you, of your choice concerning the King?”  

Faramir kissed the top of her head.  “You could tell me again, I am a mere mortal who enjoys praise every now and then.” 

“It takes great courage to do what you have done, my lord.  Most lords would have clung to their power.” 

“Thank you.” He took her hand and held it close to his heart.  “If I were to regret aught—if you would call it regret—it would be that you, a daughter of kings, most fair and noble, shall not be the Lady of Gondor.  It did cross my mind, that I should hold on to my position, or at least to negotiate a position with the King, for your sake.” 

He stopped walking and turned to face her.  “But I could not bring myself to do it.  Forgive me for thinking only of myself in this matter, Éowyn.” 

She looked at him, then shook her head in wonder. “Thinking only of yourself? Your conduct in this whole matter of the King has been ...”  She paused, searching for the right words, “... more unsparing of self than I thought a man could sustain.   As for me, I told you that I no longer desired to be a queen.” 

She paused again.  Then, deciding that the surge of love in her heart should not be checked by a cold counsel, she gently placed her other hand on his cheek and spoke again, “But even if it were something I desired; if you ever have to choose your duty over my desire, beloved, I give you my assent.” 

For a long moment they stood facing each other, in awed silence.  

Then he asked, his voice thick with emotion, “May I kiss you?” 

“You certainly may.” 

Whatever else Faramir might have lost, he knew he had found a treasure more precious than even the Elven-tongue could tell. 

... 

Erchirion had been waiting for some time in the library  at the Steward’s house, when the Steward finally returned. 

“Took you long enough, cousin,” Erchirion said with a wry grin, as Faramir appeared in the doorway.  “With the time you took, one might think you escorted the Lady all the way back to the First Circle, not merely to the Houses of Healing.” 

“You did not tell me you were coming.  We could have walked together,” Faramir said.  Erchirion narrowed his eyes in disbelief. Laughing softly, Faramir added. “Or perhaps not.  I thank you for your consideration.” 

Erchirion shook his head.  “You, in love! I never thought this could happen.  Boromir would have teased you to no end.” 

“He would.  And he would have liked her.” 

“For sure.  A sister-in-law with whom he might have crossed swords?  And one who looks at you the way she does? He would have approved wholeheartedly.” 

Faramir smiled.  Warmth and sorrow mingled in his eyes at the mention of his brother. “Will you stay the night? I will have Meldis prepare a room.” 

“She already has, while you were off on your journey to Ithil and back again.” 

Faramir chuckled and tossed a cushion at Erchirion, which he deftly caught.   

“Do you mind if we just sit here and talk?” Faramir asked, settling beside him on the settee.  “I do not think I am up to playing chess or cards or having any more drink.” 

“I am not fit for anything requiring thought.  Drank too much.  Why not we sit here and you read something to me, if you would?” 

This was getting rather obvious, Erchirion realized.  He was sure Faramir knew what he was doing.  But Faramir seemed happy to play along, which was an improvement.  His cousin must learn to receive—and not only to give—understanding and devotion. 

“Any particular lays or treatises you would like to hear?” Faramir asked. 

“Not verses,” Erchirion said.  “Tomorrow the minstrels will drown us in them.” 

“Chronicles of Andunië?  The Wealth of the Kingdom? Or Belecthor’s Military Strategy?” 

Erchirion gave a nod at the last suggestion.

Faramir took the book from a shelf and returned to his seat.  He began reading aloud, his voice steady and familiar, reminding Erchirion of the times when Faramir had read him bedtime stories or expounded on various lore. 

“War is a matter of vital importance to any realm, a matter of life or death, the road to survival or ruin. It must be studied thoroughly...” 

As Faramir read the familiar texts, he seemed to relax.  Leaning back, Erchirion, too, felt the weariness of the day ease from his shoulders.  The cool night air drifted in through the half-open windows, carrying the fragrance of blooming flowers, the scent of citrus trees, and the faint aroma of warm stone which had soaked up the sun all day. 

A few more chapters, Erchirion thought, then we could call it a night.  His cousin was not brooding; his mission seemed a success. 

“To shatter your enemy’s plans is the highest skill,   

To disrupt their alliances is next,   

To strike their forces comes after,   

And to lay siege to their cities is the last resort—   

A desperate act, costly and crude...” 

Erchirion shifted in his seat, thinking of the Enemy’s relentless march towards Gondor. “It was not so desperate for the Dark Lord,” he quipped.  “His army outnumbered us by so much, that a siege did not seem a folly.” 

“But it was still a last resort, I believe,” Faramir replied, “and costly.  Minas Tirith has enough supply to withstand months of siege, and where will the Enemy’s army get their supply from?  We made sure nothing was left for them to forage at the Pelennor.” 

“He counted on breaking our will,” Erchirion said, “which his foul Captain almost succeeded in doing.” 

Faramir nodded and read a passage which aptly described what Erchirion just said. 

“The finest victory is a bloodless one,   

Where cities stand unscathed,   

And armies yield without a fight.   

This is the summit of strategy,   

The art of bending the will without breaking the body.” 

 

Faramir paused, then he flipped through the book to find a particular passage. 

“Defence-in-depth, also called layered defence, weaves a tapestry of resistance, not content with a strong solitary line to hold back the tide. 

“Instead, it crafts a series of fortifications, each one a thorn in the side of the advancing foe. As your enemy struggles through layer after layer, their strength wanes, their resolve falters, until they are left with no choice but to retreat, exhausted and defeated.   

“It seeks to slow down and damage the assaulting enemy, to buy time at the expense of yielding some space, if necessary. 

 

“In recent years, Gondor has adopted the strategy of layered defence,” Faramir continued to recite, this time not from the book but from memory.  This was one of the first lessons taught in Minas Tirith’s army training.   

“After the fall of Minas Ithil, the layers of defence are: 

first, the forces in Ithilien, 

second, the Anduin, anchored by the posts at Osgiliath and Cair Andros, 

third, the Rammas Echor and the Causeway Forts, 

fourth, the Pelennor Fields, 

fifth, the city of Minas Tirith, which itself has seven layers of defence.” 

 

Erchirion rested his elbow on the settee’s arm and propped his head on his hand. 

“This strategy suited Gondor well because the southern regions, where a large part of our strength comes from, are many leagues away from Minas Tirith,” he took up the narration.  “Similarly, in the North, Rohan is many days’ ride away.  The longer Gondor can delay the Enemy’s advances, the more reinforcements we can gather.” 

“The Steward followed this strategy diligently,” Faramir said, his gaze drifting to the night sky.  “We had withdrawn our forces from Ithilien, so Anduin became the outmost line of defence.  The Steward knew this, so he sent forces to fortify Osgiliath.” 

To Erchirion it seemed that Faramir spoke more to himself than to anyone else.  But presently, Faramir turned to him.  “There was nothing wrong with that decision,” he said, looking straight at Erchirion, as if challenging him to question that statement. 

Erchirion began to regret his choice of reading.  Should have chosen the safer tales of Silmariën and her proud descendants, he thought.  But he stopped himself.  For Faramir seemed to wish to speak about this, if perhaps unconsciously, and was not that the reason he had come tonight?  That Faramir should not be alone with his imaginative mind, on the eve of surrendering his rod? 

Erchirion straightened his back and returned Faramir’s gaze.  “The decision was not without merit, though there was also a sound basis for deciding otherwise,” he said carefully.   

With more conviction he continued, “And as I said in my letter, no one should dispute the outcome of that decision: if you had not delayed the enemy as you did, cousin, they would have ravaged Minas Tirith before Rohan or the King came.” 

Faramir nodded, his eyes resolute.  “My men’s lives were not lost in vain.” 

The night air grew chill. Faramir rose and close some of the windows.  Standing against the windows, his hands on the sill, he spoke again. “The Steward knew the strength of the advancing army from Mordor. He was aware that the forces he sent to Osgiliath would likely suffer heavy losses, but holding the layers of defence was necessary for the City’s survival.” 

Erchirion looked at Faramir’s composed face.  Was Faramir actually defending his father’s decision?  Erchirion and Amrothos (and Imrahil, though not as loudly) had sworn and cursed at Denethor for sending Faramir to Osgiliath. 

Faramir continued calmly, as if they were discussing mere strategies from a book, rather than a real command that had nearly cost him his life.  “It was ruthless, certainly, to send his son. But the Steward of Gondor did what he must, for the defence of Gondor, even at the risk of losing his son.” 

Again he looked intently at Erchirion.  “Father chose his duty over me; I gave him my assent to do so.  I would go so far as to say that I am proud that he did so.”  His voice was no longer so even as he said the last sentence.  His hand caressed the Steward’s ring on his finger, perhaps without realizing it. 

Erchirion shook his head, bristling with indignation on behalf of his noble cousin.  Faramir’s understanding and tenderness towards his father seemed impossible to reconcile with the said father’s ruthlessness. 

“Why did you go willingly, Faramir?”  Erchirion could not help asking.  The Dol Amroth siblings loved their Minas Tirith cousins fiercely, and Erchirion had looked up to Faramir since childhood.  “Worse than the thought of losing you was the knowledge that you would lose your life needlessly, because of your father’s blind command.” 

Faramir looked at him gratefully.  “I have always treasured your love, Erchirion.  But how could you call it a needless death if it was to buy Minas Tirith some time until the succouring forces arrived? Or do you think the Steward should have commanded another Captain to go?  Is his life worth less than mine?” 

“Nay, and you were the best Captain he had.  Who else could have managed that retreat like you did?  That retreat should be expounded in Minas Tirith’s army training. 

“But that was not my question. You said you gave your Father your assent.  And indeed, you offered to go, though at the taunt of courage.  Why?  Why did you have to take that bait?” 

Faramir straightened and his eyes flashed.  He was gentle and mild-mannered most of the time, that Erchirion had forgotten how fearsome he could look when he allowed his anger to show. 

“Bait?  You know me better than this, Erchirion.”   

His voice rang out firmly. “I offered to go because he was my lord and my father, and I would do all I can to carry out his will.” 

“O, Faramir!” Erchirion exclaimed in a burst of exasperation. 

Faramir raised his hand, stalling Erchirion’s protest.  “You see, only the day before, we had debated about the One Ring.  Father thought it a folly to send such a powerful weapon straight into the Enemy’s hands.  I believe I did the right thing in letting the Ringbearers go—I would have said this even if their Quest had failed and we had all perished.  But I was sad that I defied my lord’s will, and I fervently wished to carry out his will in other matters, as long as it did not go against my conscience.   

“So the next day, when he strongly expressed his will to defend the outer defences, after I weighed it in my mind that this strategy could benefit Gondor (though not the only strategy), how could I not offer to go?” 

“O, Faramir, Faramir!” Erchirion exclaimed, throwing his hands above his head.  “Could any man ever merit such devotion from his son?  Can you not, for once, think of yourself?  You have every right to be angry—and defy him!” 

“But I was angry,” said Faramir, as though the fact should have been plain.  “Father did not err in sending me, but he was wrong in how he sent me.”  

Erchirion felt slightly better knowing that Faramir blamed Denethor for something. 

“I was angry, otherwise, I would have offered to go, without prodding him to command me,” Faramir said.  “And you spoke of devotion, Erchirion?  In the morrow, I am going to defy another wish of his.” 

Erchirion gazed at the ceiling.  How could a cold, stern man like Denethor be rewarded with sons like Boromir and Faramir? Or perhaps the answer lay in the question.  The father who raised such noble sons and inspired such devotion in them, he thought, must have more in him than the stern and cold façade he showed.  Was there ever a family nobler and sadder than Denethor and his sons? 

“I had guessed something happened between the two of you before that day,”  Erchirion said.  “Even in his worst temper, Uncle Denethor had never been that harsh.”  Or deliberately hurtful to you, he was going to say, but he did not wish to hurt Faramir further.  

“So it was about the Ringbearers.  Frodo and Sam told me their encounter with ‘the wise and fair Captain Faramir’.  It displeased your father that you let them go?” 

Faramir returned to his seat. “That I let the Ring go, that I acted so mightily like a king of old who sat in power and peace,” he said, smiling grimly.  “In desperate hours, gentleness may be repaid with death, Father said.  His harsh manner the next day—you could even say he chose his last words to hurt me— perhaps he wished to teach me a lesson, that I have to pay my generosity with death, not only mine but also my men’s.” 

Erchirion’s disdain must have been visible, for Faramir added, rather sternly, “Have pity, Erchirion.  Remember the desperate situation he faced: the Enemy closing in while his army had dwindled, his heir dead, and his surviving son had loftily rejected a powerful weapon.  And pity we must have, lest we should harden our hearts and fall in the same mistake as the late Steward.” 

Erchirion closed his eyes, trying to find pity for his stern uncle, or at least to think of something good about him.   

With some reluctance, he finally said, “His timing in releasing and calling back the sortie was impeccable, that much I will admit.  We routed the enemy forces without losing many of ours.”  

Though again, how could a father so ruthlessly wait until the right moment to rescue his son?  Erchirion counted himself fortunate that neither he nor his father was the ruler of Gondor. 

Faramir’s voice brightened slightly.  “Was it so? Knowing this brings me some comfort, for it shows that he was doing his duty of defending the City, except at the very end.” 

Faramir patted Erchirion’s back.  “Let us call it a night.  We have to get ready early tomorrow.” 

Erchirion nodded, his eyes still closed.  He was rather ashamed—some comfort he had been to his cousin tonight!  How had the pleasant night turned into a conversation about Uncle Denethor? 

“Erchirion?” Faramir called gently. 

He opened his eyes and reluctantly met Faramir’s gaze.  

“You have my gratitude,” Faramir said.  “I am glad you are here with me tonight.” 

Erchirion let out an awkward chuckle. Perhaps it was Faramir’s gift (or doom?) to give pity and understanding far more than others could ever give him. 

“Would you do me another favour?” Faramir asked.  “Tomorrow when the Steward’s banner is lowered, would you stay close to me?” 

Erchirion blinked in astonishment.  Faramir rarely asked anything for himself. 

“I will be right behind you, Faramir.  I would have followed you even to Angband, I hope you know that.” 

He was rewarded with a rare smile that reached the eyes and made the grave face radiant. 

Then Faramir put his arm around his shoulders and together they left the library. 

“I should have chosen the boring Chronicles of Andunië...” 

“Boring?  Which version did you read? I will read it to you next time, I dare you to call it boring afterwards...” 

... 

 

Acknowledgment: 

The texts that Faramir read to Erchirion are paraphrased from Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War”.   

Faramir and Erchirion’s discussion on defence-in-depth is inspired by and paraphrased from an article on the Siege of Gondor in the blog “A Collection of Unmitigated Pedantry” by Bret Deveraux (https://acoup.blog/2019/05/17/collections-the-siege-of-gondor-part-ii-these-beacons-are-liiiiiiit/) 

... 

The Steward was the first to swear fealty to the King.  Tradition dictated it, his heart rejoiced that it was so. The King was now seated on the throne—was it not a wonder, after seeing the throne empty all his life?  

His thoughts went to his father and brother, gone from his side but ever in his heart.  Perhaps it was a mercy, he thought, that this privilege, this duty, should fall to him instead of either of them.  For his father would not, could not, have seen this as anything but a defeat, and even if he could have accepted this as his duty, that duty would have been unbearable to him.  And his dear brother, who had long desired the throne for himself—though always for the good of Gondor—what would this have cost him? 

The King sat upon the throne.  The young Steward strode to the dais.  He climbed the steps and knelt before the throne.  He looked up and found the familiar gaze and the faint smile that belied the generous acceptance in the heart.  

He offered his sword to the King.  Holding the sword hilt, he intoned the solemn words.  

“Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and King 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, Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor.” 

The King replied, as solemnly, as sincerely. 

“And this do I hear, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Lord of Gondor, High King of Gondor and Arnor, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: oath-breaking with vengeance, valour with honour, fealty with love.” 

The Steward rose and they embraced.  Then, less expected than the embrace, the King placed his hands on the Steward’s shoulder and kissed his forehead, as a father would his son, or an elder brother his younger. 

His heart touched, he looked at the King and uttered the word which he had longed to say since their first meeting.  “Aranya,” he said firmly. 

The King did not hide his surprise and delight.  Looking at him intently, the King said in the same High-Elven tongue, “Faramir.  Now we begin, my faithful one.” 

The King returned to the throne.  The words still ringing in his mind, the Steward descended and took his seat upon the Steward’s chair at the lowest step of the dais. 

Then one by one the lords and captains of Gondor made their way to the dais and pledged their fealty to the King Elessar.  As they passed the Steward on their way back to their places, they bowed to him. 

Thus began the days of King Elessar, with the faithful Steward Faramir by his side. 

...