Rain had begun to fall as Gandalf entered to city, and now from his seat in the Houses of Healing, he could see the grey drizzle and the menacing clouds looming outside. The room was almost empty. And upon the only two beds occupied lay the sons of the Steward. Denethor had been sent for and would come directly, however Gandalf was not looking forward to that encounter. He had been sitting beside the boys' bedsides for more than a quarter of an hour, quietly smoking his pipe. He shifted slightly, resettling himself as he waited. The matron bustled in and glared at the soft rings of smoke that flowed from his glowing pipe. Gandalf lowered his bushy eyebrows, settling further into his chair and pretending he was asleep. The healers of Minas Tirith were renown for their strict vigilance.

Gandalf had entered the outer defences of the city just as the people of Minas Tirith were waking. To his surprise he had been met almost immediately by a company of the city guard dispatched expressly to resume the search for the boys who were then slumped upon the Wizard's horse. To Gandalf's slight annoyance, the captain of the guard, whose name he had not caught, had ordered the Wizard to be relieved of his charges at once.

By the time Gandalf discovered the location of his night time companions, they had already been made comfortable in the Houses of Healing. It was probable Denethor would wish to move his sons to more personal quarters in the future, but for now they were receiving the best treatment the healers of Minas Tirith could provide.

Both boys were asleep, and Gandalf was glad of it. They deserved a thorough rest after all they had been through. Gandalf also felt more than unusually weary. And he had just closed his eyes, to try and gather his strength before the arrival of the Steward, when there was a gentle touch upon his hand.

Gandalf looked down to find Faramir's hand upon his own. The boy seemed deathly pale against the white sheets, as did his brother on Gandalf's left. Studying Faramir's eyes intently for a moment, Gandalf noted the still dark, blackish colour of his pupils.

"Who . . ? Where . . . where is Boromir?" he asked slowly.

"You are in the Houses of Healing," the Wizard smiled comfortingly, "as is your brother. Rest now, son of Denethor, you have done well." Faramir relaxed slightly, sinking back into the soft sheets.

"I have sent for your father," Gandalf said, "he will be pleased to see both his sons returned home safely." If it were possible, Faramir's face became even paler. He struggled to sit up straight. Gandalf, somewhat surprised by his reaction, laid a care-worn hand on the boy's shoulder and eased him back onto the pillow.

"How are your eyes?" Gandalf asked, doing his best to avert the boy's attention from the thought of his father. It was not his place to pry into the family matters of the Steward's house.

"I can see . . . a little, but everything is out of focus somehow." Gandalf found himself unable to look away from the insistent gaze. "Please Mithrandir . . . please tell me what ails my sight."

The Wizard sighed heavily, feeling more uncomfortable than he had for a long time. He had looked into Faramir's memory as he slept[1], and seen much of what had taken place within the Orcs' caverns. But it had given him little or no clue as to what had affected the boy's sight so long after the wounds had been inflicted.

"It is a good thing to see a little of your vision has returned," Gandalf began. "I do not believe there will be permanent damage. We shall see . . . However, I am interested in how long the poison took to effect your sight."

"A slow working poison perhaps," Faramir suggested, "such as the type used on some arrowheads."

"Hmm," Gandalf nodded. "You may be right. But for the present we must wait and watch. The healers have done what they can for you, and I believe it was done just in time. Another few hours and . . . well . . . I will only say that even a Wizard could not see the consequences."

Faramir raised his eyebrows slightly at the revelation, "I believed that Wizards knew everything."

Gandalf chuckled at the thought. "Even Gandalf the Grey does not understand all things, young Faramir! And you would do well to remember it the next time you and your brother feel like an adventure!"

Faramir laughed, "It was Boromir's idea! You should be telling him this advice, not me!"

Gandalf was about to reply when he heard voices echoing in the corridor. The door swung open to reveal Denethor and the matron who seemed to be plaguing the Steward for an increase of staff. Gandalf could not help smiling at Denethor's bewildered reaction, and the matron who scuttled away from her Lord's angry reproach.

The Steward stepped slowly into the room, his sharp gaze taking in the wizard sitting close to the bed, the fading smile on his younger son's face, and his elder son lying alone and pale upon the other bed.

Gandalf rose swiftly from his chair, setting his pipe down carefully on the bedside table.

"Mithrandir," Denethor acknowledged the Wizard's presence with a cold glare. The Steward's voice seemed to crush the pleasant atmosphere of a moment ago, and make the Houses seem empty and cold.

"Lord Denethor," Gandalf bowed his head slightly, realising that he would receive no gratitude from the Steward for his part in the safe return of both his sons.

The formalities over, Denethor moved past the first bed, bypassing the wizard and his second son, and going straight to the bed where Boromir lay. Denethor had aged considerably since Gandalf had seen him last. And he was sure the trauma last few days had done nothing to help this. Gandalf noted the flicker of concern that passed over the Steward's face upon seeing the pale face of his son.

He took it upon himself to put the man's mind as rest. "Young Boromir has had an exciting few days," he said, deciding to try the whimsical approach.

Denethor replied with a look of such scorn that Gandalf decided against pleasantries, "The healers have already removed the spear-head from his leg. The wound will heal quickly now there is nothing to aggravate it."

Denethor gently touched the bandage upon Boromir's brow. "Just a small knock," Gandalf told him, "Faramir said it has not at all affected his mind."

Denethor glanced over his shoulder for a moment, taking in the state of his other son. His shrewd stare did not miss the wounds crossing his son's face, or the strange un-focused gaze the boy set upon him.

There was an uncomfortable silence in which Gandalf retrieved his pipe from the table. The noise of the rain outside and the thunder over head seemed to annoy Denethor, and finally he said, "I would speak to you over breakfast, Mithrandir. There is much to be discussed. Perhaps you would consent to coming to my personal chambers after you have refreshed yourself."

"Certainly," Gandalf nodded. With a last look at Boromir, Denethor turned and left without another word.

Gandalf was not surprised, nor much more when Faramir began to justify his father's unsociable mood, "You must pardon my father, Mithrandir. He is not himself this morning. I am sure he will give you his full appreciation over breakfast."

"No doubt he will," Gandalf smiled reassuringly. "But now you, young man, must get some rest so you will have enough strength to be up and about when your brother wakes."

Faramir looked over to the other bed for a moment, squinting his eyes in an effort to focus on his brother."

"Farewell, son of Denethor. I look forward to seeing Boromir and yourself well." Gandalf opened the door, and shut it softly behind him. Denethor was waiting.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They ate in silence, Gandalf maintaining a calm exterior. However long it had been since the Wizard ate, he could not now feel hungry.

After some time had passed, Denethor laid his knife upon the table with a clang and fixed his eyes on the Wizard across from him. "What is your errand in Gondor this time, Mithrandir?" he asked with a touch of scorn. Gandalf knew that by 'this time' Denethor was referring to the unpleasantness that had arisen from his last visit. "It appears my family are in constant peril when you choose to come to Minas Tirith. It is almost as though the danger follows you, as a cat does a mouse."

Gandalf bit back a harsh reply. Their conversation had barely started, and already the Steward had provoked him to anger. "I have been compared to many things in my time, Lord. But none so lowly as a mouse! Do you feel no gratitude for the return of both your sons?"

Denethor's mouth twisted cruelly, "You may seek praise and reward for your part in his homecoming, Mithrandir. But both of us know you had naught to do with it!"

"You realise that Boromir might have died from cold and fever had I not found them?" Gandalf began in disbelief. "That Faramir's sight may have been damaged for life?"

"What 'may' have happened to Faramir is not my concern." Gandalf was slightly shocked by the coldness of the words. "None of this would have taken place were it not for that boy's foolishness. Does he even realise how close Boromir came to his death? What would Minas Tirith done without her son?" Gandalf realised how much worry and fatigue Denethor must have endured while his sons were missing, but could not excuse the Steward's misplaced blame.

"I say to you, Steward of Gondor, that Faramir is no more to blame for this than his brother, or you yourself!" He lowered his voice and said with a sigh, "None are to blame for such occurrences, and you should only be thankful that both your sons had the strength of heart to bring each other home."

"You believe I do not care for them, is it not so?" Denethor's tone dared the Wizard to disagree. "You think I have a heart of stone, because I sit here while they lie injured in the common Houses. But you do not understand me, or how the last days have tortured me! They are my sons! My sons."

"I do not accuse you of not loving your sons," Gandalf said, "I know as well as any other man in this city what they mean to you. Boromir especially."

Denethor's expression turned sour once more. "You criticise me for favouring Boromir, and yet today you saw the reason. I heard the Horn high on the morning breeze, Boromir was calling to me! It was he, he brought them home!"

Gandalf said nothing. He saw again the silver Horn clasped tightly in Faramir's hand, and was at a loss as to what he should do. How would Denethor react if he knew Boromir had not been the one to blow the horn?

He was considering what to say, when Denethor looked in the direction of the chamber door, and called, "Faramir. You may enter."

It was an order rather than an invitation. The door opened slowly and Denethor's younger son entered. Gandalf was not surprised at Denethor's strange intuition. Faramir was dressed entirely in white, and Gandalf wondered how he had escaped the clutches of the healers. Holding one hand to his bandaged chest, he bowed respectfully to his father and moved into the room.

"You have been listening?" Denethor questioned sternly, as Faramir struggled to make his way to a seat on his father's left. "How much did you hear?"

Gandalf reached up and guided Faramir's hand to the seat of the chair. The boy's arm was trembling, whether through fatigue or some other cause Gandalf could not tell. "Very little," Faramir replied, attempting to recover his self-control. "I am sorry, I did not mean to intrude."

Denethor narrowed his eyes in mistrust, but pushed the plate of bread towards his son. "How long is it since you have eaten?" he asked.

Faramir's eyes misted over for a moment of recollection. "Not since the morning of my duel with Boromir. They gave us nothing." the voice was very flat, disguising any emotion. Very wise, Gandalf thought, studying the boy's face. He knew Faramir must have heard more of their conversation than he had admitted. The boy knew there would be no sympathy to be gained from Denethor.

"Perhaps I may take some bread to the Houses for when Boromir awakens," Faramir asked, rising slightly from his chair. Denethor nodded, dismissing him. Faramir transferred several slices of bread onto a smaller plate, and with a small glace at Gandalf, moved towards the door.

Gandalf turned back to Denethor, ready to resume their conversation, when the Steward suddenly started in his chair. There was a crash from his left and a small cry of pain.

Bread was scattered upon the floor, and Faramir lay in the midst of it, clutching his hand to his ribs. Gandalf rose quickly and moved towards the prostrate form. Denethor stayed where he was. Faramir rose to his feet with the old Wizard's help, and with a fearful glance at the spilt food and the dark face of his father, he left the room.

Gandalf moved calmly back to the table, resuming his smoking as if nothing had happened.

"Carelessness," Denethor said coldly. But Gandalf smiled under his beard, for he had seen the Steward's initial reaction, and could see that under all the proud and hateful past, there was genuine concern.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The two opponents lowered their heads, first to the Lord of the city, and then to each other. The fight had begun!

Boromir was the first off the mark, his extensive training having taught him to strike first and defend afterwards. Faramir was slower and more cautious. One thing the seemingly endless weeks of recovery had taught him was not to act rashly or overstep the mark. It was better for him to rely on his own strength rather than try to combat his brother's.

And this was also true in life. There was no way he could raise himself to Boromir's standard through trying to win against him. If he were ever to gain the respect he so desperately desired, he would have to do it through simply being himself. One day perhaps, when Boromir's strong presence did not cast such a shadow over him, he might be able to shake off the view that he was only the brother of the future steward, and be respected for his own qualities[2].

He parried the blow with some difficulty, the wound on his shoulder where the Orc's blade had cut him was still burdensome. Both he and Boromir had been advised not to fight, but Faramir had encouraged the event. Because it was where it had all begun, and where, he hoped, it would end.

Pressing his attack, Boromir was becoming frustrated with his inability to break through Faramir's defence. "You have improved," he said, before lunging forwards in another fierce attack.

Faramir, surprised by Boromir who had always concentrated solely on the fight, failed to recognise that the attack had been feigned. The blade slipped beneath his own, and trying to avoid the blow, Faramir sprang backwards. Boromir's sword came at him again, and this time he did not have time to even raise his weapon. He tripped backwards, landing heavily. Another moment and his sword was struck from his hand.

Looking up into the face of his brother, amidst the cheering of the crowd, Faramir felt as though he had never seen so clearly in all his life. After so many weeks with blurred vision and impeded movement he had become pessimistic that he would ever see clearly again.

But Gorburg had failed, losing his life to Boromir's hand in the process. For Faramir's sight had returned, slowly and frustratingly. But a few days ago he had been able to show Boromir, through reading allowed a passage of text, that he could finally see!

He smiled slightly as Boromir reached down a steady hand to pull him to his feet. His brother was grinning broadly. He too had recovered quickly after Gandalf had brought them home. Denethor still did not know it had been Faramir who had blown the Horn, and Faramir preferred it that way. Boromir would have told their father, if he had not been begged not to. Gandalf had also kept his secret, for surely the old Wizard had seen which one of them had been holding the Horn.

Boromir raised a hand to the crowd, forcing Faramir to do the same. The crowd cheered, but at that moment Faramir did not hear them. A sort of calm had come over him. An equanimity. He smiled.

To others it seemed he, like his brother, was looking to his father. But in truth Faramir's eyes were focused beyond the face of the Steward. To where, at the back of the hall, stood an old man in a grey cloak, with twinkling eyes.