Chapter 5. Resolutions (Part 2) 

 

A heavy silence hung in the air after Denethor’s last words. 

A servant came bringing pudding and cut fruit, breaking the silence. 

After they had finished dessert, Denethor rose.  He had the habit of taking an evening stroll after supper. 

Faramir and Boromir had their own habit: they would take the bottle of wine with them, sitting by the fireplace, either in the library or in Boromir’s chamber, talking late into the night. 

Denethor rose, but then settled back into his seat, with a weary expression. 

Faramir’s eyes followed Denethor, but neither spoke.

Faramir turned the goblet in his hand slowly, watching the wine swirling within.  He was sad for his father, whom he loved.  His father deserved joy, not only duty. 

Denethor’s voice interrupted Faramir’s reflection.   

“Your mother took longer to recover her strength after your birth,” Denethor said, without preamble.  “The healer advised that she should not burden her body with another childbearing.” 

Faramir placed his goblet quietly on the table, his fingers tightening around the stem.  He wondered why his father brought up the subject.  But he straightened and met his father’s gaze squarely—as any decent man should when facing a just reproach. 

“I am sorry, Father,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Denethor seemed momentarily taken aback—his face betraying confusion before it hardened again, irritation flickering across his features. 

“You are the Steward’s son, Faramir,” Denethor chided.  “Do not apologize so readily.  And do not be foolish; your mother did not lose her strength because of you.  Men’s childbearing is not as that of Elves.” 

Denethor spoke sternly, but Faramir found comfort in his words.  That his father did not believe him responsible for his mother’s decline meant more to him than any praise. 

Faramir lowered his head and said nothing more. 

“I told your mother not to trouble herself with bearing more children,” Denethor continued in a lower voice.  “For what I have been given is sufficient.” 

For what I have been given is sufficient. 

The words settled over Faramir like a warm cloak against the chill of night.  No sweeter words had he ever heard. 

Faramir slowly raised his head, fixing his gaze on Denethor, lost for words.

Faramir had believed his name was chosen for its meaning in the old Elven Tongue: a hunter of jewels. 

But there were times—when Denethor seemed to find delight only on Boromir—that Faramir wondered if his name had been chosen for its Sindarin meaning: that he, the second son, was merely sufficient, less treasured than the eldest, the faithful jewel. 

With great effort, Faramir had accepted it, and willed himself to love and serve his father in whatever role he was given. 

But that evening Faramir understood that he had been mistaken. 

He was not the favoured son, not the heir—but treasured, nonetheless. 

A quiet resolution settled upon Faramir. 

I shall indeed be sufficient for you, Father.  You have foregone having more sons—you shall not need them.  Neither in war, nor in peace. 

Their eyes met once more, and Denethor slowly nodded, as though acknowledging Faramir’s unspoken pledge.  For it was true that Denethor read men’s hearts shrewdly. 

... 

 

From his seat, Boromir observed the exchange between Denethor and Faramir.  Unlike them, he was not burdened with the clear and far sight.  Yet he could always perceive his father and brother clearly—such was the sufficiency of love. 

That evening’s conversation had been bewildering.  Boromir was unsure what he thought, or felt, about the possibility of a stepmother.  And the thought of his father cherishing another son made him chafe—unless that son was Faramir.  Yet he loved his father, and wished he could find joy. 

That his father had so firmly decided to forego a second chance at joy touched Boromir. 

That Faramir so readily gave his blessing to their father’s potential marriage astonished him. 

And they settled such a grave matter by discussing an ancient text! 

Over the years Boromir had given up wondering about the way Denethor and Faramir spoke to each other.  The carefulness, the dancing around the issue, the harsh words that occasionally flew when they attempted straightforward talk, and yet the unmistakable bond between them. 

Boromir shook his head.  His father and brother, so often at odds, yet so similar: steadfast in duty, capable of selfless deeds, and immovable as a mountain. 

He sighed and took a long swig of the red wine.  Next time he wrote to his grandfather, he would suggest sending a stronger wine—one that matched the force of Denethor’s and Faramir’s conversation. 

He cleared his throat.  

“Very well,” Boromir said, in his deep, firm voice.  “May I be the one to present the conclusion?  Faramir has given his heartfelt blessing to Father’s union with another lady, and to any children that may come from it.  As for Father, his resolution is clear: such a thing will not happen, for the good of Gondor and his sons.  Pardon me if I do not present the conclusion under the veil of history or philosophical discourse.” 

Boromir sensed Denethor’s and Faramir’s mild disappointment in their shared frowns.  No doubt they thought Boromir had disrupted their elegant, subtle discourse. 

Then Faramir chuckled softly.   “Ah, brother, what would we do without you!” 

Denethor’s grave mien softened just enough to show a wry smile.  

“Indeed,” he said. 

Boromir did not form a new resolution that evening.  He merely reaffirmed a resolve he had made long ago. 

I will shield Gondor, and both of you, with my life. 

...