“Is it true, father?”
Weary, I grab his shoulder and carefully inspect him. His clothes are grimed and rent, but little more so than after a day in the fields. The bloodstains are old, dried. Tears have washed clean tracks, smeared again now with the back of his hand.
“They say you left your post and killed in the Hallows.”
I cannot belittle his fears for they mirror my own. I draw him, unresisting, into my arms.
“I had to do what was right for Faramir. There is a king now and I hope for mercy not only justice.”