Faramir entered the room as if in a trance, slowly, slowly. Three steps
forward, and then seven, and then more, and he was standing before his
father. Denethor was looking expectantly at him, and very impatiently.
"Father," he whispered. He could feel his heart beating in the silence.
He knelt, bowing his head, and stood again.
"Yes?" Denethor snapped.
He opened his mouth, and found himself suddenly unable to speak. For
several seconds, several hours, several years, it seemed, he stood there,
still and tall, mouth half-open, staring at his father. The Steward's face
was irritable, but Faramir could sense his father's weariness, even if his
father could not sense his emotions, his character.
At last, as Denethor's face began to twist in anger and confusion, Faramir
forced himself to do something more than stand. Still unable to speak, his
mouth formed one word, one dear familiar name. Boromir.
His father recognized it, and stood, letting his staff clatter to the
floor, taking two steps forward so that he stood very close to his son.
"What is it - what have you heard?" he breathed. He smelled like ale and
sweat. Faramir gazed into his father's face, almost unseeingly. "Faramir,
what is the matter?" He felt an iron grip on his arm.
He was flung quite suddenly back into himself, and the emotions he felt in
that instant were terrible and indescribable. "Boromir," he whispered.
His father searched his face, still unable to read anything from it.
"What, Faramir? What have you seen or heard? What news have you heard of
your brother? Is he injured, or has he returned? Alas! The blowing of
his horn was an ill omen!"
"No," Faramir whispered, and tears glimmered in his eyes. His father saw
them, but was still uncomprehending. "Dead." His heart screamed. His
father released his arm, quite suddenly, shaking his head and stepping
backwards. He backed into his great chair and sat in it heavily.
"No," the Steward said quietly. "What - what did you see, and hear?"
"Boat," Faramir said dully, voice shaking, closing his eyes and picturing
it. The image was burned into his mind. "He was - in a boat, on the
river. His horn - gone, and a - a belt, like golden leaves." And he was
dead, he wanted to add, to scream. And he was dead. "His face." he began,
but had to stop to steady his voice. "His face was peaceful."
"Peaceful," Denethor repeated, slowly, but flatly. "My son rests in
peace." He looked up at Faramir, still standing before the seat of the
Steward. The tears in the eyes of his son had spilled onto his face.
Denethor's face was dry, but his face was twisted and his shoulders
trembled. "He will pass into the Sea forever, and my heart will go with
him." He didn't seem to remember that Faramir was still there, but his son
did not hear his words.
