Scritch scritch scritch

There it was again. Nearly like clockwork. When the bells chimed out half-past seven, the noise began. So far, he hadn't let it bother him. As a father to two young children, there were few odd noises he hadn't yet heard. He recalled the near paranoiac way he'd reacted to every sound in the first years with Boromir, how certainly every sniff meant some deadly illness and every gasp or hiccup meant he'd found a way to mortally wound himself. The maids found it amusing, commenting that this was the ritual of near well every first-time parent across Gondor, if not all the world, to be driven to worry by everything they could think of. Denethor hadn't been quite as amused, finding all the anxiety-an emotion he wasn't normally given to-absolutely draining.

Slosh slosh slosh.

Thankfully, with their second child, the panic waned and he'd learned from Boromir how to distinguish the usual noises from the unusual. Though there was a bit of a difference between the two children already, and it still struck him with amazement sometimes that two minds that were not yet even fully formed could have such unique qualities. While Boromir was outwardly bolder-climbing everything he could get his grubby little hands on, trying to wrestle with the dogs, challenging guards to races down the hall-Faramir had proven himself more of a quiet schemer. Denethor could still remember the initial shock of walking into his office to see a stack of books and one milk crate-which to this day, Denethor had no idea where he found the thing-forming a perfectly stable ladder to the third shelf of a bookcase where a jar of sweets sat. He'd stared for a moment at the little boy, who knew he'd been caught red-handed, and was forced to stare even longer when Faramir thought it best to try to negotiate himself out of trouble by offering one of Denethor's own candies to him. When he told Finduilas she laughed uncontrollably. For that gift, Denethor could hardly stand to reprimand the boy, instead warning him of the danger of a fall from such a height.

Shhhhhh. Shhhh. Shshshsh.

In spite of their different approaches to life, the two boys were, at least, best friends, and no obvious rivalry or jealousy came between them. Sometimes Denethor thought it might be that they were too young to feel something so complicated, but he hoped for the best. He thought of his own father, who Boromir already so reminded him of in some ways with his direct approach to life, and despaired at the idea of either of the boys feeling the need to prove himself more worthy than the other. It was something he'd often felt in the days of the great Captain Thorongil. Perhaps they'd started off on amicable enough terms, but by the end of Thorongil's campaigns, Denethor could hardly stand the sight of him. He was only ever reminded of the praise his father heaped on the man, and how little he seemed to receive. Sometimes he thought himself petty for being irritated with the situation. Other times he thought he hadn't been angry enough, never having the courage to face his father and tell him how small he felt in his eyes. The chance would never come again, so he did his best never to dwell on the matter.

"Mmmm-ahhh!" And there was the first sound which was not part of the evening ritual. "Nonono!" There was another melodramatic sigh. Denethor stood from his desk and headed down the hall. There were no tears, which was of course, a good sign. There'd also been no loud bumps, thuds, or smacks, so surely no one had gotten hurt, and nothing sounded as though it'd broken. As Denethor passed through the threshold of the door, he paused to inspect the situation.

Faramir was pushing a towel into the rug over and over where Denethor could see some faint blue stain creeping into the fabric. A tipped over cup was on his right, the source of the blue liquid, and on his left were paintbrushes. Behind Faramir was a stack of blank papers, and in front of him were sheets covered in dark shades of blue that all varied just a bit depending on how many brush strokes applied to any particular sheet. There were some with green trees-firs still being the archetypal tree to the boy-and what appeared to be brown rolling hills and a sky that was not the same color as the other blue sheets.

"I bloody spilled it!" Faramir announced, for the first time acknowledging that the man had entered the room.

"Don't use that word," he said, a near automatic reaction at this point. Whatever Boromir picked up on, Faramir was sure to follow suit, whether he understood it or not. "The paint will wash out." He wasn't terribly concerned with the rug. Only an idiot would put something too dear or expensive to be dirtied into a child's play room. That particular one had been through all manners of dirtiness. Boromir had been quite taken with mud around the age of four, and before Faramir had known better, he was fascinated by watching ink creep its way into the pale fibers. Instead Denethor's eyes were drawn to the considerable stack of paper behind the boy. "Where did you come by all of that paper?"

"It's what I'm given for to work on letters," he said, still deeply focused in his task of mopping up the water.

"You have been practicing your letters. How is there so much paper left over?" he asked, certain that Faramir was lying to him about the source of the sheets.

"Because I've been making my letters so small, so that I use less paper and get to save it for my plan."

Denethor couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at the seriousness with which Faramir said 'my plan'. And the cleverness in finding a tactic to save paper for it. He did recall suddenly, that some night about two weeks ago, he'd noticed the way Faramir's handwriting shrunk but wrote it off as some passing fancy as children were prone to. Then it struck him that the boy had been dedicated to 'his plan' for quite a while, as far as a child's reckoning goes. That wasn't a sort of dedication he'd expect in one so young. "What is your plan, if I may ask?"

"You may," Faramir said politely, as if taking this conversation lightly had never been an option. "Naneth says she misses the ocean, so I want to make her the ocean to see on her wall, so she won't need to miss it anymore."

Denethor felt nearly as if he'd run face first into a wall. Finduilas was desperately missing her home, and Denethor was at a loss as to how to cure that longing. She was too ill to travel so far, and she knew that. He'd done what he could think of to make her situation more comfortable. Brought her the sorts of flowers she loved, food from her homeland, candles that were meant to be scented like the sea. It was his job to take care of her, to make her as happy as he could given the circumstances. "That is quite a nice idea, Faramir," he said finally, the boy already having returned to turning another sheet of paper blue.

"I thought it may be clever," he responded, seemingly satisfied with himself.

"Where did you learn how the ocean looked?" he asked, trying to take his mind off of his ailing wife.

"I asked the archivist if they had something about the ocean there. He told me what the books said, and even showed me one that had pictures. I also know that trees are green, and sand is brown, and water is blue, so the colors were simple."

"That is all well and good," Denethor said, taking a sheet of paper for himself before sitting on the floor across from Faramir. "But there is one important element you have not been informed of."

At that Faramir looked up right away, as if eager to mend any flaws in his plan. He watched closely as Denethor traced an outline of something on the page. Two wings. A head with a beak. A square tail. "The gulls," Denethor said finally, turning it to face Faramir so he had a better look.

The boy gasped and clutched the paper. "Of course, the gulls," he said to himself. "I must not forget the gulls." He took another sheet of paper, put ink on the pen, and did his best to mimic Denethor's drawing. When he finished, he looked back and forth at the two sheets before shaking his head. "This will not do. Your gull is much better, so I think you should draw them."

"Yours is a valiant effort," he said. In truth it was about the same quality as anyone might expect of a five year old. "I've simply had more time to practice." His own was no work of art, except maybe to a child. He took another sheet and obliged Faramir by this time fitting two gulls on one page, an idea coming to mind. "Perhaps we can hang these from the ceiling?"

Another gasp and Faramir exclaimed, "That's clever! As if they were really flying!"

Denethor nodded with a grin at the boy's enthusiasm. "What else might we add to your plan?"

Faramir looked stern and serious as he considered the possibilities. "The ocean is not normal water, it has salt. That's what the archivist says. Can we make the ocean smell right?"

Denethor looked at the paper, which really wasn't made for being painted on and getting quite so wet. It was already starting to buckle and waver, but perhaps it could withstand another sprinkling of water. So he nodded. "I can ask for the kitchens to send up a glass of salt water when you have finished painting the ocean. Then we may take brushes and sprinkle the it onto the pages." He couldn't say for how long the scent would last, or even if it would be strong enough to notice, but it didn't take much effort to try.

"That sounds nice," Faramir said. "And the archivist said at the beach, there are all manner of shells strewn everywhere. Are there shells to be found in the city?"

"Certainly there is some merchant who sells them," Denethor answered. Usually they were made into decorations. Maybe there would be a handful that hadn't yet been glued to something.

"Perhaps we can stick them to the parts where the sand is," Faramir said.

Denethor doubted that part a bit more, given the weight of the shells might not be bearable for the paper. But there may yet be some use for them. "Of course. I will take some time tomorrow to search for some."

So for the next several nights, Faramir and Denethor worked on recreating the ocean as best they could. A half-hour every night, Denethor taken with Faramir's intense dedication at something that might lift the spirits of someone he cared for so deeply. He was torn on whether it was a good quality for a leader to have. Caring for others was a double-edged sword, he was learning. Of course life would be lonely without anyone to care for, but didn't caring leave one vulnerable to incalculable pain in the possibility of losing the one cared for? Didn't caring for someone so deeply give enemies an obvious target? It wasn't a conversation to have with a child, so he said nothing of it.

After another week of drawing, painting, cutting paper gulls, collecting shells and sand in jars, Faramir deemed his plan was ready to be executed. Having convinced Finduilas to take her lunch in one of the gardens-it was such a nice day after all-Denethor and Faramir set to the task of arranging their mosaic on the wall. Faramir was too short to do much in the way of setting anything up, but he helped in what ways he could, mostly by handing his father the decorated pages. When all was said and done, Faramir's best likeness of the shore he'd never seen, but which his mother loved so dearly, now adorned much of the wall to the right of her bed. Gulls hung from the ceiling, swaying softly, and on a table beneath the picture were the various jars Denethor found in the markets, filled with seashells and white sand.

As the time came for Finduilas to return, Faramir could hardly contain himself as he climbed onto her bed, staring intently at the door handle for the slightest twitch. When finally it came, his heart leapt up into his throat with the excitement, and he smiled brightly at the sight of his mother's face. Surprised eyes flicked first from Faramir to Denethor before catching sight of the new mural on her wall. As she processed the image, she let out a small gasp before putting a hand to her mouth.

"It's the sea, so you can see it whenever you'd like," Faramir explained in case she missed it.

"Oh but you have been busy as a bumblebee, haven't you?" she said finally as she pulled him close in a tight hug. "It's as beautiful as I remember! You did this all on your own?"

"No, father helped me."

Finduilas let her eyes settle on her husband, unable to keep from smiling. "No, I should say my part in this was but a minor one," Denethor said. "It was Faramir's plan. I simply provided some small assistance in executing it."

"Not so!" Faramir cried, unwilling to take credit for another's work. "I'd never know about the gulls if you hadn't told me. And to put them up in the air, like they are flying." Faramir reached for one, pushing it lightly so it'd sway on the end of the string.

"I'm blessed to have such thoughtful men as you in my life," Finduilas said before dropping a kiss to the raven crown beneath her chin. She let her eyes, watery from the overwhelming joy brought on by the gesture, take in the details of the picture. "I will look on it whenever I'm missing the sea and then it will not only remind me of home, but of the two of you and the love I have here."

Denethor pulled her to him in a quick embrace. It was what he wanted her to remember, above all.

The task was one Aragorn wouldn't have begrudged his new Steward for delaying, or even refusing altogether. He didn't know Faramir terribly well, but saw some elements of his father in him. His wisdom, sharp wit in political debate, eyes that seemed to easily read between the lines and see through falsehood. But there were significant differences as well. Whereas Denethor had seemed always to appear stern, Faramir was given to a more neutral, stoic expression that even Aragorn had difficulty reading. In conversation Faramir was reticent to speak his mind, but seemed to listen to everything, as if carefully cataloging it away for future use. And then there was that comparison Sam had so aptly drawn between Faramir and Gandalf that, once pointed out, left one wondering how they'd never placed it before.

People in Gondor seemed very fond of Faramir. Criticism came rarely, though what Aragorn ever had heard never seemed to be particularly troubling. Some claimed his courage to be lesser than his brother's, due to his interest in lore and art and history. Aragorn supposed few would maintain this criticism after Faramir's ride to Osgiliath at the end of the war. Others simply thought him too detached, too quiet and stoic. It was a point Aragorn was forced to agree with them on, though he understood the difficulty in getting to know a stranger. All Faramir had been through these past few years didn't help matters. Even if he wasn't one given to complaints or despair, loss and the horrors of war had effects on people.

That loss was specifically why Aragorn told Faramir that he understood if he'd prefer someone else take up the responsibility of clearing out Denethor's old office. Faramir insisted in his ever-professional way of speaking that he was capable enough, voice nor face ever tinged with some hint of what turmoil, if any, might lie beneath still surfaces. There had been points during the process when Aragorn almost demanded they both stop. A few times where he thought, certainly, some letter or book which Faramir mentioned held some more personal meaning would be the straw that broke the horse's back. But it never happened. Instead there were comments, without any hint of emotion. "Ah, I wondered where this book had gone." "So he did receive Boromir's updates." "I'd wager he didn't even realize this was still in his possession." Ever that frustratingly even tone came, giving Aragorn no indication if any of this was getting to Faramir in some way. It wasn't that he wanted to see the man suffer. He only wanted to be certain he wasn't forcing him to face matters he wasn't ready for. But perhaps his concerns were unwarranted. Maybe Faramir had already seen his father as lost the moment the man took up the palantir. Maybe the relationship between the two was more strained than Aragorn had initially imagined.

It was just as he thought this when he noticed Faramir suddenly freeze, hand still in the depths of the last drawer in the desk. Finally, something showed in his eyes. Something painful that made Aragorn wish he'd never let Faramir start on this assignment. He watched quietly as Faramir pulled the yellowed paper out of the drawer, the younger man's eyes never leaving the page. Aragorn could see on the page something scrawled in a child's hand. It looked like a bird, with its wings open as if it were flying, and he realized it looked a bit like a gull. The paper crumpled slightly at the edges when Faramir suddenly clutched it tighter. He saw now the way Faramir's lips pressed together tightly, how his jaw clenched. Then finally he spoke, whispering in a broken voice Aragorn hadn't yet heard from him, "How are they all gone?" His face crumpled with the question and he held his head in his hands.

Aragorn put a hand on his shoulder, feeling him shake slightly as he sobbed. "I'm sorry, my friend," he said, unsure as of yet what else to say. Faramir was a bit of a mystery to him still. He glanced down at the paper still laying on the desk, wondering who it belonged to, what significance it held to send Faramir over the edge when little else seemed able to.

"My entire family-" he started to say but stopped suddenly as though speaking the words would cement the thought into reality.

"It is difficult to lose so much at once," Aragorn said. He knew through Boromir that the brothers had been close, and having lost close friends of his own through this war, had some approximation of how difficult that was to face.

Faramir sat back up, fingers passing over his eyes. "Forgive me. I did not expect-" In the moment of hesitation as he searched for the right words, Aragorn couldn't help but breathe an incredulous sigh. Faramir's eyes found him quickly, expression reset to neutral, and Aragorn couldn't figure out why.

"Forgive you? For grieving? After what you've gone through?" Aragorn wasn't quite as good as his new Steward at maintaining an emotionless tone, though he doubted there were any in all of Arda who could compete.

"I can do so on my own time, sir, not on yours." There was a hint of something there, as though Faramir was very familiar with this phrase, or others like it.

Again, Aragorn was at a loss for words, and he tried not to show it. To make Faramir feel embarrassed would only make him less likely to express himself in the future. But he could also recognize a man who wouldn't be pushed. Boromir, he found, was much easier to read, a much more direct person, and he came by his feelings and opinions honestly. Faramir was a different matter altogether, a puzzle he needed to figure out, and that took time. So time is what he'd give him. "If that is what you prefer, then I leave you to it. However, do not think me on some high pedestal, too distant for any to reach in all matters save political ones. I would like to call my Steward a friend, if he would allow it."

"You may call me whatever you wish, sir, it is your right as King." Time, Aragorn thought with only the slightest hint of frustration. Lots and lots of time.