A HUGE thank you to everyone who reviewed--I didn't realize how much I missed getting reviews until I starting receiving them. I've realized that this story requires quite a lot of Author's Notes, so please, everyone, bear with me.

I've also realized that my Faramir changes quite a bit in this story (it is almost 60,000 words, so I guess that's only natural). He's a lot wimpier in these first chapters, so I'm sorry for the false advertising! He's more of your typical Faramir in these first chapters, and he gets better as the story progresses. But hey, that's kind of realistic--people change, right?

While I was writing the 'thees' and 'thous' I didn't even think that they would be a source of controversy or even really discussion, but I'm glad some of you like them, and I'm sorry for those of you who don't. I agree, they do make it a little difficult to read, and they are a bit jarring, but I still insist they add something to Tirinion and Rochion's characters. :-) In responseto the sentiment that they wouldn't be speaking in'thees' and 'thous' if the people in Gondor's court (aka Faramir) aren't, I disagree. Speaking with'thee' and 'thou' is not always a sign of rank or education, it is also simply a dialectic thing. For instance, the quakers in the17th century still largely spoke with 'thee' and 'thou', andit wasn't because they were better educated than anyone else, it was simply their custom. In some cases speaking in 'thee' and 'thou' even denotes a lower class,such asin Scotland in the 16thcentury.

Anyway, too much info, right? The long and short of it is that Ihope you bear with me, and for those of you who dislike it, you'll be happy to know that Tirinion and Rochion aren't in the story all that much, anyway--just the beginning and a little near the end.

Chapter Two

When Faramir reached his horse he found Tirinion standing at its head, holding onto the horse's reigns. The Captain of Gondor raised an eyebrow, and his cheeks gained some healthy flush. "Tirinion," he said in surprise, "What are you doing here?"

Tirinion set his jaw. "I am requesting permission to accompany thee on thy journey."

Faramir's shoulders straightened. "And leave the outpost? Just when the time calls for men like you? I do not think so." He lowered his head and walked toward his horse. "I will not require your presence—I know my way around Ithilien better than any man here."

Tirinion shook his head. "I beg thy pardon, Captain, but I was not referring to uncertainty of the way. Thou wilt need another to watch for enemies in the night, for the road is not a very short one. And sire, if I might speak plainly?"

Faramir nodded, laying a hand on his steed.

Tirinion swallowed. "Thou wilt need a friend throughout thy stay in Minis Tirith. I beg the honor to be that friend." Tirinion held his breath, waiting for his Captain to reply. He prayed silently that Faramir, who had denied himself so many comforts in the past, would allow himself to have this one. Yet he saw no struggle within Faramir, who was so apt at masking his emotions except in the most extreme circumstances.

Finally, the young Captain looked up, and his eyes held resolve. "I will, perhaps, be in need of a valet," he said softly. Tirinion could not help but smile as Faramir said, "Have you your things packed?"

Tirinion nodded. "Aye, that I do."

"Then go and report that Captain Faramir will need your assistance on his journey, and that you are to be sent straight back to me. I do not wish to waste any time," Faramir said. Tirinion immediately started away, but before he had gone two steps he felt a strong hand on his arm. Turning back, he looked straight into Faramir's face. "Thank you," the steward's son said, and then he let go. Tirinion turned and hurried inside to report his mission.

They did not speak much on their journey, except to idly comment on the weather, which was frosty and cold. Both men huddled in their cloaks and urged their horses on, wishing desperately they did not have to stay out in the cold that night. The trip to Minis Tirith would likely end the evening of the following day, if there were no delays.

When they did end up stopping, they built a warm fire and sat near it, heating up water and pulling bread out of their packs. Tirinion glanced over at Faramir more than once, wishing he would eat more and stare at the fire less. "Sir," he finally said, "I will take first watch."

Faramir stirred as if from a dream. "No, I will," he protested. "I am not weary."

Tirinion smiled a little. "Please, Captain. I promise to wake thee when thy turn comes."

Faramir sighed, but he nodded. "Very well. But I cannot promise you that rest will find me." He wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and lay down next to the fire. For a time he tossed, but after a while he did indeed lay still. Tirinion could tell he only slept lightly, like a cat, and should anything happen, he would at once be awake.

However, nothing happened, and Tirinion woke Faramir when his watch came. By dawn both men were up and saddling their horses again to make an early start. They only stopped briefly for a short break at midday, and were within sight of the city walls by early evening.

As the two men rode up to the walls the gate creaked open with an age-old sound, and from the tops of the towers men called down to them. Tirinion could not help noticing how Faramir's hands gripped the reigns tighter and he sat straighter as they rode through the gates. He knew his Captain would not have an easy task, telling his father that the first son was dead. As if Faramir was not already suffering enough.

"Captain Faramir!"

As Tirinion and Faramir dismounted and began making their way toward the stables they heard a voice calling out to them, and upon turning they beheld a young servant of the steward hurrying toward them. He rushed up to Faramir and bowed quickly.

"You father bids me tell you that you are to come to him in one hour's time, sir. He bids you take some food and refresh yourself in your chambers until then," the young man said.

Faramir smiled faintly. "Thank you, Eoron. I will do so."

Eoron bowed again and hurried away, and Faramir turned to hand his horse over to the stable boy. "Sir," Tirinion said, "What shall I do?"

"Come with me, please," Faramir said firmly. "You are doubtless hungry as well."

Once inside Faramir's quarters, the young Captain proceeded to give Tirinion work to do while he was gone. "Since you insisted on coming with me," he said wryly, "I expect you to do some tasks. Read over that paperwork and paraphrase it for me, and then you can move on to that stack." He ran a hand through his hair nervously. "If it's too much for you, don't strain yourself, but try to do as much as you can," he went on. Absentmindedly he began fiddling with his belt buckle, his fingers making nervous sounds like whispers. "I will be back within an hour."

"But thou hast not eaten," Tirinion protested.

Faramir rolled his eyes. "You are my soldier, not my nursemaid. I will be back soon." With that, he straightened his tunic (which bore the livery of the city) and gently picked up the bundle he had carried near his heart from Henneth Anûn. Then, with a slow and quiet step, he left the room.

For five minutes Tirinion worked on the papers, but before that small amount of time was up he had stood and begun pacing. Back and forth, back and forth he walked, wrestling with his conscience. Should he follow his Captain? Was it wrong?

"Tisn't up to me to say what's right and wrong," he finally muttered, and with a decisive motion, he left the room and shut the door.

Outside he crept through the halls quietly, trying to find his way to Denethor's study. He had only been to the capital city once before in his life, and never before had he wandered about the rooms trying to find the Steward's lair. But common sense and a vague sense of direction finally won out, and distant voices guided him toward a highly lit room.

"Greetings, Father," Faramir was saying just as he came up. The door was slightly ajar, and he could just see both the father and the son. Denethor was sitting in a large armchair, idly watching the fire, and Faramir stood before him with the bundle held in his arms. Tirinion thought it a bit strange that Faramir should only now be speaking, but perhaps the steward had been busy...

Denethor barely acknowledged his son. He glanced up, nodding shortly and then pouring himself a goblet of wine before speaking. "You have returned. Do you bring good news for a change?"

Faramir swallowed, and even Tirinion could hear it. The steward's son was breathing heavily, and in the quiet of the room it seemed much to loud. Tirinion wondered briefly how a man who had so much courage and wits on the battles field could be so intimidated and even, perhaps, afraid, of his own father. "I—I cannot say I do, my lord," Faramir murmured.

Denethor snorted. "I thought as much," he snapped. "What have you failed in this time? Have you given up Ithilien yet?"

Faramir drew himself up. "It is not of my doing, Father. It is not of anyone in Gondor's doing."

"So you say," Denethor returned. "So you will always say. Was not Boromir---"

"Boromir," Faramir interrupted breathlessly, "is why I came to you."

Denethor stared at his son with round eyes, catching his breath. Perhaps in the depths of Faramir's emotionless eyes he could see the truth lurking, or perhaps it was the completely passive tone of voice which Faramir used. Tirinion knew Faramir had been practicing for the past three days.

"What do you mean?" Denethor finally asked, and he stood and walked over to his son. Laying a hand on Faramir, he shook him harshly. "What do you mean?"

Faramir bowed his head to hide the tear that slipped down his cheek. "Here, Father. This will speak for itself." He slowly (and almost grudgingly) handed the wrapped bundle to Denethor, who took it without looking at it. The steward stepped back and stood next to the hearth, unwrapping the bundle with feverish anxiety; as the cloth fell away, Denethor stumbled to a chair and sank into it.

It seemed as if no one would speak. Faramir stood with his back to the door, as if on the very edge of leaving, and Denethor stared at the cloven horn as if he had been turned to stone. Tirinion wondered for a split-second if his own heart would give him away, for it thumped loudly in his breast.

Finally, Faramir stepped forward. Tirinion could not see his face, but he could hear the longing in his voice as he stretched out a hand and said in a whisper, "The two halves were found in the river. And I--" he looked around wildly for something to lean on, "I myself saw him, my lord."

Denethor's head snapped up, and he sprang from his chair. In two strides he was across the room and put both hands on Faramir's shoulders. "When? How? Tell me, Faramir!"

Faramir struggled to control his voice. "In a boat, on the Anduín. I think it was a vision, but it seemed so real! He floated by, and in the boat were weapons of countless foes. He held his sword, and his face was so still and silent, as if he were sleeping, but he did not breathe. I don't know what madness possessed him, but--"

Faramir's words were broken off as Denethor threw him roughly to one side. Sinking to his knees, the Steward held his hands in the air and moaned aloud. "Why, oh why?" he cried. "Why must you take him also! Was it not enough that you took my beautiful wife, you must also steal my son—my pride—from me? Why?"

His cry died out and the silence crept back in. Faramir, in the corner, wiped his mouth where it had struck the bookshelf and hesitated. For as long as he could remember, he had been rejected by this man he called "Father". Now that there was no family left to them, was there a chance he might find favor? He struggled to speak, but his whirling thoughts got the better of him, and he merely stood in silence.

Denethor began to weep, quietly, and then there came the sound of rain whispering against the windowpanes and drenching the earth in its bounty. Tirinion began to feel uneasy. The tension in the room had to break eventually, and he had no idea how it would come out.

He had not long to wait. Faramir, once again, stepped forward and began to speak. He clearly realized that if he didn't say something then, he might never have another chance. "Father," he said quietly, "I loved Boromir too. You are right; I do not know how we have any hope to win this war without him. But I will try as hard as I am able. You have a son left, my lord, and he is willing to do the duty of two." Faramir stopped talking and whispered to himself, "Though it may kill him."

Denethor seemed not to have heard him for a long time, and he picked up the two pieces of the horn. "You say you are willing to do the duty of two," he finally muttered. "Yet you have not accomplished the duty of one. How do you expect to measure up to Boromir, who kept this country together with sheer willpower?" Denethor turned blazing eyes on his younger son. "You say it is not your fault. Nothing is ever your fault, is it?" His voice was practically a shout now. "You would lead our country down the path to ruin and damnation! Had Boromir not gone to that accursed Rivendell, he would still be here, alive, with me! And had you not had your accursed dream, he would not have ventured to the land of the elves. So I say it is your fault!" He stopped for breath, running his hands over the grooves in the horn.

Faramir stepped back, taking in his breath sharply. After a pause he spoke, and his voice was cold and hard. "All my life I have tried to please you. I have pushed myself, hard, and I have done everything you have ever asked me, except when it went against my conscience. I gave up everything I loved to pursue war, and I have never complained to you, until now. Boromir was my brother, and I loved him. I too am suffering. I too...I..." Faramir stopped and bowed his head. "I can only do my best."

Tirinion let his breath out in a long, silent sigh, and he watched as Denethor slowly stood and stared down at the horn. Surely he will relent, at least a little, he thought. Can he not see how his son loves him and tries to do his will? But Denethor was not to be shaken. He sat back down into his chair slowly, still fixing his eyes on the horn of Gondor.

"Go now, and return to your post, Faramir," Denethor said harshly. "Wage this war as best as you are able, without your brother, and may Eru Illuvátar see fit to give you help. I have given up hope that we will have the victory." He raised his eyes from the horn long enough to nod at his son. "Leave."

Faramir bowed slowly, and Tirinion had just enough time to melt into the shadows created by a niche in the wall before Faramir left the room and shut the door firmly behind him. By the light of one solitary candle burning in its fixture on the wall, Tirinion saw Faramir walk ten paces from the door and crumple against the stone wall. Dropping his head into his hands, he began to sob: deep, choking sobs welling up from inside his chest. Yet they were almost silent, and in the darkness one could not see the tears streaming down his cheeks. The utter abandonment he had just faced was too much for him, and he let his battered soul be washed by the flood of tears.

As his broken sobs died away, he raised his head and stared straight at the wall. For a moment Tirinion thought he had been found out, but then Faramir began to speak. "You call me weak, Father," Faramir murmured, his voice catching, "but you never considered what courage it takes to face you day after day after day. To stand up to you and bear you insults and accusations is more than I can take." Once again, he threw his head into his hands. "I truly believe I will die, Father. If not in the next battle, perhaps the next one, or the next. And when I have died, and you see all the work I do, will you miss me? Is that all I am to you? Someone to do your work and command your army?" His voice died to just below a whisper. "Can I never be your son?"

As he bowed his head onto his knees and began to weep quietly again, Tirinion crept silently away down the hall in the other direction. He had seen his Captain give way to his private grief, and he needed to intrude no longer. Once back in Faramir's chambers, Tirinion set to work with a will, and by the time Faramir had made his way back to his rooms, his faithful ranger had completed not only the two stacks of papers, but a third as well.

There was no reason for Faramir to do more than he must.

The next morning Tirinion answered a knock on the solid oak door, and as he opened it he beheld a cheerful, round face framed with brown curls.

"Is Faramir here?" the woman spoke, pushing her way into the room in a manner that was both forceful and graceful. As she spoke, her eye fell on the object of her question, reposing by the window. He stood with a quiet smile. She rushed toward him, grabbed his hands, and said in a scolding tone, "Faramir! You have been here all of yesterday and this morning, and you did not call on me!" Her brown eyes snapped good-naturedly at him as he laughed in spite of himself.

"I have been busy, Damla," he sighed. She hugged him roughly, and none of the usual romantic connotations presented themselves as they embraced. Tirinion slipped quietly from the room as Damla seated herself on the window seat and pulled Faramir down beside her.

Faramir and Damla had known each other since they were children. As a five year-old, Faramir had suffered a broken arm and been taken to the Houses of Healing to have the bone set. While he was there an inquisitive little four year-old had come up to him and stared at him with her big brown eyes. She was the only one he had let hold his hand as the healers bound his arm up. Since then, Damla and Faramir had had a very hasty, unannounced sort of friendship. She was the one who understood him best, besides Boromir, and it was to her he confided his deepest fears. Their relationship never progressed beyond friendship, however, for they both knew their place, and when Damla married at the age of twenty-three, their friendship moved on unperturbed. Whenever Faramir was in Minas Tirith he stopped at the Houses of Healing to say hello and to enjoy the company of Damla's three boys.

Today, Damla had pulled Faramir down beside her and was working the knots out of his shoulders as they talked. Her hands moved rhythmically, gently yet firmly, as if she was accustomed to doing this to men, women, and children alike.

"No one can sooth like you, Damla," Faramir smiled as, despite himself, he began to relax. "But can you work out three months of knots?"

"I can do anything, whenever I want," Damla rejoined. She bit her lip as she worked on a muscle clenched deep in Faramir's upper back. "Now, tell me about what's been going on."

A sigh was all the answer she received, and she shook her head. "Ah, that's right. I forgot." Her hands never stopped working, but the two of them sat in silence for a long time. They had known each other so long no words were needed to lighten the wordlessness in the room, and it was only after a full five minutes that Damla said softly, "I heard in the market-place."

Faramir's shoulders went limp. Damla continued to rub as he put a hand up to his face and began weeping, slowly, grudgingly. "I shouldn't be mourning," he groaned. "I should be working. I should be starting back to Ithilien. I have to do work for both of us now...'

"No," Damla cut in. "I simply won't allow it. I'm the healer, remember? You are worn thin as it is, and you have not been eating or sleeping sufficiently. I will not stand by and see you work yourself to death."

"No one gets enough sleep or food nowadays, Damla," Faramir sighed. "Someone must do the work. The men will follow no one but..."

"But who their Lord Steward tells them to follow. I know you, Far. You are ready to kill yourself to please him." Faramir was silent, and Damla's hands grew rougher. As she spoke she worked at his back until it began to get red under his shirt. "I can guess how your meeting with him went last night. 'Very good Faramir, for telling me all this, now go do it three times over and get it right.' I know you are aching, Far, I know you need--"

"I don't want to talk about it," Faramir cut in, standing up and walking to the other side of the room. He bent over the mantle and rested his head on his fist. Damla waited, drawing her knees up and spreading her skirt over them. Faramir looked down at the stonework and then up at his brown-haired companion. "Damla, I can't lie to you. I have to do this, now. I have to try to save Gondor, in whatever way I can. It doesn't matter if I die, don't you see? I have already nothing to live for."

Damla turned to the window and brushed something out of her eye. "Faramir, you don't need to prove your worth to that man."

"Yes. Yes I do. Do you want to know why?" Faramir turned toward Damla, looking her straight in the eye. She eyed him back, clasping her hands on her knees. "I need to know he cares because...because his opinion is the only one that matters. No matter how many people tell me I do something well, or that they love and admire me, they are just people. It doesn't really matter unless I love them back, and I respect their opinion. And I do love him, Damla. I do."

Damla stood and walked over to the young captain. Laying a hand on his back, she whispered, "I know. Believe me...I know." There was another long pause, and she again began rubbing gently on his muscles. Then: "I don't know if this counts, Far, but I think we've known each other for quite some time and...I think you worth something. I think there are reasons for you to live. I...I love you, Faramir. Even if nobody else does, I love you. I'll never love you like he could. I'll never love you like...Boromir...could. I'll never love you like whoever your future wife is will. But I do love you. A lot."

Faramir bowed his head and, turning, he hugged her short frame to his tall one. "Thank you," he said softly. "You don't know how much this means to me."

"Yes Far, I do. You've done it for me so many times," Damla smiled, wiping her own tears. Then, pulling away, she scrubbed embarrassedly at her eyes. "You must come see the boys, Faramir! They have grown so much."

Faramir smiled. "I'd like that Damla. A lot."

Later, as Damla was exiting the room, she spied Tirinion perched on a wide windowsill across from the door. She immediately went over to him, and placing her hands on the windowsill, she hoisted herself onto the seat next to the ranger. "Whew. I'm not as spry as I once was," she smiled. Tirinion held out his hand.

"My name is Tirinion," he said. She took his hand and pumped it up and down. "Glad to meet you. I'm Damla."

They looked at each other for a long time, and then Damla said abruptly, "Keep an eye on him for me."

Tirinion nodded. "He's had a hard blow."

Damla snorted. "He's had a hard blow? You don't know anything about him and having hard blows. Trust me." Then she shook her head. "Sorry, that was rude. Yes, he has had a hard blow."

Tirinion folded his hands behind his head and leaned back against the side of the window. "What was he like as a child, Miss?" he asked.

"Oh, call me Damla!" the woman smiled. "I don't think I've ever been called 'Miss' before in my life. As a child? Much like he is now, only perhaps more whimsical and less talkative. I think he'd still be less talkative if his father hadn't hammered it out of him." When Damla talked of Faramir's father she screwed her face up into a grimace. "He wouldn't be half as good a soldier if it wasn't for his father, though he'd be twice as good a scholar. Still--" Damla sighed. "Sometimes I think he wouldn't be as good a man if he didn't have Denethor as a father."

Tirinion frowned. "Thee must know what the Steward is like."

"Better than most," she said quietly. "Perhaps better than all. You see, Faramir tells me his secrets. Secrets I won't ever repeat, but neither will I forget. I wonder what turned that man sour."

Tirinion sat up a little more. "What did he do to the Captain? Things are always rumored in the army, yet never spoken. The Captain himself is more silent than a stone."

Damla laughed. "Aye, that too he learned from his father. But I won't tell you what he did to him. It is sufficient to say he was no father to him—never has been. I must keep Fama's secrets." She paused, taking a breath. "Please, Tirinion, watch over him. The Steward has always driven his sons very, very hard, and now he will drive Faramir harder still. Faramir will gladly lay down his life for his country and his father, and I worry for him. Please make sure he takes care of himself." As Damla spoke, she looked earnestly into the face of the young man, and mirrored in his brown eyes she saw her own anxiety.

"Don't worry," Tirinion promised. "If it lies in my power, I'll keep him safe. The rest we must trust to Eru."

End Notes

Damla was a last minute addition--indeed, I added her after I started the next chapter. However, I like the touch she added. She represents a rock Faramir can cling to, and symbolizes that he's not lost. He has someone there for him. I'll also bring her in again later--she'll be awesome in the Houses of Healing sequence.

This chapter really is Faramir's last opportunity to win his Father's love. Of course he did not, and as we all know the story, it only gets sadder from here on out. But I wanted to try todo a good portrayal of when Faramir gives his father Boromir's horn. I think that's a key moment in the saga of Faramir, because that's really when he comes to grips with his brother's death and his father's animosity. From here on he's waiting for death, really—hoping for it, and not caring should it come.

His talk with Damla puts into words what I feel is Faramir's real secret. That is why he's so complex, and why so few understand him. He needs his father's favor and love because he loves his father and respects him so much. It's a concept that's sometimes hard to understand, I think, but oh so true. There, in a nutshell, is Faramir's heart and soul.