A/N Yay, next chapter. I still don't own Lord of the Rings.

Chapter Two. Finduilas.

"Denethor!" The shouts rang out over the city. One of the guards pushed open the door to the great hall, and two men stepped inside. They bowed before their steward, with grim expressions on their faces. One was limping from a leg wound.

Denethor looked up from his golden plate. He could no longer eat in peace, or with his beloved wife. Findulias was suffering greatly. She became dreadfully ill, and the general feeling was that she craved for the South, for the sea that she loved.

"Back so soon?" Denethor remarked, coldly.

He had sent a group of twenty men to get as close to Mordor as possible. He wanted an idea of Sauron's army, and the numbers it held. He was hoping rather then expecting good news.

The man limping shifted uncomfortably. He got to the point quickly, there was no point harbouring the truth. "I'm sorry, but Galdor fell."

Denethor's face dropped suddenly. They brought forward the broken body of his life long friend, his armour was pierced with arrows, and his sword stained with blood. Denethor laid his hand on the man's cheek. He kneeled there for several minutes.

Finduilas stepped into the hall and gasped at the sight of Galdor's body. The power of death seemed to overtake her, and her already weak body felt faint as Denethor grabbed her. They embraced together, and she burrowed her face deep in his chest and closed her eyes tight against the sight of Galdor, as he lay dead on the floor. Death had entered the great hall of Minis Tirith. And it was there to stay.

Meanwhile in the courtyard, Boromir swung his light weight sword through the air, in graceful fashion. "I have just killed an orc." He told his brother. Faramir watched distastefully, his blade hanging loosely in his hand.

"And another one!" The child cried, causing his brother to step back, as Boromir pounced onto the air.

"Boromir!" Faramir protested loudly.

"Just 'cause you can't fight as well as me." He claimed.

Faramir sighed. It wouldn't matter if he was the best fighter in the whole of Middle Earth, their father would still prefer Boromir. He was the louder and more confident of the two, and tended to get what he wanted. In fact it was a rare occasion when his father did not bestow his wishes on him. Finduilas saw this, and paid extra special attention to the forgotten child. But the love and attentions of a mother do not replace those of a father.

So from an early age, Faramir thrived on a desire to prove himself. He held up his sword, and swung it gently through the air. It felt light in his hands, and seemed to blend with his arm. He could swing it naturally, without much practise. And quickly got the hang of it. But no matter how good he was at fighting, Boromir could always beat him.

He was seven years old, when the news of Galdor's death reached his young ears. He felt it much heavier then his brother.

"What is wrong?"

Faramir shrugged. "Nothing." He threw down his sword, and wandered inside. He crept to his mother's chambers where she lay, resting. He clambered up on to the bed, and lay against her. She played with his short hair, running her fingers through it, trying to brush out the knots.

"Galdor is dead." He said softly.

Her grip on his hair tightened. "He is at rest now, we must not grieve for him." She said, misunderstanding her son's sentiments.

"It's not that." Faramir explained. "Why did he die?"

"He died fighting." She said.

"An orc?"

"Not just an orc, an army of orcs." Finduilas told him, still stroking his head.

"Armies have a leader." The seven year old said, cuddling up to his mother.

She nodded. "Yes, yes they do." She sighed. "There is a Dark Lord, hiding deep inside his tower. He controls the orcs." Finduilas told her son. "You must not grieve for Galdor. . ."

"It's not that." The child insisted.

"Then what my child? What is it?"

"Father."

"Denethor? What is wrong?" She asked pulling his eyes level with hers.

"What if he goes to fight?"

She looked away. "Your father is the steward, he cannot help it, it is who he was born to be. He cannot change it, just as Boromir cannot."

"What if he doesn't come back?"

She held her son close to her. "Then we shall be here for each other." She whispered into his ear. "These are dark times, my child. Dark days. If we live to see another dawn we are lucky." She saw no point in lying to the young boy, it would do him no favours to have a screen pulled over his innocent eyes. The times were dark, and Faramir had to accept that.

Faramir did not understood, but he hung to the idea of luck for a long time after that conversation. It was all that was left in a world of shadows.

After that day Finduilas took a turn for the worse. She stayed in bed throughout the day, only appearing at night. Her sons were constantly by her side, and Denethor wondered the city, depressed and numb to all. He hardly noticed when only half of his army returned.

Then it happened. Four years after becoming the steward of Gondor, his beloved wife died.