All thanks for this chapter and its quick appearance can go to my spectacular reviewers. When I saw your wonderful reviews I sat down and wrote another chapter. Never underestimate your influence.
Disclaimer: All belongs to the Master. (Except, of course, the errors, OOCs, unneeded fluffiness and melodrama... ok, actually quite a bit of it is mine.)
February, 3019
"All has been very still on the eastern banks," Faramir told his father as they paced side by side through the winding corridors of the citadel. "Indeed, it has been far too quiet for my liking. It has been seven months since Osgiliath's eastern shore was taken, and the enemy has made no move to attack us. Seven months! Yet the orcs are there, I guess about four hundred strong. I fear they are planning some surprise attack, yet I have seen no movement to strengthen the outpost, although I have sent scouts to investigate."
Denethor nodded thoughtfully but did not speak, and after a moment Faramir went on, "I have kept a watch night and day over the eastern shore, yet the men's attention is waning, despite all I say. They do not mean it to, but it is fear that keeps men alert and they have been watching the same banks for months now."
"Yes, they need to see some action. It so happens I have the very thing for them," Denethor said, stopping and facing his son gravely. "My spies tell me that a large host of Haradrim are gathering, about one thousand men with at least two Mumakil. In a few days time they will be ready to begin the march through Ithilien to Morannon to swell Sauron's armies. In about a week they will pass Henneth Annun."
Faramir nodded grimly, seeing what his father intended. He knew that the Haradrim were preparing for battle, and already this had been foreseen and discussed in the council meetings, so it did not come as a surprise to him. "We shall teach them that the men of Gondor do not stand idle and allow their enemies to pass freely within their sight and reach."
Denethor nodded and clasped his son's shoulder approvingly. "Indeed. You will take your company and cross the river two days hence, so that you have time enough to scout out the territory and find the best place for an ambush. I will leave that up to you, you will be in complete command. This will be your chance to prove to me your quality and trustworthiness. No word of your presence must reach Mordor or Harad, and the Haradrim must not reach Morannon."
"They will not."
Denethor nodded, then turned and led the way down the halls, his son falling into step a little behind him as they stepped into the bright sunlight of the stable courtyard. "Good. I will give you two hundred archers to add to your company, that is all that can be spared at the moment and should be sufficient if you use them wisely. Now go, your men must be readied. I will arrange for supplies and a company to take your place in Osgiliath-" He broke off and listened intently as a deep throated horn call sounded faintly on the wind. "The horn of Gondor," he breathed at last, and turned and rushed toward the pinnacle.
"Boromir has returned!" A smile of joy spread over Faramir's face as he followed his father, yet it slowly faded as the sound carried again toward him. The horn call was faint and far off, and it sounded in short, sharp blasts, not the long triumphant note of homecoming. He halted beside Denethor and eagerly scanned the plains and roads leading to the city, but they were empty apart from scattered farm carts and villagers.
"Are you certain it was Boromir's horn?" Faramir asked after a moment.
"I myself bore that horn, and my father before me. I am certain."
Again the horn call sounded on the breeze, and both men's gaze turn northward, yet the hills were cloaked in thick forest, and there was nothing to be seen. The wind shifted and they heard no more.
"It would seem to come from Rohan," Faramir said at last. "Father, I will take some men and go to seek tidings of him."
Denethor stirred, but his eyes remained fixed on the western hills. "No. You must go to Henneth Annun. Go now, I will send others to seek for tidings."
"But father, surely-"
"No!" Denethor at last turned his eyes to Faramir, and they were grim and haunted. "No. The city comes first." He turned wordlessly and rushed back into the great halls, leaving his son staring after him.
Denethor almost ran through the corridors, ignoring the stares of all who saw him, until at last he reached the tower of Ecthelion. He climbed the cold stone stairs two at a time and arrived breathless in the high chamber, where he strode immediately to the palantír and threw off its covering.
"Show me my son!" He commanded, resting both hands on it and staring into it eagerly. But it remained dark and murky, revealing nothing but his disheveled appearance, reflected on its smooth surface.
Sighing, he closed his eyes and attempted to settle his thoughts. The palantír did not work that way, he knew, he would have to search systematically. The problem was, he had no idea where to start. The call came from the north, from Rohan…
He opened his eyes and focused his thoughts on Edoras, and the city slowly appeared, the darkness disappearing like mist across the plains. He paused for a minute, concentrating on the palantír until it seemed to become one with him, an extension of his sight. Then he turned his eyes to Meduseld and it seemed to grow closer until he could see right inside.
The golden hall was dimly lit, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Theoden sat eating at a table to his left, Grima standing at his side. Denethor's watched for a moment in disgust as the feeble king was waited upon by the tall, dark northerner. He could barely lift a fork, let alone a sword, and Denethor's heart sunk as he watched. What help could this man offer Gondor, as feeble in mind as he was in body?
His gaze passed quickly over the hall, searching for evidence of guests in the halls, but he found none. In a corner the kings nephew stood interrogating two scouts. Their clothes were battlestained and dirty from long travel, yet the king ignored them, seemingly disinterested in all news from his kingdom.
Shaking his head in disgust, Denethor turned his gaze to the stables. His eyes passed over the rows of horses, but apart from the two being rubbed down in the courtyard they all appeared well rested. He guessed that the bays in the courtyard belonged to the scouts he had seen in the hall, so unless Boromir had arrived on foot it appeared he was not in the city.
His gaze turned to the rolling hills, and for a while his eyes swept over them, but he saw nothing. They stretched for miles, empty but for the long, swaying grass, hills upon hills going on and on until they reached the mountains. He could search for days here before he found any trace of his son, in fact, he could search for weeks and still find nothing.
"I know what it is you seek." A deep voice echoed through his head, and Denethor started in surprise, and started to draw back from the palantír. Then he halted, his fear for his son getting the better of his caution.
"Who are you?" He asked slowly, although in his heart he already knew.
"No matter. Let go and I will show you your son." The voice spoke clearly in his head, but did not show himself, and Denethor felt a touch of fear in his heart. All around him the plains of Rohan were empty, and the only thing that could have such direct contact was the bearer of the Ithil stone. So it was found…
But most important at the moment was that he find his son, and if the mysterious voice could show him, it might be his only hope. And even should it show him something else, what evil could it do? Quickly he made up his mind. "Show me my son," he said, and mentally drew back to let the being take control of the palantír.
Instantly the scene changed and he saw a huge river thundering around and beneath him, thundering into empty space a couple of meters away from him. Turning he immediately recognized it as the Anduin and the falls of Raros.
The banks were heavily wooded, and passing his eyes quickly over them he could see nothing but trees. He felt his frustration building, and he cursed to himself, wondering why the being brought him there.
Suddenly his eye caught a glimpse of movement on the western shore, and he immediately focused his gaze on it and drew himself closer. On the bank he saw three men standing, clustered around a small boat. His heart leapt with hope, but drawing closer, he realized that none were his son, and moreover they were not three men, but a man, an elf, and a dwarf. Mystified, he stared at them, wondering how such a company came about.
Then he glimpsed the contents of the boat, and his heart seemed to die within him. There lay Boromir, his face white and still, and his lids closed in death. His clothes were torn and dirty and his stiff hands were clenched around his sword, stained with the dark blood of orcs. By his side lay the horn of Gondor, cloven in two.
Denethor stared in disbelief as the boat was gently pushed off by those on the shore. He felt helplessness rise within him as the boat drifted closer to the falls, picking up speed as it caught in the current, yet he was powerless to stop it. "Boromir!" He cried out in anguish as the body of his son was swept over the falls and lost in the raging waters.
He stood and stared at the foaming water in shock. He refused to believe that his son was dead, yet in his heart he knew it was true. Boromir had died alone away from his people and his land, and his body was lost in the waters. He would not even have the honor due to the steward's son of a proper morning and burial, his family and his people did not even get to say goodbye or watch him laid to rest…
Denethor gave a dry sob and pulled away from the palantír, collapsing to his knees on the cold stone floor. How could Boromir be dead? His eldest son, always so strong and bold, so eager to do his father's will… it seemed only a moment since he was a young child…
October, 2987
Boromir sat on a very upright chair, his elbows propped on the dark, polished surface of an enormous table littered with books and papers. His eyes were fixed on the large book in front of him as he read it aloud to a white haired man standing before him, but he shifted impatiently as he read.
His father leaned in the doorway, and watched the boy with amusement in his eyes. At last his tutor gave in to the inevitable, and gave Boromir a small nod. "Very well, that is all for today, you may go."
Barely were the words out of his mouth before the boy leapt from his seat, scattering papers across the floor in his haste, and rushed across the room toward his father. Denethor straightened at that, and raised his hand. "Wait!" He commanded sternly. "That is no way to finish your lesson. Go back and tidy your papers and books, and thank your tutor."
Reluctantly the boy turned back, and swiftly set everything to order before bounding back to the steward, and wrapping his arms around his tall father's waist. An nine years of age, it was the highest he could reach. Denethor placed his hands on his son's shoulders and smiled down at his eager face.
"I see you have been working diligently. Your tutor tells me you are progressing well in learning your history, although in such things as languages you are not applying yourself as you ought."
Boromir's eyes dropped. "I try, Father," he said at last, "but they are fearfully boring, and there's so much to remember."
"Indeed, it is not easy. I ask only that you try your best at it."
"I will, I promise. But, Father, I have a question. I have been thinking it all through my lesson, but the Master told me it was a distraction and I must ask such things afterward."
Denethor smiled. "Well, then, what is it?"
"Why must we always be stewards? The white city needs a king like there were of old, and I think the council should crown you and be over with this endless waiting for some king to appear," the boy said, his brow furrowed in frustration, "for it seems to me foolish to eternally wait when all of that line are dead. How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not?"
"Few years, maybe, in other places of less royalty," Denethor answered gravely. "In Gondor ten thousand years would not suffice. Yet why do you desire this? Is it not enough for you to be steward?"
"No indeed. For I deem that I must study as much as any king's son," Boromir said indignantly, "and you do all the work of a king, yet we have none of the honor and glory. At every banquet the great throne at the head of the table must sit empty, and the King of Rohan is of higher rank than you, though your power is far greater. And people do not sing songs and tell tales of great stewards as they do of kings. Yet our line has held Gondor strong for many years when all around us kingdoms fell. Why should we not be given the honor of kings?"
"Such are many things in life." Denethor answered, kneeling to face his son, and gazing solemnly into his clear gray eyes. "These things may seem unjust to you, yet this is our lot, and while our line stands we will place behind us hopes for our own honor and glory, and strive only for our city, to protect and preserve her throughout the times of shadow, to her time of peace in the ages to come. This is our duty. And are not our city and our people worth such a little sacrifice?"
"Yes, indeed." Boromir dropped his eyes, ashamed now for his outburst, which he now saw as selfish and childish. "Indeed, I will surely fight all my life for my city, and I would go even to the ends of the earth for her as Eärendil did of old, yet-"
"Yet what?" Denethor prompted, as his son fell silent.
"I only wish I did not have to study for so long every day!" The boy burst out. "Surely it is of more profit in such times as these that I learn to fight and ride. Yet every day I must spend all the morning at my books, and I only get a few small hours at the practice fields. I want to be a warrior and fight for my people, father, not a scholar endlessly bent over his books."
"I good steward must be both," Denethor told his son, laughing. "Indeed, wars are more often won by wise heads than mighty hands, and an army is only as strong as it's commander. But be that as it may, your studies have claimed you long enough this day, and I have time today to watch you at your swordplay. Your instructors tell me that you are doing well."
"Indeed I am!" Boromir cried proudly, his eyes lighting with eagerness.
"How could he not be when he scarcely thinks about ought else? Indeed, he would sleep with it beside him if I would allow it." Finduilas put in, catching the end of their conversation as she entered the room with Faramir. She smiled at her oldest son, yet there was a little sadness in her eyes. "I too would like to watch you, Boromir, if your father does not mind some company."
"May Faramir come too?" Boromir asked eagerly. "I can teach him how to fight, and then we can practice together!"
"Indeed, he is too young for that!" Denethor said, laughing again. "Faramir is small, and it will be a few more years until he can bear weapons or learn such arts. But he may come to watch, and maybe your example will inspire him. Be that as it may, it will be good to be together. There is little time for such things these days."
Boromir ran eagerly to dress in his padded practice tunic, with Faramir trailing happily behind him, while Denethor took his wife's arm and they walked through the wide halls to the gardens and weapon range.
"It grieves my heart to see him so eager for fighting and battles, of which he knows nothing," Finduilas said softly. "Our people need warriors to lead them, and in my head I know it is what must be, yet in my heart I grieve for them, and for their innocence. It is hard to see my son learn to kill, yet it is that or be killed." Her voice trailed away and she shuddered.
Denethor clasped her hand tightly. "Indeed. War is the deepest of all evils, yet we fight for peace, and for the children who are to come in ages hence."
"Yes. Yet still my heart grieves. Such is the fate of women – to watch, helpless, as their fathers and brothers, their husbands and sons, march into war, some never to return." Tears brimmed in her eyes and dropped down her cheeks. They reached the door to the gardens, and Denethor stopped in front of it and silently pulled her into his arms, oblivious to the servants and guards milling around them.
"Forgive me," she said at last, her head resting on his shoulder. "Yet the shadow in the east ever grows, and it frightens me."
"Do not fear, for I will ever guard you and keep you safe," Denethor murmured, "as will your sons, and every man of the white tower."
"But it is not only for me I fear, it is for you and our children, and for our people. The shadow seems inescapable." She raised her eyes to meet his, and he could see the fear and doubt clouding them, like a mist over her soul. Then she dropped them, and drew back, wiping away her tears. "Forgive me, such things should not be said. The shadow must be defeated, at any cost. Even if that means our death, or that of our sons."
Denethor nodded silently, searching for the words to comfort her, but he could not find them. Then the sound of running feet was heard on the stone halls, and his sons reached them, immediately drawing away his attention.
"What are you waiting here for, Father, Mother?" Boromir asked, then, not waiting for an answer, went on, "let's go! We haven't much time left before sundown. Come!" He grabbed Faramir's hand and forged eagerly ahead, his brother running to keep up.
Finduilas glanced up at her husband and he smiled softly at her, as he took her arm and they set off after their sons retreating forms. For the moment, it was good just to be together.
February, 3019
At last tears came to the steward's dry eyes and he sobbed brokenly, still kneeling on the cold stone floor. At last he pulled himself to his feet, and stood in the center of the vast, lonely room, too empty to cry any longer. All was stone around him, smooth, cold and unmoving.
Feeling trapped, he fled through the heavy doors into the balcony and stood staring out over his city as he had done so many times all his life. For a moment his grief and loneliness swept over him, and he considered throwing himself over the rails to his death below, but almost immediately rejected the idea. Whatever happened, his city came first. It was what he had fought for all his life, what his son and his fathers before him had fought and died for, and while she yet stood he would stand for her.
Again tears sprung to his eyes, but he pushed them back, fighting to overcome the loneliness and heartbreak that threatened to overpower him.
His son was dead.
For a moment the picture of Boromir in death rose to his mind, his son's strong hands and noble features, but he pushed it back. The past was behind him, he must bury it and move on. The city came first.
Suddenly a thought sprung into his head and he turned and hurried back to the palantír, hoping he was not too late. He gathered his thoughts and focused them on Raros, then when the image appeared he zoomed in to the western bank, searching for his son's companions. At last he spotted them, gathered around several packs and hastily rifling through them.
He barely gave the elf and dwarf a passing glance, knowing he would not recognize them, but focused in on the man, circling the palantír to get a look at his face as he bent over the packs. At that moment he lifted his head to speak with his companions, and with a gasp of surprise he recognized him as Thorongil.
There could be no mistake. Here was the man Denethor had unsuccessfully sought after and wondered about for forty years. Thorongil had seen the death of his son, and not come to his aid, or bore his body back in honor to his father, as any respectable man should have. What chance had brought them together? Why had Thorongil come back to Gondor? Was he seeking still for the throne?
Denethor pulled back from the palantír, his grief consumed in questions and anger.
And in the dark tower, Sauron, watching him, laughed. His purpose was accomplished. The steward would fall.