I hope the storyline at the end doesn't seem strange, but it was the most logical thing I could think of regarding the situation (though I cannot define myself as being a very logical person :))

Chapter 7

For the first time in his life, Faramir had witnessed his father crying. He did not remember him weeping as his mother had died – but he was so a child then, he could hardly remember anything about her. Now he found himself often thinking of such things, even during political meetings. No-one scolded him for it, he was given time to heal, and so was his father. But soon they would have to take control into their own hands once more.

His father would soon enough.

Shortly after Faramir had brought back his news, he had felt Denethor's quiet, hesitant remorse and accusation, though it was never uttered, not even whispered. And still, his father's voice resounded in his head, whispering, pounding against the inside of his skull as if wanting to burst out and truly accuse his son: You should have helped him, you caused this, you did not save my firstborn. Still no morsel of his regret reached Faramir's nor anyone's ears – and still the son was quite certain it was there, hidden somewhere inside of the father, slumbering in his heart and mind. At the very least, Faramir blamed himself for the course of events.

True or not, Denethor swiftly returned to his duties and faltered not once. Slowly, steadily, their family bonds were patched up – perhaps somewhat loosely, with frayed thread. Nimien too took part in this painful process. None of them considered she would perhaps have to leave. The situation was painful enough for these three participants in life's game, let alone they should ponder on one of them disappearing from stage and not return. Let alone imagining how she would leave behind a hole in those two men, two, where another hole had just been stitched up with half-hearted, loosening thread. She would leave behind two men who would not be able to cope without her. Somehow they all suspected that.

Yet their conversation would not do. Family dinners seemed a mixture of obligation and relief, and consisted of equally patched up and strangely strung together conversations. One informed after the other's day, another complained of his health, silence ensued during which the monologue was carried on, with some nods and comments following, then perhaps talk of the food, or horses, or rooms being redecorated after husbands had died – though literally that fact in itself was never mentioned –, and idle discussions were made over books and philosophical subjects. Emotions and deceased family members were carefully avoided, in a difficult exercise of finding balance between the three players. Living family members in Lamedon were likewise dismissed from these evenings. They had created their own reality to adjust themselves to their loss, and feared how it could be broken.

This, of course had been different before the funeral. When their regret was fresh, many silent tears were seen rolling off cheeks, or sudden outbursts of tears or void anger could be heard in their dining hall and beyond. Guards found themselves awkwardly overhearing such familial sadness, and regretted, themselves, too, the loss of a captain such as Boromir.

The funeral itself had been a tiring – its attendants worn out because of their grief and sobbing – and sad affair. Decorum had been maintained, dark silk covering a pale face and dark, ceremonial clothing. Yet everyone of court and the people seeing their beloved steward's son pass had thought how it should not be thus: no father should see his child leaving sooner than himself. Boromir's clothing, too, had been meant for better days and solemn festivities, not to serve as a corpse's embellishment.

How much they expressed their sorrowed to the deceased's family, they could not set it right, nor could they improve their sentiments. Strangely enough, even the lady Arthien had seemed highly sincere in proclaiming her condolences to their family. Their court had earnestly felt their loss with them, and had appeared numerously at Boromir's obsequies to corroborate the general sympathy.

After that, Denethor never visited the tomb, which now protected his son. Faramir and Nimien did, from time to time, and mostly separate. It seemed as if their grief was not for sharing, as if they were three persons thrown in life who had found each other by chance, but deemed it unfit now to strengthen their ties through comfort.

It was in that period that Faramir wrote Éowyn his first, short letter.

To the most gentle and noble, lady Éowyn, with all endeavours and amity of faithful service, whom I wish perennial blessedness as granted by Eru.

I hope such a manner of address offends you not – though being your friend I should know perchance such things – and I hope, too, that this letter finds you well and is welcomed kindly, both in Rohan as in your heart. If not, it shall be the first and last letter that finds you.

I find the memories of our time in Rohan comforting in these days that witnessed my family's discomfort and my brother's funeral. It is my dearest wish that they might comfort you as well, for I know you and your family deeply regret all that has passed. Rest assured that we hold you unaccountable.

When writing this line he felt unsure: his father had never uttered aloud that he blamed Rohan for his son's demise, though there was a slight possibility of this. Still, though he wanted to be honest with her always, he felt it unfair to point out such details if he was unsure in the slightest of its being true.

Please for my sake, think of merrier affairs, since Boromir's passing brings neither of us joy, and I would see you happy.

I hereby send all of my best regards to my lady and her brother, cousin and uncle. I hope they shall not find me impertinent when word reaches them of my letter to you – perhaps I had best written to your brother and informed after you, as is proper. We are not kin, after all.

Be well eternally.

Faramir of Gondor, Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien and Captain of the White Tower by the grace of Eru.

Nimien had visited her late husband just once before his burial, and she had found it most unsettling and eerie. The tombs of his forebears made her feel uncomfortable, even more so now than before, realizing he was part of them. Still, his presence made her feel more secure and comforted, and whereas she never had visited them before but once, before their marriage in the period of their engagement she spent at Minas Tirith's court, at the commemorational ceremony of his ancestors held yearly – though it was against her principles to not uphold her duties, Boromir had assured her he thought it unnecessary for her to attend every year, and she had found ample excuse when the occasion arose during their first year of marriage not to visit the sad place – she now ventured there regularly.

Though its emotional chillness attracted her far less, the mild coolness of these underground rooms was superior to the condition of her chambers in these days.

When Boromir had lived, she had taken care to leave the hearth on in both their rooms, lay out furry blankets for him to be welcomed after a long day's work in the winter's cold, and ensure he had an interesting conversation to come home to. During summer she had opened the windows to make him enjoy the breeze outside, changed his night robe ever so often, offered him a sight of her body somewhat less covered as to please him, and allowed him a night out with his comrades and brother for which she had never reproached him. Indeed, she would wait for him sometimes and ask him about his day, and he had settled next to her and had talked, content.

She had tried to make him an interesting enough wife. Now, soon, she feared, she would have to be that for someone else.

Recent… developments had made her unsure, and coming here to see Boromir's tomb brought her some calm. Her present state made her want for her family, the comforts of home; and this was not her home anymore with Boromir gone. Denethor and Faramir tried, but she had seen few of them during her marriage with Boromir, and had spent only two years with them. How could they know her, and she them?

On the other hand she wanted to stay here, where Boromir lay, with these two men who understood her grief. Even the court seemed to leave her alone now. Back home they would not understand. Court intrigues would entice her once more, suitors would soon follow, and her family would want her pretty and ready for the next marriage. And presently she felt she would not cope…

Why had Boromir died, and had not her sister been so unlucky? Baineth had a son already, and a second child on the way, she had written. Her husband was healthy, not dead. She would not have to adjust again to new habits, new people, new buildings, new furniture. No new consort for Baineth.

Nimien had known Boromir well enough to know when he would be pleased or dismayed, and to know that both their stubbornness would ever have created problems. Would he have desired to have children with her, had it not been to beget an heir? What would they have called him, or her? Would they have argued over such things as well?

She remembered sadly how they had made peace on the evening before his departure. He had been gallant, asking her to dance, and their arrogance and stubbornness had abated. They had found their precious equilibrium once more. No trouble for Boromir and Nimien then. But they had not been given the time to survive those problems that would have been created by their characters: though she was humble, she was obstinate as well, and proud like he was – or had been.

And Boromir and herself, they had had little time.

Éowyn and Faramir had had little time as well, so the greater was her surprise as a courier delivered a letter addressed to herself from Gondor. From Faramir.

Why would he write her? They had formed some attachment, some friendship, but weeks had passed now…

At the moment in which the letter was delivered into her hands, it had been passed by the courier into her uncle's hands, then passed into her cousin's and brother's hands, though naturally the seal had remained intact. It was Éomer who handed her the letter in person. "What does he write? He wrote me and Théodred, too, but nothing of consequence. He accuses us not, I hope? Read it now, Éowyn!"

"Nay, I shall not," she retorted haughtily. "He is my… private… friend. Thus, the letter is private."

Her brother almost growled. "Éowyn, this could be important for Rohan! Gondor and Rohan's relations are tense now, and with Boromir –"

"Éomer," she retorted briskly, annoyed, "he is in distress, his brother died, I hardly think he should ponder now on political affairs. He seeks comfort, and seeks it with his friends." At this, she retreated to her room to read his words in private, and murmured his kind words to herself. Apparently he had written to Éomer, in the end.

Her own reply was as cordial and distant as could be expected, though through the enquiries for his own tranquillity in this dreadful situation her own earnest interest could be clearly felt. She could, after all, not hide the warmth she felt towards him.

To the highborn, amiable lord Faramir, whose benevolence I know mine, as he knows my attendance is ever his, and whose wellbeing is wished as gravely by myself, as Eru should gladly bestow it on a gentleman so fine, who serves him and his world so well.

I was sorry to see you depart, my lord – and under such dire circumstances – but I consider myself content now to hear all is well.

Please convey my sincerest regards and condolences to your father and sister. Had I the opportunity, 'twould be my great pleasure to encounter the lady Nimien, as she sounds a marvel of a woman to my ears. Your brother spoke of her to me and considered her the highest lady of all, indeed.

Rohan fairs well, and so do we, despite the impact of it all… all continues, as it must, I deem.

I hope to hear from you soon, and find you in higher spirits.

Remember, m'lord, that the stars remain ever fixed in their positions.

Do receive my kindest regards and rest assured of my perpetual well-wishing,

Éowyn of Rohan, sister-daughter of the King Théoden of Rohan by the grace of Eru

Éowyn felt somewhat excited upon writing the letter, more so even when she handed it to the courier two days later, who was then on the brink of departing back towards Gondor. She reassured him three times to hand it over only to the lord Faramir of Gondor.

Her family had changed, too, however, as she was certain his had – though he mentioned it not. Some events have great consequences.

Her uncle was mostly unaffected, though politically secretive concerning Gondorian affairs whenever Éowyn was around, since he knew of her particular connection to Faramir. Her cousin and brother, too, were most anxious in this way, but understood her quietness and, she was sure, mirrored it themselves. She often saw them departing with Éomer's friend Éothain and few others, galloping off, swift like the wind, as if wanting to leave behind their troubles with their velocity. When at home, they were more contemplative and brooding at times, even during warm and festive dinners in the great hall, which Éowyn attributed to their sense of guilt regarding Boromir. They had, after all, all been quite close during the period the brothers had spent in Rohan.

Éowyn herself retreated much from family life, seeking solace in silence, but she noticed still their uncharacteristic inward behaviour. She was reminded of Faramir's warning. But what consequence could there be for him? Or Boromir? Or Rohan?

It was Guthwyn with whom she shared all these preoccupations, which she could not share with her family; though the girl was her servant and knew little of politics, she possessed a sharp mind and a great emotional understanding.

And it was Guthwyn who warned her first for rumours crossing Rohan's land and spreading towards Gondor. Rumours of new royalty arising, royalty of old blood, posing a threat to Gondor's and Rohan's present tranquillity. For, the girl pointed out, though Gondor's reaction to Boromir's death was unsure – even though Éowyn in her heart wished to credit Faramir's comforting words as being truthful, that Gondor's rulers blamed them not –, all could change with this newcomer on the political terrain. "They say he's old blood, m'lady, and old blood never bode well. People tend to believe old blood. And we could do well without it now, in this fragile state of things. Denethor 'll be hard enough on us as it is."

These rumours made Éowyn unsure: should she report it back to Faramir? Was this what he had spoken of with regards to her brother? And his silence and his rides out, was there a connection? Should she confront Éomer? Éomer it must be, if anyone, for he alone she trusted with all of her heart to be clear of court mischief and double tongue. Théoden and Théodred were too cunning, as they must.

Yet Éomer was dark of mind lately, and she knew not why. She could not burden him with this now. A better moment would come, and Faramir would know. If he did not hear of it before her writings reached him…

"Remember, m'lord, that the stars remain ever fixed in their positions."

Faramir smiled reading the words, leisurely sitting down in his rooms in front of the hearth. They sweetly reminded him of Éowyn's strangest and sincerest attempts to comfort him, by talking of horses, for example, when perhaps this simple phrase which implied consolation and attention to his words – the ones he had uttered under that starry sky – would have sufficed.

He had erred to write her thusly, however: whilst he accused not his son, voices reached Faramir's ear of movements arising against Rohan, and foul tongues stirring as well. And it was his father who most felt strongly against Rohan, supported in this by the lord Cúhanar, lord of Anórien.

Faramir knew not if there was a motive to rouse these anti-Rohirric sentiments, but they seemed unfounded to him and he considered it improbable that they should take root. The current peaceful, fraternal relation of Rohan and Gondor had, after all, been thus for so long…

But in his father's current regrets, it must be natural, Faramir considered, to seek some culprit – to accuse Rohan in private, even. He could only hope 'twould not become one of a truly political nature. Luckily, diplomatic voyages between Gondor and Rohan were not so frequent in general, and had ceased now for some time.

Nimien as well had been distant. He had seen her daily, but they had spoken little, and surely not personally. Their conversation had been hesitant and void of emotion.

Then their relationship was changed completely when he encountered her on the marble terraces of the elite. It was a cool, airy autumn day, which made sure the terraces were unpopulated. There was only Nimien there.

As they exchanged the normal civilities and he informed after why she was here, in the cold, she broke and tears flew from her eyes. Faramir knew not how to react.

Slowly a stream of words started, and more rapidly it flowed until it formed a great icy river of monstrous power which he nor she could control. Nimien was pregnant, and knew not what to do.

It explained her pallor, her coolness and the uneasy looks at dinner.

"I know not what to do, Faramir. I feel at home here, but with Boromir gone… I would like to return to my family, moreover it shall be expected by them. What lingers a widow in the house of her dead husband? She must remarry and create new ties for the family, and create heirs. And yet – if I carry an heir – Denethor will keep me here, Faramir, should he hear of my current state… I cannot, will not… I want my sister. I have no woman but my sister. I am afraid. My father wrote saying he found me a new husband, of minor importance, surely, but still… A husband he is, and I must go. I know not what they will say of this child, but I must away. I feel I must. I have kept this hidden for far too long, and soon I shan't be able any more."

Unsure of how to act, Faramir took her hands in his, which for a split second reminded him of the same gentle gesture performed by Éowyn to comfort him. Then realization of her situation dawned on him: "Nimien! Why do you sit here, in this cold! Come!"

He dragged her along to his own chambers, where they could sit in warmth and secrecy. He poked the fire some more until she was warm again, and called for some hot drinks. Whilst Nimien cherished herself in a warm furry blanket and they waited for the servant to return, Faramir leaned against the mantelpiece and eyed her. Here was his sister, in all but blood, who found herself in a state of pure joy mingled with misery and uncertainty. And he could offer her nothing more than vain words.

He recognized the truth in her words, however. His father would keep her here should the child be a boy: an heir for Gondor. And the child would take precedence on Faramir when its time came. A girl would change little, and Nimien would be left alone.

In the midst of his mind rattling pensively, the servant girl brought in something to eat and drink and Nimien calmly drank warm liquid, casting him a grateful look. She must be content that I do not cast her away for lack of loyalty to my family as she will not stay in Minas Tirith, he considered for a moment. Yet the notion was absurd.

"What must I do, Faramir?" his sister breathed at last, perhaps more to herself than to him.

Faramir's mind raced. "Has your father summoned you yet?"

"Yes. He expects me home within a fortnight. I dared not tell your father…"

"Then it is simple, sister: you shall depart normally, and father need not know 'till the child is born. Of course he shall hear of it, he must, but when that time comes I shall be equally and utterly uninformed of the matter. Perchance he shall think it was your father who ordered your silence… and court talk and the exchange of information is never fully reliable." Then doubt struck him: "But shall they not think the child is illegitimate? If no overt links tie it to Minas Tirith and Boromir, no declaration has been made on your behalf?"

"Oh. Oh…" Nimien's brow furrowed. "But it was so fragile a situation, my maidservant, the only who does know, warned me of the danger of loosing a child in the first months. It could be easy to suggest that for this reason I had concealed my situation, for fear of disappointing Gondor and my family. And my return home, well…"

"'t must be an excess, Nimien", Faramir reasoned. "Lest they believe it not. A grand announcement of Gondor's heir shall protect your child, whichever sex it be, even from your future husband and his heirs begot by you. Do you – ?"

"No, no I know not who my father has in mind. No-one yet, perhaps. But he shall soon, with or without the little one, I suppose."

"Then, are we agreed?" Faramir concluded. "We must create talk here, of course, of your pregnancy, but not so that my father shall hear of it – or at least, he must not readily credit such stirring of tongues. Surely, if he hears, he shall have hope, and 't shall not be unfounded. But you should be allowed to return to your family, your sister, in your state, and you are correct in this, sister. He shall not let you go if he is certain of it. Write to your father that you shall return within the fortnight, and in this period we must create some illusion and mischief, and your father must prepare you a joyous entry, a grand one, worthy of the widow and unborn child of a steward."

Faramir happily sipped from his cup, quite satisfied with his plan, which seemed quite solid.

Their gazes crossed and Nimien conjured the image of herself in this fur as Faramir smiled contentedly at her now, rethinking the countless times in which she had waited on Boromir when he returned late in the evening or pondering on that one time when he had leaned against the mantelpiece and watched her as Faramir did now.

"You are too beautiful, wife," he has said – growled almost, and had approached her manly. She had felt like a bird in a cage, with the large fur wrapped around her, and had revelled in the sensation. All the more she had revelled in the sensations of him pulling her up, undressing them both in his wild hunger whilst stalking over to their marital bed, which had made her grin and smile, which he in turn did not like, and which made him all the more angry, which made her revel in his anger, and which ended in a very pleasant moment of lovemaking in which ultimately he had fitted her perfectly, their bodies had fitted perfectly, and she had never left the warm, soft fur.

Yet numerous had been the occasions on which she had waited on him and he had returned, weary and content to see her, and they would talk then, how they had talked… The many hours she had spent with her husband settled on two chairs such as this one, discussing of his and her matters, and how they were tired sometimes of courtly affairs.

Once, she recalled, he had entertained her for hours naming the most horrible names he could conjure for their supposed children. He had bossed their sons and daughters around, scolding them as they pulled their mother's hair, and robbed him of his sword, risking to injure themselves. But then he had calmed down from his strange ranting against his imaginative offspring, and had indulged her to offer some pretty alternatives, and in the end they had somewhat decided on some pretty ones, but she had already forgot. Why could she not remember? Had she not wanted to?

She would recall them, she was sure. If not, she would find a name of her own, and Boromir would appreciate it hopefully.

Overall, she thought, he had been mostly amiable and kind, sometimes somewhat eccentric, and though this had annoyed her at times, it had offered her great solace and amusement, too.

And now she was here, confusedly and unknowingly laying a hand against her somewhat less flat abdomen which Boromir had caressed often, which he had tried to fill and had, but knew not. Now she was indeed a perfectly filled up vessel, but with no one here to revel in her present state. Tears brimmed her eyes at her loneliness.

She would return home and find her brother and father and her ailing mother, always unwell. Her sister was in the south. Oh, how she longed for her sister now. She was firm of mind and always knew what to do. Oh, how her sister would have suited Boromir a thousand times more!

Nimien was only good for fragile cosiness.

At this thought, she truly wept. She wept and wept and heard her own loud inhaling the sharp sobs, the wetness of the tears and how they ruined the fur she was holding, Faramir's fur but so alike to Boromir's, to that time when – and oh, by the Gods, Baineth would have pleased him so much more, would have born him two sons already, would not have grinned and smiled but would have encouraged him warmly, as she had double the passion and wit Nimien herself possessed.

Faramir knew nothing of these thoughts, but instantly shuddered at seeing her in this state. He pushed himself off from the wall and with one long stride crossed the room and held her. Thankfully, he thought ruefully, no maid was to be expected now, to find them thusly.

"Please, Nimien, be calm, sister. I promise you you shall return home. I shall make sure of it. Fear not our father. I shall take care of you, you shall return home safely."

Cúhanar = 'bow brother'