Disclaimer; I do not own anything from the Lord of the Rings

Sorry for taking so long. University is a dog of the female gender.

3004

Twice in the measured year the Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, would be seated in his chair in the vast echoing great hall of the citadel at first light. He would hold his staff of office close in his right hand, and with his left he would grasp the arm of his chair, to show that he still had a firm root in the governing of the city and the realm. And when the sun was only a little higher in her journey across the sky, the doors to the great hall would open, and across the cold floor and past the statues of long dead kings would come living lords, summoned in their duty to advise the caretaker of the empty throne at the far end of the room.

Around his dark chair they would stand or sit, according to their age and importance, and throughout the long day they would discuss with him the affairs not only of the city but of the whole land in which they lived and were responsible for. In elder days members of the Council of Gondor needs must ascend the stone steps one at a time to speak their case to the one who sat at the summit of that flight of marble, crowned by a tree and a stone helm; but time had ensured that now all they needed to approach the Steward was for him to hold out his staff of office to invite them forward. All, regardless of their age, had an equal say, for their position meant that they would never be forced to relinquish their influence until death came for them, as it did even to these descendants of the city that had sunk beneath the waves and to the house of Hurin.

Reports came in, always, from every corner of the realm of Gondor and from Minas Tirith itself. In the city there would be prices and the value of coin to be agreed, the attainment of supplies, the many discrepancies and occurrences at the many gates, the cases in the various law courts of the various tiers, the welfare of the people that lived within the city walls, the full brunt of running a city sevenfold. And then there was the land that lay beyond the walls of the White City that was Gondor, concerning harvests and famines, plagues, trading stocks, the condition of livestock and of the borders and guards upon the plains, the welfare of a people far beyond the capacity of even a city such as Minas Tirith. All aspects of life in Gondor were covered for much of a day as decisions were reached and goals decided upon, as threats were deemed important or otherwise, as the chances of the land were broken down and built up once more in an ever more complex game that the Stewards and the Kings had played before them, a game which they had rarely lost.

In the midst of grave men coming to and fro, waiting to give their notice or their opinion, Denethor would give his verdict and his word, in the absence of a long-lost king, was law. The realm of Gondor was divided and shrunken into piles of parchment and placed into the hands of the few who had say in what would happen to it in the future, handled with such casual movements as if it were some meaningless scribbles, instead of the land itself translated by pen and ink.

All of this was quite familiar to Boromir, who stood behind his father's chair as he had often done before and watched each fresh discussion with growing awareness of his own impatience with the whole matter. For all of his life the eldest son of Denethor had been trained and instructed by family and stranger alike for the time that he would sit in his father's seat instead of the present Steward, and yet now that he was faced again and again with what he must one day endure he found it very dull fare indeed, and at times even agonizing. His nature was quite different from that of his brother and his sister, as all three of them and possibly more knew well, and he was not at all suited to remaining closed inside a shadowy room throughout the day when the sunlight beckoned outside and there were other, more practical things to be done than listen to tedious reports and the babbling of old men.

He could think that with safety, for of all the men standing or seated around his father now, there was not one who was a day under forty-five at the least, and with the impetuous nature of a young man of twenty-four that seemed ancient to the spirited eldest son. Boromir had spent many years of his boyhood and growth listening to the chatter of aged men in various chambers of the citadel, and it irked him to know that he had not escaped such trials by reaching adulthood.

It irked him too to know that they would remain with them for as long as he lived, a constant circle of dark robes and silvered hair demanding his attendance and the wisdom that he might not have.

He forced his attention back to the present as yet another councilor stepped forward and began to read in a voice that crackled with old age like old parchment, of a trade dispute with Haradrim merchants on the borders of Gondor that kept peace with the land.

"A subject for the council of the borders," Denethor said dryly, cutting the old man, Mardil Boromir thought his name was, off near the end of his speech. "We must deal with such threats to the peace with all speed. Enough of this, you may retire."

But Mardil remained where he was, his rheumy eyes hard. "With respect, Lord Denethor, this is not merely a chance the merchants find to disturb the peace – this is a true crisis. The Haradrim…"

"The Haradrim lie beyond our borders, and so any move they make could be seen as a threat towards Gondor," the Steward retorted, holding up his hand to still Mardil's words. "You have said your piece, Mardil. Now, retire."

Silence followed his words that echoed through the hall, as the councilor retreated to join the circle, his lips, or what was visible of them, set in a firm line. There was some hesitation before the next man stepped forward, bearing his news, and the quiet way in which he spoke showed his disapproval even if he himself was not aware of it.

Such words in such a tone infuriated Boromir. Denethor held power in Gondor, so why was it that his will was so contested? Why should he find restriction whichever way he turned? If the Steward was the Lord of the city and the land, why should the lords of the fiefdoms hold him back? But he said nothing, as was expected of him, and looked over the heads of the various lords to the door at the end of the hall. The blinding white stone of the bastion, shining in the sunlight, gleamed beckoningly at him and he quickly smothered a sigh. Faramir was out there somewhere in that sunshine, most probably running through a drill practice. If only they might exchange places! Faramir was far more suited to being his father's heir than he himself was, though for all that he had done in his twenty four years he had never quite dared to say such a thing to anyone, least of all Denethor himself. Though the Steward loved him the most out of his children and well all the three of them knew it, it did not therefore mean that he was prepared to brook argument on Boromir's part.

Dimly he was aware that Rohan was being spoken of now, by his uncle Imrahil, and with certain trepidation. Agreements with that country that had been hoped for had fallen through badly, and now to speak of the horse lords warmly was no password to Denethor's favor. But he tried not to think of such matters that were done with, and the discussion quickly moved on to other things that the Steward was more willing to speak of, such as the placements of markets within or without the city, and the debate of whether continual admittance of strangers from different nations should be condoned.

As the time wore on his mind began to wander, as it inevitably did, thinking of all the times that he had stood here behind his father's chair, from when he had barely left childhood behind him and his eyes were still wet with unshed tears for Mother. The very first time he had been excited and his still raw grief had been dispelled in his joy, he remembered it well; but his joy had waned as the day had worn on and, more than once, his attendant was forced to reprimand him for moving out of turn and even sighing on occasion. His father had taxed him heavily that evening, though not too greatly, for he could never remain angry for long at his eldest son.

And so the years spent here, above all else, had trimmed him of his need to fidget or express his dissatisfaction where it might be heard, in Council or in the citadel beyond the hall. Perhaps Father thought that these lessons stretched to the world beyond this echoing marble, but in truth he never felt more desire to yell with joy than when he stepped out from the shadow of that dark stone seat and into the light of the blessed sun once more.

Now it was clear that they were at last nearing the end of the Council, for he could see that the sun was waning in the sky and the talk had turned to the methods behind the celebrations that would soon begin in Minas Tirith, in the high summer, how the affair should be carried out. Fortune was with Denethor, as for once none spoke against his decisions, though truly it was because they had no right to do so in this one instance. Boromir did his best to think of other things, to help him through the last of this day; he chose to dream instead of listen to all that had come so many times before. He thought of the celebration of Faramir's twentieth birthday but a week ago; how he and Faramir had had a shooting match between the two of them, with many of the residents of the top tiers watching. Memories of physical prowess kept Boromir sane when he was required not to move from the spot for many hours, imagining his arms and legs moving and fighting instead of his mind struggling to come to grips with things he still could not fully comprehend.

And then, naturally, he thought of what had followed the match, when he had let Faramir win and managed not to betray the fact that he had done so, for his younger brother was very proud when it came to his marksmanship. Nienor had deemed her younger brother worthy of her present; a birthday kiss – which had certainly made the watching crowds roar with approval – and the embroidered pair of velvet gloves which she herself had fashioned. Some had laughed, thinking it a joke amongst siblings, and others had sniffed at the apparent tawdriness of the gift, while still others, their father the Lord Denethor among them, had cast suspicious glances upon Nienor, perhaps thinking that the present was in fact a thinly disguised insult. Boromir let himself smile, if only a little, at that memory. Both he and his brother had known the real meaning of the gift, and knew it now. They knew that while Nienor despised sewing and embroidery, she had chosen to present Faramir with a gift that fully showed her love for him. It surely must have taken many days for her to have sewn the gloves together from scraps of velvet, and painstakingly embroider many white stars upon the back of each.

The sound of footsteps roused his from his contemplation, and he came back to himself in time to see the councillors finally moving away from where he stood and where his father sat, their robes sweeping the floor and their attendants carrying various scrolls of vellum and parchment for them. Already they were retreating to the sunlight which caused them to squint, and would hurry along to their shadowy chambers. Not for him, for he preferred the sun in all her beauty! But for now he would stay by his father's side, until he was released to consider what he had heard this day, and to pray to whichever of the Valar that happened to be listening that he was not called to listen to the council again in three days time.

"You were displeased with Mardil, my son," Denethor said calmly, once both councillors and attendants were gone and the hall rang with the sound of his voice alone.

"How could you tell, Father?" His lessons had been learned well, and he had not even made one sound, as he had when he was young, to show his discontent. What then had betrayed him in his perch behind his father?

There was a soft laugh from the Steward, as he gestured for Boromir to step out from behind his chair and stand in front of him. "I do not need to see your face to tell your mood, Boromir," he chided, "and it was clear to me that my councilor's words held little favor with you. Tell me, did his opinion cause you offence?"

Boromir, who knew that Denethor was eager to know his own views in preparation for the time when the son would take the father's place, was required to answer, though he doubted that his words would be to his father's liking. "Not so much his words, Father, but simply that he spoke against you. Must you constantly be hampered by such men, who find fault in your every thought and deed?"

As he had feared, Denethor looked at him quietly without saying a word. This was often the way he showed disapproval of his eldest son, when he did show it, and this was because that eldest son could not endure such silence and such a gaze for long. Faramir and Nienor were a different matter; they were more equal to their father's stare, and so he must admonish them with words instead.

"I am sorry, Father," he said, quickly dropping his eyes. "It is just that…I believe that these councilors sometimes bar you, instead of aiding you. Why do you stand them?"

Denethor continued to gaze at him, though his stare had softened somewhat in the wake of his son's admission. At last he rose from his seat. "And what would you have me do, Boromir? If I did not allow the lords of the citadel and of the land to give me counsel, would they be content? I think not. They might plot; certainly they would begrudge me my power. By listening to what they have to say, I give them assurance that they have some influence upon my decisions, if only a very little. And though many of them are old, do not think that they are not wise, or that they do not show themselves to be of use."

"I know, Father. But surely the Steward's power should not be impeded?"

Again Denethor looked closely at him, but this time he was smiling, if ruefully. "Once again we come to this, Boromir. Strange that you should hold on to this idea, through so many years."

"Father," he began at once, alarmed, "forgive me, but I did not mean…"

"You look upon the power of the Steward, and think only of the power of the King," Denethor chided him gently. "You should know by now that such thoughts are meaningless. I rule Gondor, and in time you will rule it as well. What does it matter if we do not wear crowns or sit on a white throne with a canopy above our heads; if we sit instead in a low dark chair and carry only a rod as our symbol of office? The line of Kings is gone, and only we remain. There is no difference now between the office of King and the office of Steward."

Boromir bowed his head in assent as a dutiful son should, but behind a face which with training betrayed nothing he thought very differently from his father. He knew, in some strange way that had never been understood or even explained to him, that a Steward was different from a King, the King, that there was a great deal of difference between the two; and it was that difference that cast him, and Father, and Faramir and Nienor, all in the shadow of that empty white throne under the stone helm and the carved tree. He could still recall the question he had asked when he was perhaps fifteen years of age and their father had looked in upon the lesson that the brothers and even the sister had shared, and the Steward's reply.

"How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward king, if the king returns not?"

"Few years, maybe, in other places of royalty. In Gondor ten thousand years would not suffice."

"Come," the Steward said now, placing his hand upon his son's shoulder, "walk with me. There is more to speak of than was heard in the Council, and of more importance as well." And Denethor set off towards the doors of the great hall in his turn and his son made haste to follow him, for though he was now older than seventy he still moved with the speed of a man far younger. As they entered from the darkness into the light the shadow seemed still to cling upon their garments and spangle in stands of their hair, hardly banished even by the sunlight. The sunlight burned upon Boromir's face in welcome but at the edge of his vision, greater than the darkness in the corners of the eyes, was the shadow which would not depart even with the passing of a fever or the healing of a wound.

Away from the great hall they walked, side by side and much the same height, the white rod held by the elder occasionally tapping against the stone of the bastion that came to meet it in greeting. They spoke of simple things, of things that were, to them, safe. Of Rohan they did not speak, nor of the festivities that would soon begin in the citadel and the tiers below, nor of the one for whom they would be held in honour of. Boromir hardly knew any more of what he was speaking of, so used was he to such discussions with his father; he hardly even noticed where they paced until the man beside him halted quite suddenly.

"Boromir."

"Father?" he asked quickly, wondering what he could have done to make Denethor speak in such a way. But at once he noticed that Denethor looked not at his face but at his belt; bemused he looked down at his waist himself, but understanding suddenly blossomed. He could not help taking a step back from the Steward, wondering what to say, how to explain the absence of something that should hang from his belt.

"Boromir," his father said again, "why do you not carry the horn? And why do you persist in disdaining to carry it?"

His mouth was dry as he sought for speech. He was the Steward's Heir, a Captain of the White Tower, the darling of the citadel and of Gondor. Nothing was out of place, save his terrible reluctance for the role that had been provided for him. Much of his time was spent in armor rather than the costume of the court; he avoided the smiles and simpers of those women who admired him as if their very touch would burn; the Horn of Gondor, that horn which every eldest son of the Steward bore and should wear with pride, had been buried in a chest under many robes almost since the day he received it, nearly a year before now. The most that he could do was to wear it only when he left the city. The weight of it, both on his body and his mind, unbalanced him. He hated the burden that reminded him of his duty; not of that towards his city, for that he accepted willingly, but his duty towards his heritage.

But how could he tell this to his father, the man who showed and felt more love for him than for his brother and sister combined, who had placed all of his many hopes upon his shoulders? How could he speak of his own disdain for his future and thus lose his own pride? The fate of the city and of the land and of the people that he so dearly loved could not be placed in peril, simply because he faltered at the prospect of one day leading it.

"I do not disdain it, Father," he replied glibly, doing his best not to let his hand go at once to where the horn should hang. "I simply choose not to wear it in the citadel, or in the city, for all here know who I am and I need not announce my role as your eldest child, heir to the Stewardship." He was glad to see calm return to Denethor's face, though pleasure was still missing from it.

"Boromir," he said softly, reaching forward and placing his hand upon his son's shoulder, "do not think that you should not wear your symbol of authority, simply because you are well known within your home. You are the eldest son, and the horn is your birthright. Do not merely accept it, but rejoice in it!"

It was all that he could do not to choke at those words, or to flinch from Denethor's fingers. He smiled at the man who leeched the warmth from him and wanted to run, run far away. He wanted to run from his father's desire to give Gondor the Steward that he himself could not have been. He wanted to run from being chained to the dark stone chair at the foot of the steps by robes of office. He wanted to run from this cruel trick that the Valar had played upon he and Faramir, by decreeing that he should be born first and his brother second.

But all he did was smile and put his own hand upon his father's. "Then my horn shall sing out at Nienor's betrothal, Father, I promise. And whenever I leave Gondor, I will sound it as a sign to our foes." And he smiled at the joy upon his father's face, for to do anything else would be a knife to Denethor's heart

He escaped soon afterwards, when Imrahil happened upon them in the gathering dusk and he was at last permitted to depart, to let his father and his uncle speak. He did not meet Imrahil's eye though he knew that the prince of Dol Amroth looked cautiously at him and would have made him stay.

He walked to the practice grounds, and he found Faramir still there in the half light, seated upon one of the benches that were often dragged into that courtyard to rest the blunted practice weapons upon. They needed to say little to each other, but each rested their hand upon the shoulder of the other before they wished each other a good night's sleep. Boromir knew that Faramir was envious, however slightly, of being held in such high regard as to stand behind their father in the council chamber. Faramir could not know the truth.

"What was it like? The Council?" Faramir asked, in the moments before they parted.

"The same as ever, little brother. Gondor is at peace, and Father is pleased."

He walked to Nienor's chambers in order to bid her goodnight, as he had done whenever he was in the city ever since she could understand his words, but this evening her ladies told him that she had retired earlier in the day and had no wish to be disturbed, not even by her kin. The broad expanse of her closed door rejected him, and whatever comfort he might have longed for or been willing to give was not welcome. He bade the women tell Nienor that he had come by, even if she had not been there to receive him, and they dutifully agreed that they would.

And then, at last, he all but ran to his chambers, and he locked the door behind him, barring out the rest of the citadel. Only then did he allow himself to put his hands to his temples and moan softly; his legs might have slipped from under him if he had not made his way to a seat and collapsed into it. He could not allow any other to see him in such a way, not even Faramir and dear Nienor. They must never know what I go through, each day. They would never know.

"Valar help me," he muttered into the stillness of the empty room and the growing dark, for without any candles the light within the walls was fading quickly. "Valar help me, for no other can. I would not be the Steward. I would ride out to battle and defend Gondor's borders and her honor, for all the days of my life, but I would not sit in that hall and bear that rod. Not unless…"

But he could not think that. It could not be, not in ten thousand years.

I stare up at the drapes of my bed. My maids have called through my closed door that Boromir came to see me. Perhaps if I had known I might have roused myself to meet him, but truly it means little to me. My brother has his own fears to fight with, and I have mine. It is not in my power to help him, nor in his to help me.

How strange it is! Each of the Steward's children is caught, in their own way. I know full well how I am caught, but my brothers are trapped just as I. Faramir is held fast by his desire for our father's love and approval. Boromir…I do not know how Boromir is trapped, but I know that he is. His eyes are those of one who is captive, bound by what I cannot tell.

I know what I am bound by, and what will bind me in a month's time. I know that my mother's betrothal ring, taken from her finger at her death and saved for her only daughter, will betroth me to a young lord from the city of Pelargir, in Lebennin. How clever my father is! In that fiefdom a maiden does not need to be twenty years of age to wed. In Minas Tirith we will be betrothed, and then we will go to Pelargir and we will be wed in the city of many ships. How happy I should be! How happy! No one in the world should be more happy than I!

If I hated him for nothing else, I would hate him for this. He has taken the time that I thought I would have away from me. He will take my brothers away from me. He has deceived me. He has tricked me. I trusted him in this. I did not think that he would let me choose my fate, but I trusted him to let me have the time I wanted. He knew I wanted that time, and he has calmly betrayed me, his only daughter. That is worse than this marriage. That hurts more than it will most likely hurt when I am impaled by my new husband in the marriage bed.

What will I do now? What will I do? Truly it is not the marriage that I fear; it is what will come after it…if anything will come after it. I can see my betrothal, I can see myself riding into the city of ships, I can see myself speaking the words that bind me to that…that boy. I can even imagine the wedding night. My brothers think that I am innocent, but I am not. But after that, I can think of nothing. That is what I fear; the darkness beyond what I dream. It is deeper than the shadows of my room. It is nothing. Truly nothing. It is frightening in a manner I can hardly think of. It is the darkness at the corner of my sight, that will pass over my eye and render me blind.

When I was younger – when I was a child - I had dreams of being trapped somewhere, I knew not where, only that it was dark and I was afraid, with Father and Boromir and Faramir standing far away. The darkness pressed in on me and I screamed and yelled for my father and my brothers to come and help me, to save me from being crushed. But no matter how hard I cried they did not come to help me, they did not turn around or even appear to notice me as I slowly drowned, so far away from them.

Long ago, this was only confined to my dreams. But now, it is becoming true. Though my father and brothers stand so close to me, they cannot see my plight, they will not stretch out a hand and pull me back from the brink. How else can this be, that they will let me founder and sink beyond sight? Yet I know why my father does. I know it all too well. To keep up the name of the city he will sacrifice me to tradition, and my brothers are blinded by the very glory of this whole city, so that they cannot see their own flesh and blood.

Damn him, I was happy. I was becoming happy, at last. I had books, I had command. The maids listen to me, and the ladies, they do as I say. They no longer make life hard for me. I was happy. It is a fine thing, to be happy. And he has snatched it away. Will I ever be happy again, far from the gaze of my brothers?

ValarEru, whoever hears me: do not let this wedding happen. Do not let me share this man's bed, or bear his children. Do not let me be sent into the darkness, for I could not survive, I would be crushed. I want to stay in the light, with my brothers. I want to be happy.

Is it so wrong, Valar, for me to be happy?

Boromir is a bit OOC here, but considering that this is an AU, perhaps that shouldn't be so surprising. I think he is rather like the Aragorn of the films – he knows he's expected to become something, but he doesn't want to do that, he wants to do his own thing. Sort of a rebellious teenager, even though he's now twenty-four. I always feel sorry for people who inevitably have a certain role in life; part of the fun of life is making choices for yourself, not knowing what you might become. This is why inheriting a throne or a big business sucks.

So, Boromir doesn't want to be the Steward, hands down. What he wants, though even he doesn't know it yet, is something far more…

Not much Nienor in this. It's pretty obvious already what's been happening to her, and we really don't want to go through all the moaning she's doing about her current situation. Let us just say, for the benefit of all, that she is not a happy bunny.

Pelargir is a 'real place' in Gondor. It's famous for having lots of ships and being attacked a lot by hoards of Mordor, so it's a dubious place to live in. Some kinslaying also took place there, apparently, with the grandsons o Castamir, a rebel, killing King Minardil. Has anyone noticed that kinslayings and strifes always seem to take place near boats?

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