Boromir's Return

by Osheen Nevoy

Boromir awakens from his death and finds himself in an unexpected situation. Basically book universe with some AU bits, but inspired by Sean Bean. Complete, after nine years as a work-in-progress.

25. Chapter 25: The Funeral of Denethor

Greetings to all! Miraculously, I am managing to post this less than two years after the previous chapter. Our twins are now two-and-a-half, and life is getting onto something more like an even keel. With that has come a sudden and unexpected upsurge in creativity.

The revised estimate for the tale is that it will be twenty-nine chapters long. The next chapter is the third portion of what was originally intended as one chapter, and I already have a large portion of it written. So, fingers and all other digits crossed, there's a chance that it might be posted before too hideously long.

My new goal is to get this tale finished before its ten-year anniversary, which would be in February 2012 ...

I hope someone is still interested in reading this! To that someone or someones, enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Five

Departures and Returns, Part Two: The Funeral of Denethor

In the morning, heavy clouds wreathed the sky. I had a grim suspicion that the weather would follow its pattern of the day of Théodhild, Éoflæd and Findemir's funeral, once again drenching us in the rain that matched the despair I had felt on that day.

But my fears did not come to pass. The clouds shredded as the sunset and the hour of the ceremony approached. In the sky over Mindolluin, those clouds took on a thousand jewelled hues.

It was no easy day, I fear, for Peregrin Took. He had a frantic energy about him, as though he longed to leap either to combat or to flight. At one point I offered that he might go and practice his readings more, if that would make him feel better. But he shook his head vigorously and said, "No, that'd just make it worse. I just need to keep working, to take my mind off it."

"You will be fine, Pippin," I said to him, kneeling and gripping his shoulders in my hands. "You will be fine, I swear it to you. You did the readings excellently last night. You will do so again today."

"I just … I feel sick," Pippin admitted. He smiled, indeed, a very queasy smile. "It's as bad as when your father asked me to teach him songs of the Shire. I thought I was going to die of shame. To think of singing tavern songs for the Steward of Gondor!"

Bleakly, the Hobbit shook his head. "I wish I had sung them for him, now. I'd go back and sing them for him now, if I could."

Svip did not seem to catch our young friend's nervousness. Through the day he held fast to the grim determination with which he'd thrown himself into studying past Stewards' funerals.

In grimness of my own I contemplated my two comrades. Pippin, I thought, had a much better chance of a happy outcome than did Svip. I believed that Pippin would play his part well, and was like to emerge from the experience with renewed and strengthened confidence in himself. But I feared for Svip's chances of gaining the goal that he sought.

If he went through our rituals and did not find his grieving cured by them, what then?

What answers would he find for himself, if all the answers we had tried to give him seemed to come to nothing?

It was all very well to tell him to be patient, to tell him that his sorrow would ease in time. However long-lived Svip's people might be, it seemed their great life spans gave no help to them in enduring the pain of the present.

Perhaps, I thought gloomily, their long lives even made this grief worse. We Men, at least, knew we had only two hundred years of life at the most to get through. And we could hope for some kind of change in perspective and understanding at the end of it. But to know that perhaps millennia stretched out before you … to fear that for all that time you would feel every bit as miserable as you did now …

I told myself I should seek the advice of Legolas on this problem, when he returned with the army to Minas Tirith. But I suspected that the Elves themselves had discovered no real answer to the dilemma.

Perhaps it was this that sent them journeying across the sea: that they might escape to a land where death and loss were troublous memories they no longer had to face. And, I thought, if that were so, then I could hardly blame them.

At least, I kept reminding myself in the attempt to add some levity to my thoughts, we could all be very grateful on this day that we were not Lord Húrin Keeper of the Keys. That unfortunate nobleman was in a state worse by far than was Pippin. I feared the strain of managing a Steward's funeral would age him several decades before the ceremony drew to its end.

Through all that day, our people in their hundreds streamed back into the City, from Lossarnach and the White Mountains' garrisons. The streets, courtyards and houses of Minas Tirith seemed bursting again into life, like a flower opening suddenly to the sun. And when the sun began to dip toward Mindolluin's shadows, it seemed that every soul within the City's walls made their way to the Courtyard of the White Tree.

As the bells of the Citadel pealed the hour, sweet and clear, the funeral party set forth from the Council chamber where we had assembled.

Faramir led our procession. I followed after him, with Svip behind me. Next behind Svip, Pippin walked alongside Cosimo the Steward's Seneschal, to aid the stalwart old Man should his footing falter. Master Pelendur Physician to the Steward followed next, the last of we who would speak in the ceremony.

After him walked our royal allies of Rohan: Éomer King, the Lady Éowyn with Merry in attendance, and Elfhelm the Marshal. A few paces behind them followed the grim-faced Keeper of the Keys.

Of that procession, all were clad in the black and silver of the House of the Stewards, save for the Rohirrim. They wore the vivid green that seemed as ever to evoke the great, open grasslands of their home.

Near as familiar to me as the livery of our own House were those green surcoats with the white horse blazoned on the bosom of each. Yet I will admit that my thoughts wandered with unseemly frequency to how the livery had been altered for one of their number, in the form of the green gown worn by the White Lady of Rohan.

That dress had assuredly been made for her by seamstresses here in the City. It fit her entirely too well for it not to have been cut to her measure.

Sternly I had to remind myself – more than once – that it would not do at all for me to be caught staring at how Rohan's rampant white horse appeared on that particular garment.

When the Rohirrim had arrived in the Council chamber, the lady smiled faintly at me, and at Faramir. That was all, yet it set my blood to racing.

With some effort I forced my thoughts to the Lord Steward Denethor. Yet even that did not bring the solemnity that was appropriate.

Instead I imagined that I heard my Lord father chuckling at my discomfiture.

It is about time, son, I imagined I heard his sharp voice rally me. Couldn't you have got around to daydreaming on ladies' bosoms a bit sooner?

This is splendid, Boromir, thought I. Here you have Peregrin Took and Lord Húrin of the Keys each about to drop dead of nerves as they walk, Svip with his life irrevocably altered by grief to which you introduced him, and an entire kingdom in mourning. And you are thinking thoughts appropriate to a fourteen-year-old!

My father's imagined voice riposted, Better late than never.

We passed into the vastness of the Tower Hall. The majesty of that hallowed room pulled my mind away from such inappropriate wanderings.

The echoing of our footsteps conjured for me the tread of all who had walked this path before us. In my mind our steps became those of each new Steward who had walked from this Hall, to the long passage beyond, and from thence to the Court of the Fountain, to honour the memory of his fallen father. And farther back still, our steps became the tread of the kings.

We strode at last from the Tower into the evening light of the Court of the White Tree. One by one we climbed to the stage that Lord Húrin's Men had constructed before the Tower door, and we filed to stand before the seats at the back of the dais. To the platform's either side, two detachments stood at attention: at our right, Men of the Citadel Guard; to the left, the Riders of Rohan.

When we stepped through the Tower door, an oddly muted rush of sound rose to meet us. It was the sound of thousands of whispers, rising and hastily stilled, and an intake of breath that seemed to come from all of the White City.

I do not recall enough of our grandfather's funeral to know if the Courtyard was as crowded then as it was for our father's. Most like it was. But it seemed to me that I had never before seen the Court of the Fountain so filled with our people as I saw it now on this day.

The Courtyard had vanished in a sea of faces and flowers. Our people seemingly had stripped their gardens of every flower already in bloom, and I reckoned that the flower-sellers in the market must have seen brisk trade. Impatiently I told myself there was no point in worrying now over how much the vendors of the City might have seen fit to raise the price of flowers.

People had been gathering for hours, and a few were arriving still. As each Man, woman or child reached the Court of the Fountain, they made their way along the corridor kept open through the centre of the courtyard, to the Fountain of the White Tree. There they left their offerings of flowers around the Fountain's base. The walls of the Fountain were buried in a towering mountain of blossoms.

From the sides of that mountain, flowers slid downward, into the water of the Fountain itself. I watched white flowers drift in the glimmering water. I thought this must be almost how it had looked when the White Tree still bloomed.

In the first glimpse I would have said that every person in the City stood now in the Courtyard of the Tree. But that of course was not so. The guards at the Great Gate and on the walls, and some of the staff of the Houses of Healing, were still at their posts. So also were the trumpeters of Minas Tirith.

From the Great Gate, from each of the seven walls, and from atop the White Tower, the trumpets called in unison. For one final time they sounded the Fanfare for the Steward in honour of Denethor Son of Ecthelion.

The final ringing tone of the trumpets vanished into silence. As one, all of the funeral party save for Faramir took our seats. Faramir stepped forward to the podium that stood draped in the white and silver banner of the Stewards.

Attendants had arrayed all the readings on the podium in the proper order. But I knew that Faramir would not need to read his first text, no more than I needed mine.

His voice rang out as clearly as had the silver trumpets of our City.

"Hear now the lineage of Denethor Son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, of the House of Húrin."

Before that hushed assembly, Faramir spoke the names of our longfathers, each Man in his turn. From Húrin of Emyn Arnen, Steward to the Kings Minardil, Telemnar and Tarandor, each son followed after his father, through the centuries, until at last Faramir spoke the name of Steward Túrin I.

He returned then to his place amongst us. I stepped forward to the podium, my voice succeeding his as we summoned each Man of our line.

Many of the Men whose names Faramir spoke will be nothing more than names and distant stories to us, until perhaps the day when we shall pass beyond the spheres of this world and meet each of them face to face. But our ancestors whose names I spoke had each of them a face that we knew.

I saw, as I spoke, the cold and pallid faces of the Men who lay in their motionless ranks in the House of the Stewards. As I spoke, I saw each face come to life, and I heard each one speaking with me: each Man of them speaking in awe and love and grief the names of his longfathers.

At last, after all that mighty host, came the two whom in truth I knew.

"Ecthelion, Son of Turgon. Denethor, Son of Ecthelion."

I stepped aside then from the podium, but did not yet return to my seat. Instead I stood by to give any help that might be needed, as Cosimo the Seneschal walked to the podium in his turn.

The old gentleman's step was necessarily slow, and he kept a steadying grip upon Pippin's shoulder as he walked. But he did not falter. Nor did his voice falter, when he began the readings from the Great Chronicle of Gondor.

Dry and with little emotion in them are the words of the Great Chronicle, as they recount each Steward's accession, the Council sessions of his reign, the military campaigns, and any remarkable portents of the weather. Yet as Cosimo Son of Gardar began to read the chronicle entries of my father's reign, I heard a fierce pride in the old Man's voice. Answering pride rose in my own heart.

By the gods, it was good to hear those readings proclaimed before the people of our City, to hear the words of the chronicle reaffirm for all of us the image of Lord Denethor as I wished him to be remembered. The Steward who rose out of Cosimo's words was not the old Man warring against his own grief and despair. He was the Denethor who had led our forces into battle, who with his deeds and his words kept hope alive in the hearts of our people.

His reading complete, Cosimo made his way back to the line of chairs, with Pippin and me at his either side. Master Pelendur the Physician stood and clasped his old friend's hand for a moment before the Seneschal took his seat. Then Pelendur strode to the podium, and took up the account of those early years of my father's reign.

Pride sounded in Pelendur's voice as it had in Cosimo's, but also a hint of the dark memories held for him in every battle's name that he read forth. This was no simple history for him, but the tale of his own life. Each time the Lord Denethor rode into battle, Pelendur the Healer had been by his side.

For many of our people in the Courtyard, Pelendur's words brought memories as well – of their own experiences in those battles, or of loved ones lost. As I glanced over the crowd I saw some of them nod as though in remembrance. Others bowed their heads or reached to brush away tears.

A gusty exhalation of breath drew my attention back to the funeral party. The sigh came from Pippin, who was rubbing his palms on his breeches. I caught his eye, smiled and nodded. The Hobbit managed the palest of smiles in reply.

Then Master Pelendur was returning to his seat. Pippin jumped down from his chair and strode forward in his turn.

This Steward's funeral had its own unique feature. A second, shorter podium stood next to the first, draped like the first by the Stewards' white and silver banner. As Pippin stepped to his place at this podium, a low tide of whispers rose up from the crowd: those who had been in Minas Tirith through the siege, attempting to explain the Prince of the Halflings to their neighbours and kinfolk who had only just returned.

The whispers quickly stilled. Peregrin Son of Paladin began his reading, in a strong, clear voice that only occasionally shook.

I had told Pippin that he would make my father proud of him. In that, I was certain I was right. And by all the gods, I was proud of him as well.

I could not help but think of the first time I had seen him, in Rivendell, and recall the doubt I had felt when first I learned that he and Merry were to make two of the Fellowship. In mighty contrast were those two Peregrin Tooks: the irresponsible child I had thought him then, and the young warrior who stood bravely before us now, proclaiming the words of the Chronicle of Gondor in the accents of his distant Shire.

Then Pippin's reading also was completed. Svip sprang down from his chair and brushed past Pippin as the Hobbit returned. Pippin tried to reach out to him and clasp his shoulder as they passed each other, but the water creature strode by without meeting his eyes. For a moment Pippin stood watching Svip with a concerned and disappointed look.

Again the whispers arose as Svip stepped to the smaller podium. Again they were rapidly silenced. Though I could not see Svip's face, I imagined the challenging stare which with I thought he must now be answering the people of Minas Tirith.

I had grown so used to Svip that it took me a moment to recollect how strange he had seemed to me when first I awoke and saw him, and to imagine how odd he must appear to our people who had just returned to the White City.

Svip's reading was flawless, his voice as strong as that of any who had spoken this day. I thought that few in the Courtyard of the Tree would catch the fierce grimness of his tones; most would take it only for the natural accents of his people. I could not help hearing in my mind the irrepressible chatter with which he had greeted me on my return from the dead. I could not help hearing it, and wondering if in truth I would ever hear it again.

But there was no time for me to let such doubts hold sway over me. Already Svip's reading was nearing its end.

In the silence that followed the last of his words, I stood. Svip stalked back to us, as grimly glowering as ever.

I stepped forward once more, pushing my concern for my friend to the back of my thoughts.

Dark were the days of which I now spoke. We had reached now the closing years of Lord Denethor's reign, years when in truth it was easy to believe that all hope was lost. I spoke of battles and losses that I remembered too well. Regret clutched again at my heart, that my father had died in that dark time, believing that all he had fought for was gone.

I spoke the last of my reading, and I felt the pitiless bite of unshed tears. Through their haze I turned and stepped aside for Faramir to speak the last of the ceremony's readings.

As I once more took my seat beside Peregrin Took, I heard my own sorrow in my brother's voice.

Strange indeed it was to think of the times in which we now dwelt, and to hear Faramir recite the chronicle's entries on the year past.

Last summer's battle for Osgiliath, with the dread appearance of the Black Captain.

The dream of omen that had sent me questing for Imladris.

The massing of our Enemy's forces, and the days through which we had just passed: evacuation of the Sun Land and the White City, the day when the sun rose no more, battle at Cair Andros and Osgiliath, finally the Siege of Minas Tirith.

All of us lived again those black times as he spoke them. And we lived, as well, that which followed.

The return of the daylight. Lord Denethor leading the troops of the City into battle. The deeds of the Rohirrim, the death of Théoden King, Lady Éowyn's slaying of the King of the Nazgûl. The arrival of the pirate fleet bearing our allies of the southlands – and led by Lord Aragorn of the Dúnadain.

As my brother spoke the words of the Great Chronicle, I felt a sudden strange surge of wonder and regret.

When dawn next rose over the White City, our time of mourning would officially be at its end. We would have said our farewells, and we would live no more in the reign of the Steward Denethor.

I did not want our mourning to end. Yet at the same time, the thought of that dawn brought with it whispers of anticipation and hope.

There came at last the chronicle's final entry.

The Keeper of the Chronicle had come to me some days after my father's death, and asked me how the final entry should read. The chronicle entries are dry affairs as a rule, with little in them of what motivated their subject's acts. But when I thought of how it would read to Men of future Ages, I could not let it rest as a bald recounting of actions. There must be at least some explanation, that Men in days to come might not think the Lord Steward had ventured to the far shore of Anduin in time of war, with no other escort than his esquire, from simple foolishness.

Faramir spoke now the words upon which the chronicle's Keeper and I had agreed.

"The Lord Denethor, ill and troubled in mind, crossed the Great River to join the fight against the Enemy, accompanied only by his esquire Peregrin Son of Paladin, the halfling. Captain-General Boromir and his comrade Svip of the Duinhirrim followed, seeking to convince the Steward to return.

"At Ostoher's Hill, these four gave battle to an Orc War Party. Two score Orcs they slew. In combat, fighting for his comrades and his City, the Lord Steward was slain. Thus ended the days of Denethor Son of Ecthelion, twenty-sixth Reigning Steward of the House of Húrin."

Faramir's words were succeeded by one moment of quiet, broken only by muffled sobbing here and there throughout the crowd. Then once more the trumpets of the City rang out the Fanfare for the Steward. But this time they honoured not our fallen lord, but the Man who stood before us: the Lord Steward Faramir Son of Denethor.

Silently we waited until the trumpets' call had faded. Then, in ranks two abreast, the Guards of the Citadel led our procession forth, across the courtyard down the pathway left open for us by the throngs of our people. In the same order as before, we followed, led by the Steward Faramir. Behind us, their spears turned downward in mourning, marched the Riders of Rohan.

Through the Citadel gate the procession slowly passed. Through the torchlit shadows of the tunnel we paced, hollow echoes of our footsteps sounding from the tunnel's walls. Passing again into the evening's light, we followed the road of the Sixth Level, westward past the Citadel stables and the Houses of Healing, to Fen Hollen, the Closed Door.

The Citadel Guard filed into place, taking up their posts to either side of the road. Between their silent ranks walked Faramir, until he faced the aged Porter, standing before the Closed Door.

As he and his longfathers had spoken before, times without number, the old Man gave the ritual challenge: "Who seeks admission unto the Silent Street?"

And Faramir answered him, "Those who weep for Denethor Son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor."

Then the Porter bowed to him and unlocked the door. Silently it swung back, and Faramir now led us down the steps of the curving road to Rath Dínen and the Mansions of the Dead.

For our people who had gathered in the Court of the Fountain, their duty to the Lord Denethor was ended. It was with a twinge of wistfulness that I imagined them filing from the Citadel and wending their way through Minas Tirith's streets. Homeward their paths led them now, to their daymeals, and, for many, to the tears and laughter of reunion with kin only this day returned to the White City.

For us, a night of duty remained. Our path led along the cobbles of Rath Dínen, between the pallid domes that guard the sleep of Gondor's fallen nobles and captains, and at last to the broad staircase before the House of the Stewards. Up those stairs and out of the evening's last sunlight we walked, into the dust and shadows of that ancient hall.

On the marble table where my father lay, the candles at each corner already were lit. They would burn through all the long night ahead, until they guttered out in the coming of the dawn.

As we passed, each of us paused to bow before the body of Théoden King. Then slowly we of the funeral party took our places around the bier of the Lord Steward Denethor. The Citadel Guardsmen and the Riders of Rohan took up their posts on guard, along the great chamber's walls.

Side by side at the table's head stood Faramir and I. At its foot stood our royal allies, Éomer King and the Lady Éowyn. To the right of the table a chair had been placed for Cosimo the Steward's Seneschal, and opposite it, another for Pelendur the Physician. Little need, I suspected, had Pelendur for that chair. I was certain that he had requested it to save Cosimo the shame of being the only one of us to sit throughout this night. At the side of Cosimo's chair stood Peregrin Took, with Elfhelm the Marshal of Rohan next to him. Across from them stood Svip and Meriadoc Brandybuck.

When each of us had reached his place, Húrin Keeper of the Keys took his own, standing guard just within the open door of the House of the Stewards.

Faramir stepped closer to our father, leaned down and placed a kiss upon his brow. My brother returned to his place, and I stepped closer in my turn.

From across my shoulder I lifted the baldric that bore the Horn of Gondor. The broken Horn was bound together still with the bands of silver that my father had ordered placed upon it, when it returned to him from the Great River as a token of his lost son.

All this day, for one final time, I had worn the Horn of Gondor. Now I would wear it no more.

Faramir and I had spoken of this, and agreed that here with our longfathers was where the Horn belonged.

Heirloom of our house though it was, it had always been an heirloom with practical purpose. Now that Horn of Gondor could sound no more, little point was there in passing it down to future Steward's Heirs. Let it lie here with the Men who had borne it, by the side of the Lord Denethor, that he might guard it in death as he had carried it with honour in life. Here it would lie even as Gondor's crown lay in the House of the Kings, upon the bosom of Eärnur who had worn it at the last – save only that the crown might one day soon be carried forth to grace the brow of another king, while the Horn of Gondor would rest here until the end of all days.

As I placed the Horn by my father's side, I could not help but smile at a memory that had come to me.

I saw myself again a callow youth, all gangly limbs and glorious dreams, and I remembered the dread with which I had faced the first moment when I must sound the Horn. Well I recalled my horror at the thought that I might fail to call forth any proper sound, and would summon instead some desperate croak that should brand me an unworthy successor to all past Steward's Heirs. Well also I remembered my wondering pride when its call sounded pure and true, as though the Horn recognised its rightful owner and had itself imparted to me the strength and skill to wield it.

Another memory came unbidden, at which again I smiled: Lord Elrond's scolding when I sounded the Horn, as the Fellowship set forth from Imladris. All too well I could see how I must have appeared to the Elf-Lord: a posing fool who could not take one step on a journey without tooting a horn to announce his prowess.

Yet still I would argue that point with him, although my brother might well smile and shake his head and take Lord Elrond's side in the debate.

When I sounded the Horn at the start of each voyage, the thought was with me that I summoned each of my ancestors, each Man who in his turn had borne the Horn of Gondor. That ritual for me had been almost a prayer, a prayer that I might worthily bear the charge that was laid upon me. Always the call of the Horn had lightened my heart and my steps, no matter how dark might be the journey before me.

I let my hand rest for one moment longer upon the Horn. Then I stepped back, away from the Horn of Gondor and from my father.

We stood in silent vigil for the Lord Denethor as the day's last light slowly faded. The four candles gave the only light, until the full moon touched the hall's high windows, to cast its silver glow alike upon the faces of living and dead. For long hours the moon stood our companion. Then it too sank away, leaving the candles and the first hint of the dawn.

In the hour of the dawning, the candles died. Still we stood at our posts, as the morning crept through the open door.

The bell of the Citadel rang once, its single note summoning us from the realm of death.

With our vigil's end, no such ceremony was upon us as had held sway in its beginning. Each of the funeral party was free now to speak to his companions as he chose. Faramir and I shared a quick embrace and a weary smile. Then I went to join Pippin in helping Master Cosimo from his chair, while Faramir crossed to converse in quiet tones with Éomer and Éowyn of Rohan.

In slowness born now more of weary limbs than of the etiquette of funeral, we made our way once more to the Silent Street. Svip was the last of us to step away from Lord Denethor's bier. I held out my hand to him and spoke his name. He tore his gaze from my father's face and reluctantly walked to my side.

"We must leave him now, Svip," I said. "Our duty to him is finished. We can do nothing more for him."

"Nothing?" he whispered. As we walked together from the House of the Stewards, I knew that my friend did not have the answers he sought.

In the street our procession re-formed, while the halls of cold marble at our either side gleamed in the light of the morning. The Citadel Guards and the Riders of Rohan followed us. Last of all came Húrin Keeper of the Keys, crossing into daylight and closing the door to the House of the Stewards behind him.

---

By the Porter's cottage at Fen Hollen, a messenger awaited our return from the Silent Street. One of Uncle Imrahil's Swan Knights, he had arrived in Minas Tirith long enough ago to remove the stains of travel, and he looked more rested by far than we who had passed the night on vigil in the Hallows.

Clearly the knight had been informed of events in the City and the change in succession. He bowed to Faramir and greeted him, "Hail, Steward of Gondor. I am Finarphir Son of Celepharn. I bear letters from My Lord the Prince of Dol Amroth and from Lord Aragorn of the Dúnedain."

"Hail and welcome, Sir Knight," Faramir replied. "I go to the Tower Hall for the Ceremony of Investiture, and will read your letters after, if their content will permit of the delay. Yet tell me first what you can: how fare your lord and our armies? Where did you part from them?"

Finarphir departed from formality to allow himself a grin of delight. "At the Field of Cormallen, My Lord, and I left them in victory! From the Black Gate we marched on Cair Andros, and there took the fortress after two days of fighting. The Orcs who held the island are put to the sword. It is two days since I set forth, and none of the foe did I see on all the road from Cormallen to the White City. Our army is like to be not far behind me; the captains proposed setting out on the day after I left, if certain of the wounded were felt to be well enough rested. Prince Imrahil bade me assure you in person, My Lords," – this last he said looking from Faramir to me – "that the army will encamp at the Causeway Forts, and the Lord of the Dúnedain proposes making no request of the Council until he has consulted with you and learned how things may stand in Minas Tirith."

"I thank you for this news," said Faramir. He glanced behind us to where Pippin and Merry, among our comrades, both looked ready to burst from the strain of not leaping in with their questions. "There is more I would ask you. You made mention of the wounded. Know you among them two halflings, Frodo Son of Drogo and Samwise Gamgee?"

Again the knight smiled. "They are known to all, My Lord, for it is said that to them we owe the destruction of the Dark Lord himself. They were the wounded of whom I spoke; it is to see them rested and on the road to recovery that the army has lingered at Cormallen. Ere I set forth, both were well enough to leave their tent, and they joined in the feasting after our capture of Cair Andros. I doubt not that their progress continues well, and that our forces have marched ere now."

Pippin finally broke in, "You've seen them?" then he looked abashed until a smile and nod from Faramir reassured him.

"Aye, Master Halfling," the Swan Knight answered, bowing to Pippin, "I saw them at the feast, sitting with Lord Mithrandir, the Lord of the Dúnedain, Prince Legolas and Gimli the Dwarf. No injuries did I see upon them; they seemed tired and worn, but I could see on them no other ill."

"You are welcome for your own sake, Sir Finarphir," Faramir said to him, "as well as for the news you bring. We go now to the White Tower. Will you join the company there, that your lord's people may have representation in the Ceremony of Investiture among the assembled captains?"

The knight bowed his thanks.

When first I explained to our halfling friends the schedule of the funeral and the Ceremony of Investiture, Pippin's reaction had been vintage Hobbit. Appalled, he had stared at me, and protested that the new Steward was given no time to have breakfast. Nor, of course – though Pippin did not mention this – were any of his attendants.

Their determination to serve with honour ensured now that neither Pippin nor Merry made any complaint. Again I thought of how matured they both seemed from when I first had known them, when they had accompanied our journey's first days with a seemingly endless litany on eating.

Through the bright gaze of the morning and the shadows of the Citadel Tunnel we retraced our steps, until we stood in the Court of the Fountain. The Courtyard was empty now of crowds, with only the guards, as usual, at the gate and the Tower door.

Here once again the order of our procession reversed. Húrin of the Keys led the way, the guards bowing and opening the door before him. Éomer, Éowyn and Elfhelm followed, with Meriadoc and their guard of Riders. After them walked the new addition to our party, the Swan Knight Finarphir Son of Celepharn. The Citadel Guards who had been with us in the House of the Stewards marched next through the shadows of that door. Next came the members of the Steward's immediate household: Cosimo, Pelendur, Pippin, Svip, and finally the Lord Steward's brother and heir.

Faramir would be the last of us to enter the Hall: taking the final steps in his journey to the Stewardship.

We strode once more through the stillness of that long passage, accompanied by the echoes of our footsteps. Once more we stepped through the gleaming Great Door, into the sunlit majesty of the Tower Hall.

This time our procession was watched not only by the cold sightless eyes of the statues of Gondor's kings. Ranked at the Hall's either side, standing before the black pillars and the images of the kings, were the assembled councillors, guildleaders and captains of Gondor.

The far end of the Hall was empty, save for Lord Húrin's secretary Miroslav, standing to the right of the Steward's chair. He held, on a cushion draped with the black and silver of Gondor, the White Rod of the Steward.

The Rohirrim and the lone representative of Dol Amroth took their places to the left of the Steward's Chair. We of the household and the Citadel did the same to the right. The place of Húrin of the Keys was immediately to the right of the chair, close enough to me that I could mark the sheen of sweat at his brow and his bowstring-taut stance.

For Húrin's sake more than for any of the rest of us, thought I, I thank the Valar that this is nearly over!

When all of us had taken our places, Faramir Son of Denethor strode alone into the Tower Hall.

Svip, at my side, reached up to touch my hand when Faramir appeared. Though I am certain it did not accord with the solemnity of the moment, I smiled down at him and took his hand.

And I smiled as I watched my brother approach the chair of our ancestors.

It is right for him to do this, I thought. It is right that he should be the one to take the White Rod today.

And by all the gods, I was glad to be alive to see it. Glad that our fates had so been spun that he took the office of Steward while I was by his side, to serve him and to fight for him – instead of lying a distant corpse beneath the Rauros Falls.

Faramir gave me the smallest of smiles as he reached the Steward's chair. Then he turned and stood before it, to face our people.

Húrin Keeper of the Keys took the White Rod and held it out before Faramir. My brother in turn reached out and clasped his hand upon it.

Lord Húrin declared, "Faramir Son of Denethor: Accept from my hand the White Rod of the Stewards, and with it the powers and duties of thy office."

Húrin released the White Rod from his grasp and stepped back. Faramir stood alone, holding high the Rod of the Stewards before the people of Gondor.

Faramir spoke, his voice ringing strong and true. "I, Faramir Son of Denethor, by right of blood succession Reigning Steward of Gondor: Here do I swear to mete out justice and mercy, to guard with vigilance and honour the welfare of my people, and from the chair of my ancestors to bear faithful rule."

It was now the turn of the captains, lords and councillors assembled. As all of us who served in Gondor's armed forces had done before, when first we were officially accepted into service, the company knelt, facing Faramir and the Throne of the Kings behind him. As one we repeated the Oath of Fealty.

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the Realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end."

And Faramir gave the ritual reply. "And this do I hear, Faramir Son of Denethor, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance."

He lowered his hand that clasped the White Rod of Office, and for the first time he took his seat – in the chair of our ancestors, and of our father.

All of us rose to our feet. I cast smiling glances to Pippin at one side of me and Svip at the other. Pippin was grinning widely, looking near as proud of Faramir as I was myself. Svip gazed at me solemnly, with an expression that I was not able to read.

The Ceremony of Investiture was over. With measured tread our councillors, captains and allies began to file from the Tower Hall. Svip, Pippin, Cosimo and Master Pelendur walked four abreast behind all of the others, the last to leave the new Steward's side.

Three only were left in the Hall: Húrin of the Keys, I, and the Lord Steward of Gondor.

Setting the White Rod in its carven mithril holder to the side of the Steward's Chair, Faramir stood. He murmured, "Thank the Valar that's over." Then he grinned at me, and turned to regard the Keeper of the Keys.

Húrin looked more than a little dazed, and as though the weight of the Hill of Guard had been lifted from his shoulders.

Faramir and I cast an amused look at each other as we studied our stunned companion. Then my brother embraced him, which at least served to recall Lord Húrin to himself.

"Congratulations to you, Húrin," said Faramir.

"My Lord?" the Keeper of the Keys asked, with a questioning smile. "I should be saying that to you, should I not?"

Faramir told him, "I think this has been a more sorely trying day for you than it has for me."

"Aye, well," our friend admitted, "I'd not care to go through another like it, that is certain. Do me a favour, My Lord: do not get yourself killed, and be sure that you have a prodigiously long reign. I've no wish to live another day like this one."

"I'll do my best to oblige you," Faramir answered him.

"Thank you for all of it," I added, clasping the Lord of the Keys' hand. "You can take pride in this day's work, and we are deeply grateful to you."

"Thank you, My Lord," he answered, as we shook hands. He looked again to Faramir. "Is there aught else that you require now?"

"No, there is not. Thank you, Húrin."

The Keeper of the Keys bowed and departed through the side door, seizing the advantage of the moment's lack of ceremony to not follow the lengthy path through the Hall that all others had taken.

Left alone, Faramir and I embraced. As we stepped back, we both asked, almost in the same instant, "You are going to get some sleep?"

Some one or other of our longfathers, may his wisdom be blessed – Húrin of the Keys could likely tell us precisely which of our ancestors that was – had decreed that no other official duties should press upon the new Steward for the rest of the day that begins with his Ceremony of Investiture. I am certain that all of his successors have been grateful to him for the option to snatch a few hours in their beds, rather than being plunged headlong into a full day of meetings.

Knowing Faramir, I doubted that he would take much advantage of our longfather's foresight. But I was determined to see to it that he made at least a token effort at sleep.

"I asked you first," Faramir said, grinning wearily at me. "And anyway, I'm the Steward, so you have to answer me."

"Giving yourself airs already?" I teased back. "Yes, all right, I am going to get some sleep. Svip and I are going for our swim, and then I promised Svip, Merry and Pippin breakfast. But then I'll sleep, I promise. And you?"

"Yes," he said. "I will. I'm going to have a look at the dispatches from Imrahil and Aragorn first. I'll send for you if there's anything in them that can't wait, but otherwise I'll just send them on to you. I suppose I'll have something to eat while I'm reading them. But then, yes. I will get some sleep, I promise."

With that vow to each other we headed our separate ways.

Svip was waiting for me in the Court of the Fountain, sitting on the Fountain's wall and trailing his feet in the water.

We had a quiet journey to and from the River that morning. Svip vouchsafed only monosyllabic replies to my few comments, and I determined that what he needed from me now might simply be time. I should not expect some miraculous recovery on his part. I should not think that with the close of my father's funeral, Svip would suddenly bound forth, my ebullient friend as of old. I could only hope that his recovery would come – and that some of it, at least, might come before he left to journey to his home.

On our return to my townhouse we found Pippin and Merry in the courtyard there, keeping themselves awake by engaging in a game of marbles with my young esquire Balamir. Both Hobbits seemed all but asleep on their feet, but they held exhaustion at bay with the marbles and the promise of a decent breakfast.

Dame Weltrude must have been growing used to odd instructions from me regarding the eating habits of my guests. The Mistress of my Kitchen had looked only mildly disapproving this time, when I reminded her of Svip's tastes in raw fish and vegetables, and she accepted with the occasional raised eyebrow my description of Hobbits' culinary practices. I suppose that as a cook she enjoyed the challenge of preparing a meal for such dedicated gormandizers as Hobbits.

My three friends showed every sign of appreciating Weltrude's efforts. Svip made his quiet but steady way through the fish and the salad of radishes and leeks, and the two Hobbits made inroads on the breakfast that a small company of Rangers could scarcely have matched. The mushroom pie that Weltrude had prepared at my suggestion, I was pleased to note, they finished down to the last crumb.

During that breakfast I told our friends what Faramir and I had not been at liberty to tell them until after our father's funeral. I told them of Faramir's and my new status as official suitors of Lady Éowyn.

Pippin greeted the news with open delight. Svip listened with a frown of troubled confusion. Merry seemed more troubled than the water creature, his scowl growing darker the longer I talked.

"You'll each have a role to play in our courtships, I believe, if you are willing," I told them. "Etiquette requires that the lady and her suitor each have an attendant with them during any time spent together. They must remain within sight of those attendants at all times, though expectations are a bit more lax on whether one should always remain in earshot. I should be honoured to have you as my attendant, Svip, if you will. I know Faramir plans to ask you, Pippin; he said he would send for you this afternoon to speak with you of it, after everyone's had a bit of sleep. And I've little doubt that Lady Éowyn will want you to attend on her, Merry."

Svip suddenly demanded, "Is it normal?"

The rest of us turned to him in surprise.

He elaborated, "I mean, so soon after your father ..."

"It is relatively normal," I answered. "We could not officially take our place as suitors until after Father's funeral. But with that now passed, I believe few would judge we are acting over-hastily." With a smile, I added, "Certainly I think Father would have no complaint. He expended enough verbiage in urging me to take a wife."

Merry spoke up, still with a pre-occupied frown. "If you have a few minutes, Boromir – if everyone's done – could I speak with you in private?"

As if Merry's expression were not indication enough, for a Hobbit to urge the end of a meal told clearly that something serious was afoot. Pippin cast a few regretful glances at the recently refilled teapot and a brimming plate of scones, but he offered to walk Svip back to the Fountain. When they left, Pippin was telling Svip about courting customs in the Shire.

"What is it, Merry?" I asked, when the two of us were alone.

"It isn't easy to talk about," he said. "And it's probably not my place to tell you about it, either. But I just feel – there are some things that might affect your actions. Things you ought to know."

I nodded, and waited.

"In Rohan, before we rode with the Éored ... there was a warrior that Lady Éowyn admired. I don't know for certain, but I think – I think she told him of her feelings, and he told her that his heart was already pledged. And after that, that's when she disguised herself as Dernhelm and rode to Minas Tirith."

Merry went on in haste, "I don't mean that's the only reason she went with the Éored. It isn't, I'm sure of that. She did want to fight for her people, and she couldn't bear being left at home to wait. But I think – I think if he'd told her something different, she might have decided differently. I think what he told her helped her feel that there wasn't any hope. That the only thing left for her was to fight and hopefully be killed."

Solemnly he told me, "I know you and Faramir wouldn't willingly do anything to hurt her. I just thought – that maybe if you knew about this, it might change something you say or do. I thought it might help if you knew."

"Thank you, Merry," I said to him. "Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me."

My young Hobbit friend took his still-scowling departure, leaving me to ponder the insight he had given me.

Bloody hell, I thought. Bloody hell, it is Aragorn, isn't it?

The Chieftain of the Dúnedain fit the timing and description perfectly. A mysterious paladin arriving in Rohan just as the darkness was descending on all of us; I could see that he might have seemed to bring hope and adventure to a valiant lady whose life had seemed devoid of both. And Aragorn fit the description of one whose heart was pledged, since he was betrothed to Arwen the Daughter of Elrond.

It matters nothing, I told myself. Aragorn's not a rival that either you or Faramir need concern yourselves about, because he's been silly enough to get himself betrothed to that haughty Elven piece.

The instant I had thought it, I took myself to task for thinking of the lady with such disrespect.

But, I thought with a mental shrug, I have been all night at my father's funeral and I've just learned that the lady I am courting may harbour fondness for the Man whom my father hated most in Middle Earth – well, and with whom I have a somewhat troubled history, too. I think I may be forgiven a few less-than-polite thoughts.

The more I thought on it, the more I believed I'd been correct in my guess that Aragorn was the warrior of whom Merry spoke.

I thought back to the morning when our armies marched for the Black Gate. I recalled Lady Éowyn riding along the column to speak for some moments with Aragorn, and I remembered her angry blush and the bleak look upon her face as she rode back to join those of us who remained behind.

I'm an idiot, aren't I, I thought, not to have realized it before.

I wondered if Faramir had already discerned Éowyn's feelings. Knowing his usual insight, he probably had. It was no surprise that he had not mentioned it to me. Quite apart from the fact that it would be highly indelicate for us to discuss the lady's feelings, Faramir probably assumed that I'd go into some sort of legendary rage if I learned that Aragorn was our rival on this front, on top of everything else.

Doubtless he would not mention it to Éowyn, either, unless she spoke of it first. And no more would I.

If Aragorn was indeed the Man in Merry's revelation, I did not believe he was an active rival to Faramir and me. Nothing I had seen of him gave me cause to think that he would betray his betrothed, or ever take any liberties with a lady. Whether he might be our passive rival, however, that I did not know. If her regard for him led Lady Éowyn to reject our suits ...

Well, and what if it does? I demanded of myself. In truth, such an outcome was the best we could hope for in those circumstances. We would have to trust that the lady's honesty and noble heart would indeed cause her to turn us down, rather than accept either of us while she still nursed hopeless dreams of the Ranger of the North.

Nothing ever can be simple, can it? I thought. Valar, perhaps I should take the easy route and marry Húrin of the Keys' sister. Only then I would have to listen to her for the rest of my life.

I left the Great Hall and betook myself to my office. Gavrilo had been waiting for me to emerge from breakfast, and delivered to me the packet of letters sent on by Faramir.

Faramir had accompanied the letters with a brief covering note. In this he told me that the official dispatches both from Imrahil and Aragorn were addressed to our father, since at the time of penning these, they'd had no tidings of his death. Both were formal reports of the battles met by the Army of the West. In Aragorn's case, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain had added that he would encamp with our forces at the Causeway Forts, and there wait until he could consult with the Lord Steward upon our next course of action. Faramir mentioned also that Aragorn had included letters to Merry and to Pippin, which Faramir had now sent on to them.

I turned to my own letters from Imrahil and Aragorn. Both included accounts of their battles, but they were far from being official dispatches.

Uncle Imrahil had not forgotten his promise to me on the day they marched for Mordor, to bring me back a detailed description of the Desolate Lands. True to his sense of humour, he had turned his description into a tongue-in-cheek travelogue. Nor was his letter all he had sent to me. Knowing of my collection of maps, my uncle sent what he titled "A New and Complete Map of the Lands of Shadow," with the locations of all our army's camps, skirmishes and battles marked upon it.

The map is little more than a sketch, yet it now holds a place of pride in my collection, as a souvenir of so pivotal a moment in the life of our country. Uncle Imrahil drew it himself, and included copious notations in his inimitable style. I grinned as spread out the map on my desk and studied it. The straightforward notations such as "Here the Men of the West skirmished with a force of Orcs and Easterlings," "Here all vegetation ceases," and "Here Prince Legolas of Mirkwood first sighted Nazgûl overhead" were interspersed with comments like "Here the Prince Imrahil sliced open one of his boot soles upon a razor-sharp rock, and had to mend it with a sewing kit borrowed from Lord Aragorn of the Dúnedain."

Setting my uncle's map and travelogue aside, I turned with some reluctance to the missive from Aragorn.

The Northman had been careful to make no comment that might incriminate me to my father had he read it, scrupulously steering clear of any reference to his claim to the throne. I was grateful for his delicacy in this, although the fact remained that receiving any correspondence from Aragorn would have been sufficient to earn me the bitter suspicion of my father.

Aragorn's letter, when its brief account of the battles was done, focussed upon the tale of Frodo and Samwise.

Even knowing, as I did, that the two Hobbits had won through to safety – to safety and to the salvation of all of us – I yet thrilled with wonder and fear as I read.

Aragorn penned the account in simple, unvarnished prose, yet the most elaborate of skald's verses could not have held more hair's-breadth escapes or crushing horror.

Aragorn wrote, "You know, from Faramir, of Frodo and Sam's journey from Rauros to Henneth Annun. When they parted from Faramir, they journeyed with Gollum to the Cross Roads and the Morgul-Road. Frodo tells me that although that voyage was haunted by mistrust of their guide, they may well owe their successful passage to the offices of Gollum. He pushed them to move when they needed to, and several times he concealed them from the watchers of the Enemy.

"The Ring, Frodo said, was calling him to Minas Morgul, but Sam and Gollum pulled him back. They had a near brush with the Wraith King, when he set forth with the forces of Morgul for the assault on Gondor. Gollum led Frodo and Sam to a tunnel beneath Cirith Ungol, where their guide betrayed them as they had feared. In, as I suppose, a bid to reclaim the Ring, Gollum lured the Hobbits to the lair of a creature like a gigantic spider, and abandoned them there. Frodo then used the gift that we saw the Lady Galadriel hand to him on our parting from Lothlorien, the phial of light, and for a time the light held their stalker at bay. They had reached the end of the tunnel, at the pass of Cirith Ungol, when Gollum reappeared and attacked Sam, leaving Frodo to face the spider alone. Sam fought off their treacherous guide and reached the scene of battle in time to put the beast to flight. But the creature had already wounded Frodo with its venom, leaving him in a state so that Sam believed him dead."

I had to stop reading for a moment there, and I rubbed my hands over my face. Fury and grief swept through me, that the Hobbits had needed to endure that journey – and that the rest of us had been gone from them, that they had to endure it alone. I cursed, as I had cursed so often before, the Council of the Wise for sending them, Mithrandir for not seeing his way to destroying the Ring years before, when first it reappeared – and myself, for my betrayal at Amon Hen. My betrayal without which, perhaps, the Fellowship might have continued unbroken, with nine of us instead of two, to face together the horrors of that shadow land.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, I compelled myself to continue reading.

Aragorn wrote, "I doubt that any of us can imagine what it cost Sam to leave Frodo there, to take the Ring himself and continue onward alone. Take it he did, and he started into the Nameless Land. Hiding from Orcs, he put on the Ring. It was thus he learned that the Orcs had taken Frodo – not dead, as Sam supposed, but for the moment paralysed by the monster's venom. Determined to rescue his master, Sam followed them.

"Sam told me that when he crossed into Mordor, to the Tower of Cirith Ungol where Frodo was imprisoned, he took off the Ring. He believes that only thus did he escape the Dark Lord's sight. Sam made his way to the Orcs' stronghold, and there found that Frodo's captors were fallen into fighting amongst themselves, quarrelling over their prisoner's mithril shirt. In the midst of this disarray, Sam was able to rescue Frodo, and returned the Ring to him. Together, dressed in clothing taken from the Orcs, they set out once more for the Mountain of Fire.

"It was the day of the Battle of Minas Tirith. Frodo and Sam saw, in the west, the Enemy's darkness break into sunlight, when the Rohirrim rode across the Pelennor Fields and Lady Éowyn slew the Nazgûl King. Revived by the knowledge that some tide of the war might be turning, they were able to press on.

"Neither Frodo nor Sam have spoken much of the remainder of that journey. They kept themselves alive on the water of streams they encountered, and the last remnants of the lembas of Lorien. The armies of Mordor were on the move, marching north as we now know to meet our army's advance. The Hobbits were able to turn this to their advantage for a time, marching with one of the enemy's columns in the guise of two of the smaller Orcs.

"On their journey from time to time they again caught sight of Gollum, tracking them. They made their way onward to Mount Doom, day after endless day, until finally, in the last ebbing vestiges of their strength, they reached its slopes. Crawling up the mountain's path, they were attacked by Gollum, who attempted to seize the Ring. Sam tells me that he would have slain Gollum then, but that some unaccountable impulse stayed his hand. Gollum fled, but yet kept ever upon their trail.

"They came at last to the Crack of Doom. There, Frodo tells me, the Ring made a last bid for its life. Instead of hurling the Ring to destruction, Frodo would have kept it for his own. But in that instant, on the brink of the precipice, Gollum attacked once more. He and Frodo fought for the Ring, and Gollum bit off the Ring and Frodo's finger along with it. And there, whether by accident or to find the peace of self-immolation, Gollum with the Ring in his grasp toppled into the flame.

"Then did the Hobbits truly believe all was at an end for them. But the Great Eagles flew over the battlefield at the Black Gate, while we yet reeled from the cataclysm of the Ring. Mithrandir rode with the Windlords to Orodruin, to seek the Ringbearer and his companion. There, hemmed in by molten rock and fire, Mithrandir and the eagles found them, and bore them to us in safety.

"Days passed before either Frodo or Sam awoke. They came to themselves at last while we were encamped at Cormallen, during our fight to re-take Cair Andros.

"Mad though it seems to say it, after all that they have suffered, I think I can truly state that both of them are well. They are of course yet weak in body, but the great burden that is gone from both of them makes all else seem light."

Aragorn conclued the tale, "I have spoken with Frodo several times since he and Sam awoke. We have spoken of your return, and I believe him when he tells me of his joy to know that you live, and his wish to see you and speak with you as soon as may be. Sam, as you may not be surprised to learn, is less eager for such a meeting. But his master's wishes count for all with him, and knowing that this is what Frodo wants, he will not stand in your way.

"For my part, I look forward with joy even as Frodo does, to the day when the Fellowship of Nine are reunited.

"Your comrade in the service of Gondor, Aragorn."

I carefully folded the letter and put it aside, attempting to put aside also the turmoil of emotions it raised in me.

They are well, I told myself, that is the main thing. They are well, or as well as they can be, and in their victory, all Middle Earth has triumphed. What they endured has won life for our world.

And speaking of life, I thought, there is a letter that I, too, must write.

Swiftly, though trying to take more care of my handwriting than unusual, I penned a note to the Lady Éowyn. I told her that I was at her command; that Council sessions were like to take up many of my mornings, but that any afternoon or evening was hers if she so wished.

Mindful of my vow to Faramir – and hoping that he was equally mindful of his vow to me – I allowed myself that day the luxury of a few hours of sleep. I was rewarded for this responsible behaviour, for when I awoke it was to find that a note awaited me from Lady Éowyn. The Lady of Rohan appointed the next afternoon for our meeting, at the Seventh Hour at the barracks of the Rohirrim.

At the Third Hour that next morn, another day of pure and vivid sunlight, the Council of Gondor assembled for its first official session of Faramir's reign. Not yet a meeting of the full Council, for many of our captains were yet with the army on their return from Mordor, this was the first occasion on which we could formally gather as the Council within the Tower Hall.

A strange experience was that first Council session. Strange without doubt it was for Faramir and for me, but I will wager it was the same for every Man present.

So much seemed unchanged. Almost it could have been any other Council meeting since my fifteenth year when I began attending the Council as fully-invested Captain-General of Gondor. The same Men were seated in that semi-circle of chairs facing the Steward's Chair. There were the same voices and the same arguments, so familiar that more oft than not I could predict the discussion's turns before ever they were spoken.

And yet there was the one great difference, that imparted to all that odd sense of dissonance. It was the lack of my father's voice; the strangeness of hearing the quiet and reasonable tones of Faramir, when beyond a doubt all of us were listening for the cold, flaying sarcasm of Denethor Son of Ecthelion.

As Faramir and I had expected, a major topic of discussion that day was the repairs that I had authorised on Minas Tirith's abandoned houses and the Great Stone Bridge of Osgiliath – repairs for which I had paid from my own purse.

True to my expectation, there was little debate on the work at Minas Tirith. The Council was largely agreed on the necessity of such work, with only slight dark mutterings on the expense. After some token debate they voted to approve the repairs and to authorise my reimbursement.

The Osgiliath reconstruction efforts were a different question entirely.

I did not launch into a presentation on all the plans I had been hatching. Now, with the kingdom yet reeling from the late invasion and with the countless expenses of recovery upon us, was not the time to propose a capital project that demanded the commitment of money and manpower for years or even decades to come.

I did speak briefly of my father's idea that we might re-populate Osgiliath by offering housing to all of our people who would settle there. But that, I acknowledged, was a discussion for another day.

I spoke instead of our work, now more than half concluded, to restore the Great Stone Bridge. I argued that with the plans already drawn up and with all the stones recovered from the bosom of the river, it would be wasteful in the extreme to abandon the work now. When we sought to hearten our people and state our renewed claim to the eastern shore, what better way to assert our fledgling dominion than by rebuilding a permanent link between west and east?

Eppa of the Stonemasons' Guild added his voice to mine in speaking for the project's completion. To be sure – as several other Councillors observed – it was his guild that would receive payment for the project, so it was no surprise that he should speak for it. But there was also the artist's pride at work in his arguments. Greatly would it have galled each Man of the Stonemasons' Guild to see their work abandoned and each lovingly recovered stone left to crumble on Anduin's shore.

The Chief Healer asked if the Stonemasons would be willing to donate the cost of the project. Eppa answered that the guild was already donating its Mens' wages for the work, and the expense to Gondor was at a sizeable discount, reflecting only the costs of the project itself. As the predictable argument began to turn 'round and 'round upon expenses, I interjected that I would swallow the expenses thus far and would happily donate the rest of the cost, if only the Council would give their authority for the project to continue.

This set off another debate. Some of the Councillors argued that Gondor should not become so indebted to any private individual, no matter how prominent, and that it set a dangerous precedent for public works to be funded from out of a private purse.

At last it was Faramir who brought the arguments to an end. "Gentlemen," he said, "if we are all agreed that the project itself serves Gondor, and it is only the expense that troubles us, let us not turn away a gift that is offered out of loyalty to our country. Let us accept Lord Boromir's donation of the expenses to date, and I will add my own donation to his and pay the costs that remain. It will be our private coffers that bear the burden, not the Treasury of the Steward. Will this answer the need?"

The debate had to go on for some minutes more, of course. But in essence it was ended there, for the Lord Steward had spoken.

"And," said Faramir in an undertone to me, as the meeting was dispersing, "we're damned well going to make sure this thing gets named the Boromir and Faramir Bridge. Or," he mused, "maybe the Boromir, Faramir, Zvonimir and Fjolmod Bridge, in honour of our battle and swimming exhibition last summer."

"We're setting a dangerous precedent, you know," I quoted Master Hunthjof of the Brewers' and Vintners' Guild, and I shook my head. "I don't think they need worry about me continuing to follow this particular precedent. Many more civic improvements like this, and the only thing I'll be funding is a pawn shop."

I fear I did but little justice to the nuncheon that Dame Weltrude prepared that day, for the Seventh Hour was rapidly drawing closer.

At last the hour was nigh upon us. Svip met me at my townhouse, and we walked together to the Third Level, to the Barracks of the Rohirrim. Svip seemed his now-usual grim and quiet self. For my part, I strove to quell my nerves and not to feel quite so much like a bashful schoolboy.

We found Éowyn and Merry at the barracks stables. As the lady and I were exchanging greetings, the thought came to me that Merry seemed almost as dour as Svip these days, with a frown the expression one was most likely to see upon him. I thought back to our conversation of a few evenings before, when he had spoken of his doubts on whether he wished to return to the Shire.

I wondered if it were that, still, which troubled him, or if he still harboured concerns about the business of Faramir's and my courtships.

Whatever the cause of his concern, he made an effort on this occasion, and greeted me with a brief, encouraging smile.

Lady Éowyn proposed that we should go for a ride – a suggestion none too surprising, since she was of the Rohirrim. On her question of where we should ride, I answered after a moment's thought, "What of the foothills of Mindolluin? I spent countless hours in my youth climbing the slope there. It provides excellent vantage points over all the City."

We set forth. I rode upon Svip, while Lady Éowyn's steed was one of those she had trained to better endure Svip's presence, and Merry's pony also had gone through some of the training.

We took the ride at an easy canter. Éowyn had left no room for argument when she declared, as we left the Rohirrim barracks, "We have no need for haste, I think. The Healers will thank me not at all if you re-injure your ribs through too great exertion."

The day seemed to have been fashioned for such a pastime as this, to ride forth in the sunshine with the young lady one is courting at one's side.

The joyous spring sunlight seemed to impart added radiance to her beauty, gleaming on the pure snow of her skin and the golden waterfall that was her hair. As I watched her hair fly free behind her, a thought came to me of a comment that my late wife had been wont to make. She had oft observed in joking bitterness, while struggling with wind-knotted tangles in her hair, that some women's hair had an alliance with the wind, and came out looking more silken and attractive than ever, no matter what kind of tempest was blowing.

Her cousin Éowyn, I thought, was one of those women.

When we reached the rise where the foothills begin, we rode for a while longer over the gentle hills that gleamed with a bright spring carpet of white and yellow flowers. We dismounted at the point where the grass and flowers yield to the steeper, rock-strewn slope. Leaving Svip and Merry with the horses – and, I feared, to no very entertaining conversation, given each of them's apparent state of mind – Lady Éowyn and I commenced our climb.

We spoke little until we reached a patch of level ground perhaps a third of the way to Mindolluin's lowest crest. This miniature meadow is blessed with a selection of boulders admirably arranged to serve as seats, and is a spot that has lured many a painter – and, I doubt not, many a trysting couple.

When the Lady of Rohan and I had chosen each a boulder seat, she began, "I hope that this ... situation will not cause ill feeling between you and the lord your brother."

I was almost certain I detected a trace of humour behind her usual solemnity.

"We are determined that it will not," I said. "I hope, Lady, that the obligation to spend time with both of us is not too great an interference in your life. I know that you value your time with the patrol. If I should seek too much of your time, do not hesitate to tell me …"

Now she smiled in definite amusement. "My Lord, of my own will I consented to consider both of your suits. And it helps to prevent me finding time on my hands, for which I am truly grateful. I see you do not know: since my brother's return to Minas Tirith he has forbade me to continue riding with the patrol."

"I see," I said. I was taken aback at the news. I found myself wondering, Can Éomer be so courageous – and so foolhardy – as to prevent his sister from serving a cause she so loves?

Rohan's new king was a brave Man, of that there could be no doubt. His wisdom, on the other hand, left a great deal to be desired.

"I am sorry," I told Éomer's sister.

"Riding in defence of one's people is not fitting, apparently, for the sister of a king," Éowyn observed, her smile touched slightly with scorn. "Since I suspect that my brother's idea of what is fitting consists of sitting by the window doing needlepoint, I am grateful to you and Lord Faramir for any time you can spare me from that."

"My Lady," said I, "it will be my honour to rescue you from needlepoint at any time you may wish."

She bowed her head to me in thanks. For a moment she glanced away, her gaze passing over the River's valley to the dark mountains far beyond. When she turned back to me her face was again solemn, and her eyes glittered as steel.

"There is a serious question I would ask of you, My Lord," she said, "upon a related subject. Would you forbid your wife to be a shieldmaiden? Would you share my royal brother's belief of what is appropriate, if the woman concerned were your wife?"

For long moments I considered her question. "It is not an easy question to answer," I admitted. "I confess it would be no easy matter for me to accept that I must allow my wife to go into situations of peril. Yet I would be a selfish fool did I deprive our countries of a warrior of skill and valour. I would be still more a fool were I to take from her a pursuit for which she cares so deeply. I have no wish to spark resentment in my wife's heart. Resentment there would be, and rightly so, did I steal from her so valued a part of her life."

She had been looking away, toward the eastward as I spoke. But now she turned to me, with a rueful smile. "My brother the King could learn much wisdom from you, My Lord."

I grinned to think of how closely her comment echoed my own recent thought on Éomer's wisdom, or the lack thereof. "I am honoured that you think so, Lady," I said, bowing my head to her, "though few enough would share your opinion. I believe you are the first person I have ever heard credit me with wisdom."

The Lady Éowyn grinned back at me. "That is nothing new to me, Lord," she replied. "I am well used to my opinions being numbered amid the minority."

As though suddenly afeared of feeling too much at ease, she stood up and took a few hasty steps away. Likely she would have begun to pace, if our rocky promontory had allowed room for such action.

As I stood in turn, she turned back toward me with a nervous-seeming smile. "One thing that I am not used to," Éowyn went on, glancing aside again and fretfully shoving a lock of hair back from her face, "is this business of being courted. You'll forgive me if I seem at times … uncertain of how to conduct myself. It is new to me to find myself the object of such attention."

I wondered if she were telling me more than she truly wished to. Her cheeks were burning crimson, and she seemed to rush the words out against her better judgement. I began, "My Lady, you owe me no explanations –"

"No," she said, turning her gaze now steadily on me. "I want you to understand how strange this is to me. Until now … until now, the only Men who seemed to notice me were themselves not worthy of my notice. And the Men whom I admired … I looked up to them as a child looks up to her heroes, as gods to be worshipped and emulated, but who would never be close enough to be touched."

Of a certainty I did not know what to say to that. I settled on, "Believe me, Lady, I am no old hand at the courtship business either. We will both be seeking to find our right path in this. And I hope that we will both forgive each other's stumbling."

Somehow it seemed that my stumbling had led me to at least one right thing to say. She smiled, perhaps in amusement and perhaps in gratitude. "Yes," she said. "Yes, we will." Then again she was in motion, sparing me from having to think of what to say next. "Come on," she said, starting to stride further up the rough-hewn path. "Let us climb up higher."

I looked back to Svip and Merry, in the meadow below. Both of them seemed to be looking up toward us. I waved at them. Svip made no response, and it was long enough until Merry replied that I thought perhaps he had not seen me. But then the Hobbit waved back, and I turned to follow Lady Éowyn.

After some further minutes' climb, she turned to me with a sudden look of concern. "Is the climb taking you too far from the River?" she asked. "I am sorry; I should have thought of that."

"No," I replied, "I am no farther from Anduin here than I am in the City. I assure you, I will let you know if I feel any ill effects."

"Yes," she said, in a sceptical tone, "I am sure you will. Just as I would be sure to admit it were my broken arm causing me pain. I am personally familiar with this breed of assurance, and its reliability."

I laughed. "Very well, Lady of Rohan, I grant you that point. But now I vow to you upon my honour that I am not in any difficulty."

"Then I must accept your word," she conceded, with the hint of a smile. She glanced back down the mountainside below us, and my gaze followed hers. "At any event," Éowyn went on, "we should stop now before we climb out of Merry and Svip's sight – for the sake of their honour, as much as ours. I have no doubt my brother will feel it his duty to interrogate them on whether we remained in their sight at all times."

She stepped out onto a table-like ledge that would no doubt have had her lord brother in fits, imagining that the ledge would break and send her toppling to Mindolluin's foot. I leaned back against a nearby boulder, content to gaze at her while she gazed out over my City.

"You said you've climbed up here many times, in the past?" she asked at last, turning back to look at me.

"Yes," I said, "all the time, when I was a child. Often enough that I think I could make the climb blindfolded, now. I used to climb up here when I'd had a fight with my father, or just when I had something to think about, and wanted to be alone. When I was older, and had more duties, and couldn't afford being long away, I started climbing to the top of the White Tower, instead. The view from there, and from here … I suppose it is comforting, somehow, as if – as though when I can see the entire City, I can protect it, I can keep it safe. The way our stories say that Mindolluin guards the White City."

"Yes," she agreed, nodding and looking deep in thought. "I used to think the same thing. Not," she added, with a smile, "that I was ever permitted to go gadding off climbing mountains. But from my window when I was a child, one could see over almost all of Edoras. I would sit there for hours and tell myself that I was our people's guardian, watching over all of them and holding them safe in my care."

Her gaze was distant a moment longer. Then suddenly she laughed, a bright and carefree sound that was as good to hear as it was unusual for her. "So," she said, "I suppose I used to almost fulfil my brother's image of appropriate maidenly behaviour. Only I was staring out my window daydreaming, instead of working on my needlepoint."

I stated my opinion, "Since the daydreaming led you to become the warrior who slew the King of the Nazgûl, I think we may safely say it had more value than a few pieces of needlepoint."

She looked at me, and what seemed to be pleased surprise coloured her face. Again, then, she made something of a tactical retreat, turning to look upon the White City once more.

"I need to improve my understanding of Minas Tirith's geography," said she. "I have been attempting to spot our barracks down there; I keep thinking that I have them, and then I lose track of them again. I think – yes. There. Those four buildings with the red roofs."

I went to her side, and followed with my gaze the line along which she was pointing. "You are right," I told her. "You can always recognize the Third Level's barracks; the stable roof was repaired a few years back, and has those darker-coloured tiles."

"Yes," she said, nodding, "I see."

For some moments then I was stymied in my search for something else to say. I hardly thought that the roofs of Minas Tirith were likely to rank among the topics that Lady Éowyn would find most interesting to discuss.

But thinking of the roofs brought to my mind a question for which I, at least, was eager to find the answer.

"I wonder how many of our new repairs can be seen," I mused aloud, adding in explanation, "the work we've been doing to prepare for our people's return."

"Let us find out," she said.

So the Lady of Rohan and I set about counting all of the houses that seemed marked with the newest roofs. Éowyn took charge of the even levels of the City and I took the odd. Between us we reached a rough tally of just over two hundred houses that seemed to show new work.

Of course, not all of the houses we'd repaired with the Office of Rehousing had needed work on their roofs. And from our vantage-point in the foothills, the lady and I could see clearly only those portions of Minas Tirith south of the Prow of the City.

I wondered how desperately I was boring the lady. But if bored she was, she hid it with aplomb.

I know not whether Lady Éowyn ended that afternoon with her opinion of me changed in any way. If change there was, I know not if it were for the better, or the worse. For my part, the afternoon confirmed for me that the Lady of Rohan would make a splendid wife.

I thought that I could scarcely ask for better than a woman who triumphed on the battlefield and who could, with such good humour, throw herself into a project so dull as counting roof tops.

As I was thinking this, she turned from studying the City, and remarked with a smile, "I keep expecting that if I just look closely enough, I will see Pippin up on one of those roofs, working on the repairs."

"He had better not be," I said. "I've no wish to face Merry and explain how his cousin came to fall off a roof while under my command."

"There's another new roof," said Éowyn, gazing at the White City again. "On the tower of the Steward's Library. That's not the work of the Office of Rehousing? Your lord brother, I should think, might be the only Man of the City interested in living there."

"No, that's true," I told her. "The roof was leaking there, three winters or so ago. Faramir was the one who noticed it; he was probably the first Man to set foot in that room for months. You recognized the Steward's Library," I asked her then, "have you been there?"

"Yes, just yesterday. With Lord Faramir."

Oh, thought I.

It was, of course, assuredly no business of mine, thanks to our mutual oath to make no inquiries into the progress of each others' wooing. But I could not stop myself from thinking, Well, there in a nutshell you see the difference between my brother and myself.

On our first official outings with a lady, I go mountain-climbing with her, and he takes her to the library.

Which destination the Lady Éowyn might find preferable, time and our fates had not yet told.

A few minutes longer the lady and I spent in discussing the landmarks of Minas Tirith. Then she said, gazing down at the meadow below us, "Perhaps we should return to our friends. There is a limit to the number of daisy chains one can weave and yet remain sane. I fear we must rescue them from their boredom."

Rescue them, My Lady, I wondered, or rescue you?

Perhaps, I thought, the library was the better idea after all.

About halfway down the rocky slope is a point where the path narrows, one side bordered by a wall of tall boulders, the other side treacherous with loose rocks. As we walked down this path the Lady Éowyn stumbled slightly, and instinctively she reached to steady herself on the boulders. Unfortunately the boulders were to our left, and she used her broken left arm.

Walking a few steps ahead of her, I turned at Éowyn's tiny gasp of pain. I reached up and backwards to support her. It was an awkward movement that called forth a twinge of pain from my broken ribs.

For a moment we stood, with the Lady of Rohan leaning slightly upon me, and with what were probably near-identical looks of discomfort on our faces. Swiftly our looks of discomfort changed to sheepish smiles.

Lady Éowyn remarked, as she straightened to stand without support, "I fear that our brothers will not be best pleased with us, should they learn we have been mountain-climbing with your broken ribs and my broken arm."

"Then, Lady," I said, bowing to her, "let us form a pact for mutual defence, and see that they do not learn of it."

Éowyn grinned at me. "It is a bargain, My Lord," she said.

---

My thoughts that day led me to another climb. As sunset approached I climbed to the White Tower's roof, to contemplate the afternoon spent with Éowyn.

Unversed though I am in the arts of courtship, I did not think that vast experience would have helped me much in this case. Many a Man who claims great stores of experience with women, I have heard still express himself at a loss when attempting to decipher a woman's thoughts.

What, in truth, she thought of me, I could not tell. But I judged that the afternoon's sortie was like to have been a relative success.

The lady had appointed another meeting, at the same hour the day after next. That at least gave me cause to think that my forces were not entirely routed and in retreat.

My contemplations were cut short by a trumpet call. Carried up to me from the Great Gate of Minas Tirith there sounded the fanfare for Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.

Gladly I put all pondering aside, and made haste to descend from the Tower.

Faramir was waiting for me at the White Tower's side door. "You heard Imrahil's fanfare?" he asked, with a delighted grin that must have matched my own.

"Yes," said I, and together we hurried through the Courtyard of the Tree. As we passed the Fountain, I looked at it expecting Svip to be there as usual. To my surprise, the water creature was nowhere to be seen.

"Do you know where Svip is?" I asked my brother.

"Yes, I believe he is dining with Pippin and Master Cosimo."

I hoped that this might be a positive sign. I was ready to seize hold of any suggestion that Svip was taking an interest in the world around him.

Faramir and I hastened through the Citadel tunnel and out to the Sixth Level's stables. Hurrying to greet our uncle on his arrival in the City felt poignantly the same as so many of Imrahil's visits in the long-ago past. Almost could I believe that our father still lived, and that we were still two boys – not Men grown, and one of us the Steward.

As we reached the stable Uncle Imrahil was just leaping down from his horse.

"Uncle!" Faramir and I both hailed him. We met in another few strides. Imrahil held out his arms to us, embracing Faramir with one arm and me with the other.

"Boromir. Faramir." He was grinning at first, as widely as we were. But almost immediately his expression turned sombre, as he gazed searchingly at each of us.

"I am sorry about your father," he said. Then with scarcely a pause he went on, "And now I return to find that the two of you have switched places. You will have to tell me everything, of how all these things came about."

"Of course, Uncle," said Faramir. "Have you had your daymeal yet?"

"Not yet," Imrahil answered, with a return of his grin. "I hoped that if I arrived in time, my nephews would offer to feed me."

"We can probably scrape something together," I told him.

Faramir asked, "Where shall we go?" He explained rather apologetically, "I haven't moved into the Steward's chambers in the King's House yet. I fear I would be no very good company – nor would I manage to finish a scrap of work there – still expecting to see Father everywhere I turn."

"Are my usual quarters still available?" asked our uncle.

"Of course!" we both said. Faramir continued, "Our housing shortage is not quite so severe that we've had to give away your rooms."

"Good," said Imrahil, "let us go there."

We made our way to the chambers of the King's House reserved for the Prince of Dol Amroth, along the way requesting one of the servants of the House to have the daymeal brought to us and to send word to our townhouses that we would not be dining at home. Before long we were seated about the massive culumalda wood table that came to Minas Tirith as part of our mother's dowry. Carved Belfalas Swans form the four legs, supporting the table upon their outstretched wings.

As we ate, and drank a Dol Amroth white in honour of our guest, conversation lingered upon more cheerful pathways – absurd though it seems to describe Mordor as "cheerful." Imrahil elaborated upon his travelogue, regaling me with tales of Mordor's scenery (hellish), flora (nonexistent), and fauna (either downtrodden or monstrous, or both). He and Faramir discussed their shared observations of that black land. They speculated upon how the land might have appeared before Sauron cast his blight upon it, and debated in which locations farmlands, hamlets and cities might someday rise again.

At last, as the meal drew to its close, we could no longer delay. We turned to the tales of the changes that had come upon Gondor, while the Army of the West sojourned in the Accursed Lands.

We spoke first of my resignation and Faramir's investiture as Steward. Imrahil commented little, simply watching us with a sharp, studying gaze. Finally he delivered his verdict upon the topic.

"You both have long been able to discern what needs to be done," he told us, "and to make the most painful of decisions for the good of our country. I trust in your choices. If you believe this was the choice that must be made, then so it was."

"Thank you, Uncle," I said quietly.

"I am sorry I could not have you here with me for the Investiture," said Faramir. "We judged it better to move forward now than to leave Gondor another two weeks with no official government."

"Very right," agreed Imrahil. "There was no need to wait for yet one more well-wisher." He took a sudden, deep swig of his wine, and said, "But I am sorry I was not here for your father's funeral. Now tell me of him."

Grimly I began the tale, taking it back once more to our father's sacrifice of Faramir's company of Rangers, and to the discovery of the palantír in Father's Tower room.

Twice only did Faramir contribute to the story. He spoke of the survival of the Ranger Amyntor and his three comrades, and he briefly discussed with Imrahil the history of the palantíri.

During the account of our father, Uncle Imrahil made far more comments than he had when we spoke of my resignation. The story was punctuated time and again by his exclamations of anger and of shock. When I spoke, however, of Father's last battle, the Steward Denethor's brother-in-law fell silent once more.

The tale at last completed, of one accord the three of us drained our goblets. I set about refilling them.

"I will miss him," said our uncle, accepting the goblet I handed to him. "You would not think that of me – and he would not think it of me – for I will swear that he drove me mad, from almost the first day I knew him, to the last. But I will miss him. And I am sorry that I was not here for him. And that I was not here for the two of you."

Faramir drank deep, and answered. "You were there for us many a time, Uncle," he said. "Many a time when he was not. And you were there for him many a time when he did not deserve you to be."

"I do not know about that," Imrahil muttered philosophically, studying the interior of his wineglass. "The Valar know what each of us deserves. And I pray that at the last, each of us will receive it."

"Let us speak of the future," said Faramir. "We will need to consult with Aragorn, and seek his impressions and those of the other captains on how matters stand in Anorien. There is no Council session scheduled for tomorrow – may the Valar be praised for that! Let us send a message to him, Boromir, proposing that you and I – and you, of course, Uncle – visit him at his camp tomorrow morn and take counsel with him."

"You will not need to send a messenger," Imrahil said. "I am returning to camp tonight. I have a commission to fulfill: I promised Frodo that I would bring Merry and Pippin to the camp to see him."

"That is well," I said, smiling despite the painful lurch of my heart at the mention of Frodo's name.

We accompanied our uncle in his quest to locate the Hobbits. Pippin we found at Master Cosimo's quarters with Cosimo and Svip, the young esquire making pert and generally unhelpful comments while Cosimo taught Svip the finer points of chess. Svip greeted us absently but remained engrossed in the game as we departed, which I took as a hopeful sign indeed. I wondered if Cosimo had told the water creature that chess was a favoured pastime of my father, and if this partially explained Svip's intentness upon learning the game.

We collected Pippin's pony and Imrahil's horse at the Citadel stables, and went on to find Merry at the Rohirrim barracks.

The joyous excitement on the faces of both young Hobbits seemed to make up for many a dark sight in our recent days.

"Come with us, Boromir!" Pippin urged.

"Not tonight," I shook my head. "It was for you that he sent. I will visit him tomorrow, if he wishes it."

Pippin looked far from satisfied with my refusal. But he longed for this meeting too much to take time to argue the point.

Four or so hours later, Pippin was back, bounding up to my townhouse as blithely as though it had been the noon, and not drawing on toward midnight.

I was not yet abed, but was occupied rather in reading the latest reports from the Office of Rehousing. So it was that I found myself watching with a smile as Peregrin Took all but skipped about my office.

"They look wonderful, Boromir!" he exclaimed. "So wonderful. It sounds wrong to say that, but they do. They ... look changed, of course, but not in the ways I thought they might. They look different, and yet – not different at all. I suppose maybe that isn't so strange. I suppose all of us are changed and not changed, at the same time."

"Yes," I told him, "I think that we are."

"I didn't expect how Sam seems now, that's certain – even though really he looks exactly the same. You know who he reminds me of most? He makes me think of one of you Big People like Marshal Elfhelm or maybe Captain Cirion. Like a veteran who goes about his duty without ever saying much, but you know just from looking at him that he's seen more than could ever be put into words.

"And Frodo ..." Pippin continued. "Frodo, well, he reminds me of one of the Elves, maybe, the way he looks young and old at once. Or maybe a bit like Gandalf, with that light he's had about him sometimes since he came back from – since he came back from the bridge. Frodo's finger isn't nearly so horrible as I thought it would be," Pippin hastened on. "You don't tend to notice it unless you're really looking, and, well, we've all seen a lot worse than that."

My young friend looked troubled for another moment, then his enthusiasm carried him onward. "You know what the best of it is? Frodo looks happy. He looks happy like I haven't seen him look since before all of this started – maybe happier than I've ever seen him, at all. It makes everything worth it to see him look like that. Everything."

"I am glad of that, Pippin," I said. "I am glad of that, indeed." I marshalled my forces to ask the next question in seeming calm. "Will he wish to meet with me, do you think?"

"Of course he will!" Pippin exclaimed, looking shocked that I even felt I had to ask the question. "We talked about you a lot. He wants to see you right away. You ought to go out there right now, tonight."

"Tonight!" I echoed. "Peregrin Took, all sensible Hobbit folk are fast asleep by this time. Even if they aren't asleep now, they would be by the time I got there. The morning will be soon enough for me to visit them."

"No," Pippin insisted, "you should go now. Frodo wouldn't mind, even if you did have to wake him up."

"Whether Frodo wouldn't mind, or no," I observed, "Sam most definitely would. After the way in which we parted, I think I am the last person they will want to see dropping in on them in the middle of the night. I am certainly the last person Sam wants to see looming over his master, night or day."

I think if he could have, Pippin would have bodily abducted me and carried me to Aragorn's encampment by force, that I might not delay the meeting one instant longer.

Laughing I assured him, time and again, that I was not putting it off. There was nothing for him or for me to worry about. I was simply riding forth with Faramir in the morning because it was the appropriate thing to do. I vowed to him that I would seek out Frodo on the morrow; that I would seek no excuse to delay.

At length I succeeded in sending the young halfling away to his bed. Even then he did not turn from his campaign, but kept up the argument as I walked with him through the door of my townhouse, across the courtyard, and finally out through the gate.

"It's not too late, really," Pippin persisted. "You can still go see Frodo tonight, I know he won't mind. He said he'd be happy to see you, any time at all. And then you won't have to spend all night worrying about how it's going to go."

"I am not worrying," I told him. "I'm not worrying, Pippin, and 'any time' does not mean in the middle of the night, no matter what scapegrace young roisterers like you may think! I will guarantee to you that Frodo needs his sleep a hell of a lot more than he needs a midnight visit from me. And believe it or not, captains of Gondor – and infuriating young Hobbits – need their sleep, too."

Pippin rolled his eyes and sighed enormously, but at last he accepted defeat.

And of course, I should have done precisely as Pippin said.

My dream in that night was nothing new to me. I had dreamt the same thing in one form or other, sleeping or waking, time and again in the month and more since I returned from my death.

But that night it seemed that the dream had no end. It kept me relentless company from the instant I closed my eyes, until I opened them with the dawn.

I dreamed I was in the woods of Amon Hen. It seemed that all that night I dreamed I was seeking for Frodo.

To and fro I raced like a madman. I half ran, half fell down the hillside, leaves and rocks and dirt avalanching at my sides. I scrambled up the slope, tripping over roots and logs, pulling myself upward again and staggering blindly on. Through the haze of tears and guilt I sought him, over and over shouting his name.

At some level I knew how this should end. I knew that I must force myself to rejoin our Fellowship; that I must face the accusations in Aragorn's gaze, and in Sam's. I must follow Pippin and Merry back into the woods, I must fight for them and fail them, I must bleed out my life amid the fallen leaves. And I wished, longed, prayed for all of that to be.

But that night, no such escape was mine. All the night I sought after Frodo, never finding him, never stopping. All the night I called his name, and I heard never any reply. I heard nothing save for the guilt that screamed from within my own mind.