II. At Dinner

Denethor was in no very favorable mood when his sons reached him in the dining chamber, despite Faramir's hope.

"You are late," he frowned at his younger son.  "I have told you before that I consider tardiness a grave discourtesy, especially when, as you see, we have an honorable visitor."

Faramir murmured an apology, careful not to let his distress show.  As always, when Boromir and I both make the same error, Father addresses his reproof to me alone.  And if I object to the unfairness, he will simply become angry.  The boy shuddered at the thought of his father in one of his cold rages.

Not what I want a visitor of whatever rank to witness.  I wonder who he is?  Father rarely has guests present for a family meal, usually we eat in the Great Hall if he must discuss some matter with a visitor.

The stranger was seated in one of the padded chairs before the fire.  He did not immediately rise, but looked up at the two young men.  "I thank you for the compliment, Denethor," he said.  "Introduce me to your sons, if you would."


Denethor smiled proudly, if coolly, and gestured to Boromir.  "My son Boromir," he stated, "my heir and the future Steward of Gondor.  He chances to be in the city tonight to report on the dealings with the Orcs across the Anduin.  They still infest Mordor, as you no doubt know, but thus far we have mostly kept them there.  Though the raids into Ithilien and even at times across the river have increased of late.  Boromir, this is the lord Mithrandir.  He is a member of the White Council and comes to search in the ancient records of the Stewards and the Kings, seeking the lore and wisdom of our ancestors."

As Boromir bowed politely, Mithrandir rose and bowed in his turn.  "And the other lad?" he asked, turning to Faramir.

"My younger son, Faramir," said Denethor.  "Still a stripling, in the schoolroom and the practice yard.  He shows some promise in the former, at least, but only time will tell if he will live up to his brother's standard."

Faramir bowed respectfully.  As he straightened, he caught Mithrandir's eye.  The white-bearded man was looking at him intently, as if he wished to speak, but shook his head slightly and glanced back at Denethor.

"Well, well, I look forward to hearing what your sons have to say.  It has been some time since I heard a youthful perspective on the world."  Mithrandir gestured to the table, already laid.  "Shall we then eat?"

The windows of the chamber faced to the west, and as he turned to them for the traditional moment of silence before dining, Faramir saw from the corner of his eye that Mithrandir did not follow this custom.  He wondered from what land their guest came, and whether he thought turning towards lost Númenor and living Aman before meat an odd or quaint ritual.  The fellow stands and waits patiently enough.

They all then seated themselves, Denethor at the head of the table near the window, the light of the setting sun falling on his right side.  Boromir, as always, sat to his right and Faramir on his left.  Mithrandir went to the foot, near the fire, and remarked that perhaps age entitled him to the warmest seat.

The meal was simple, befitting a family meal served to the Steward and his sons, unexpected guest or no.  Denethor always insisted that in private they not maintain the pomp that would have been appropriate to the line of the Kings; in public, of course, it was another matter.  The dignity of the throne had to be maintained, even if there was no living heir to fill it; "of Anárion's line," as Denethor invariably added.

Mithrandir passed the dish of mutton and gravy to Boromir.  "What news then from the borders, if I may ask?"

Boromir looked at his father, who nodded permission to him to speak openly.  "Sir, as my father said before, the raids of the Orcs have increased these last few years.  Since the Enemy has reoccupied his ancient stronghold and rebuilt Barad-dûr, his arm has grown long.  We still hold green Ithilien, but none of our people lives there now; it is a disputed land, much subject to fighting.  Only broken Osgiliath is safely held, and I fear," he turned to Denethor, "I fear, my lord, that such will not be the case for long."

"Indeed," replied the Steward, "if we are unable to reinforce the garrison there.  I have sent to Prince Imrahil to see if Dol Amroth can spare any companies to our aid.  The prince, you may know," he added, turning to Mithrandir, "is the brother of my late wife, and though still young,* a valiant warrior and a great leader.  If he can help us, he will."


"But, Father," Faramir said tentatively, "can my uncle spare any men?  Might it not be better to call on the men from Anfalas?  Was there not a pestilence in Dol Amroth recently?"

Denethor scowled at his younger son.  "To be sure there was, yet Imrahil will understand the urgency of your brother's need.  Dol Amroth is in no immediate danger from Mordor as we in the east of Gondor must be.  He will send troops," he said grimly.  "His loyalty is unquestioned, especially to a sister's son."

Faramir winced inwardly.  All this studying he did, learning the history of Gondor both recent and long past, all supposedly to fit him as an advisor to his brother, and yet whenever he proffered such advice it was dismissed.  Perhaps it is my age, he thought, and when I am older my ideas will have more respect.

Meanwhile Boromir was speaking again.  "I am sure my brother's thought is a good one, and if Imrahil's men prove not enough, then we may call on the men of Anfalas as well.  But let us hope that is not necessary."

Mithrandir glanced from younger son, to elder son, to father.  He saw the likeness in appearance between Denethor and Boromir; he saw, too, the likeness in mind between Denethor and Faramir, though in feature Faramir might more closely resemble his mother Finduilas.  Although he had the grey eyes and dark hair common in Gondor, there was a certain set to his face that was not quite usual, perhaps deriving from the Elvish strain in the rulers of Dol Amroth that Finduilas had brought into the line of the Stewards now as well.  Musing, Mithrandir thought that it might be that very resemblance that disposed Denethor against his younger son.  Denethor had loved his wife greatly, and might have resented her early death and blamed Faramir as the cause.  Since she lived several years after his birth, though, that was not likely to have been the reason for it.

"No, indeed," he replied to Boromir.  "We shall hope that the Enemy turns his eye again to the east and south, even if only to seek fresh allies, and gives Gondor time to gather her strength.  But it is only a hope, and not to be relied on."

The talk then turned to the details of the endemic warfare on Gondor's eastern border:  how many men were needed, and where; how many horses; how many supplies and of what sorts; and not least, how all of this was to be paid for.  Faramir listened intently as his father and brother discussed the ways and means of resupplying the camps near Minas Morgul.  Somehow the war all seemed so much more real, here, than when he read about it in the old accounts during his lessons with Master Golasgil.

To this conversation he could add little, and he noted that neither did Mithrandir speak much.  Though Denethor treated the visitor courteously, even respectfully, Faramir sensed a certain tension in his father's attitude toward Mithrandir, a tension he could not understand.

Servants came in quietly and removed the remains of the meal, replacing the emptied platters with a bowl of fruit and a slab of ripe yellow cheese.  When they had departed, and as Denethor and Boromir's discussion passed on to recollections of Boromir's first command, Faramir turned to the old man at his left and asked politely, "Lord Mithrandir, how long will you honor us with your presence?"


He was rewarded with a sharp glance from below the jutting white eyebrows.  "That all depends," came the reply.  "I am not sure looking for a particular piece of information, rather to gain a greater sense of Gondor's history, so I do not know how long it will take me to learn what I need."

"May I help you?" asked Faramir, his heart beating more quickly at his own presumption.  "Master Golasgil who teaches me has granted me tomorrow off, and I have looked through many of the old scrolls in my studies.  Not that I know them so well as the archivist, but perhaps I might be of some use?"

"Hm, well, yes, you might be at that.  And if we can arrange with your tutor about it, I would not object to having your assistance for the whole of my stay.  You might learn a few things from me, after all, and he should properly be consulted."

"What's this?" interrupted Denethor.  "Are you drawing my son into your plans, now, my lord Mithrandir?"

"Not at all, not at all.  The lad merely volunteered his assistance in helping me find what I need among your dusty records.  I would not take time from his studies without his tutor's permission, nor from his arms practice either," returned Mithrandir peaceably.

"His tutor's permission, and mine.  I must consider whether this would be a proper use of his time.  Even my younger son may not idle about.  And as for arms practice, Hallas says you're improving," Denethor turned a briefly approving look on Faramir, which melted away as he added, "but you still have much to learn.  Perhaps you should watch your brother drill before he leaves.  I'm sure he will be doing so, he has some new mail being made and will want to try it out.  Is that not so, Boromir?"

"It is.  I would be happy to have my brother watch, and even try a few blows with him, if he wishes," Boromir grinned at his little brother.

"Oh please!  That would be wonderful," said Faramir.  He loved to spar with his brother, though he knew he was badly overmatched.  But Boromir seemed to enjoy teaching Faramir swordplay, and was a good instructor, patient and thorough in this as in all matters to do with fighting and war.

"But before that, we will visit the Hallows, of course," added Boromir.  "Shall we go an hour after dawn?"

Before Faramir could answer affirmatively, Denethor interjected, nodding to Boromir, "That would suit well, since I will be wanting you in the late morning to confer with some of the other lords and captains about your new ideas for fortifying Osgiliath."

Faramir's face fell, though he strove to conceal it.  He had hoped for at least the whole morning with his brother, at the Hallows or elsewhere.  But he knew Denethor could not be gainsaid on such a point.

"Certainly, Father," he heard Boromir respond.  "We shall return by mid-morning, I expect."

As they rose from table, Mithrandir beckoned to Faramir.  "As your brother will be unable to bear you company for all of tomorrow, perhaps you would like to begin assisting me?  Denethor, if the lad has the day off in any case, surely you will not object?"

Denethor assented, though reluctance was clear in his demeanor.

Mithrandir continued, "Good.  You can introduce me to your tutor, Faramir, and we can discuss what you might do."  With a glint in his eye he added, "I doubt your presence will yet be missed at council, though that may change."

"Certainly I would be glad to help you, sir.  Will you be in the muniments room?  Do you know where that is?"

"Yes, come find me there when you and your brother return from your errand of respect.  I know where it is, unless it has been moved these last fifty years," said Mithrandir.


Faramir wondered a little at that statement, for Mithrandir looked a hale sixty or seventy at most.  When, and why, could he have been looking through Gondor's archives before?  But he said, "I think not.  Until tomorrow, then," and bowed courteously.  He turned to Boromir.  "Are you ready to retire too?"

"Yes, I'll walk with you to my rooms.  Goodnight, Father.  Goodnight, Lord Mithrandir."

"Rest you both well," returned Mithrandir, and Denethor said, "Goodnight, Faramir.  It is good to have you home, Boromir."

"Goodnight," said Faramir, and quickly left the room.

As he and Boromir walked back along the stone hallway to their own chambers, he dared to voice his distress at losing Boromir's time the next day.

"You're here so little, I wished to speak with you longer.  There are things..." he fumbled, not sure what he wanted to say.

A smile spread over Boromir's face and he reached over to tousle Faramir's hair affectionately.  "Ah, I think I know what you mean.  Do not worry, my brother, we will have time to talk.  I expect I will here two or three days, not just one.  Cirion, my second in command, is well enough on his own for the time being, and although I cannot wait for fresh troops from Dol Amroth, or Anfalas, whichever it may be, before I return, the talk about it is likely to require more than a single morning.  I will need another day then to make my supply arrangements before I can depart."

They had reached Faramir's room and he grinned in relief.  "That is good to hear.  I will see you at the first hour after dawn, then.  Rest you well, Boromir," and he hugged his brother goodnight.

"And you," said Boromir, as he continued down the passage.

Faramir closed the door behind him and pulled off his tunic thoughtfully.  Was it clean still, or had he spilled gravy on it as he so often seemed to do?  Deciding that the tunic was clean enough to wear again, he folded it into the chest and then put the rest of his garments aside for laundering.

He slid into his bed and thought back on the day.  It had been a good one – praise from Hallas, a promise of a day off from Master Golasgil, the chance of many days working with the mysterious Mithrandir, and most important, the return of Boromir, if only for a little while.

He mused on that point.  He loved and admired his brother greatly, but from his study of history with Golasgil, he was aware that such was not often the case, and that many younger brothers disliked and resented the elder.

Who was that, just before the Downfall of Númenor? he asked himself sleepily.  I remember it was Tar-Palantir's brother, and his son Pharazôn usurped the throne, but what was the brother's name?  He must have taught his son his own hatred.  Oh yes, it was Gimilkhâd, that's right.  Well, Boromir has no cause to fear me.  He has his strengths and I have mine.  No one could want to follow a scrawny, unprepossessing figure like me when there is a great warrior like Boromir around, but he's much better at leading men into battle than at worrying about the lives of ordinary people.  He knows that is his duty, and he loves the idea of the greatness of Gondor and the glory of Minas Tirith, but he does not always see individuals as important.  Not those he does not know himself, at any rate.  So I will be there to remind him and guide him to remember the lowly as well as the strong.

I wonder, his thoughts drifted, I wonder if Father fears that I will prove to be like Gimilkhâd?  Perhaps because he had no brother himself, he never seems to realize the ties that bind me to Boromir.  After Mother died, he was the only person who understood how I felt, the only one I could speak to of my grief.  Uncle Imrahil was kind, but he visited only rarely.  Boromir was always there to ask for comfort.

He turned over in bed.  And tomorrow I'll ask him about those other things, as well.  Father is not quite the person to talk to on these matters.

With that, Faramir drifted off to sleep.

* Imrahil is not really young, in fact.  His exact age is never known, but if he is the brother of Finduilas as I assume and is perhaps five years younger than she, he would be about 43 at the time of this story, which is about 25 years younger than Denethor.