Yay! It's the next chapter! About time! Thanks for the great reviews I got, and now that I have seen The Two Towers four times, I am in a very good mood, and will probably write the coming chapters more frequently. I hope you've all seen the movie, and I also hope it is heavily awarded come Oscar night! (I still think it a shame that Andy Serkis missed out on Best Supporting Actor.)

Faramir's back in this installment, and we get introduced to Théoden, Théodred, Éowyn, and a bit of Gríma just for good measure. It's starts out as Éomer's POV, but it doesn't stay like that the whole chapter. [By the way, Boromir makes a guest appearance.] ;)

This chapter is a tiny bit longer than usual. But please leave a review when you're done reading!

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Chapter 6: King of the Golden Hall (I can't stop stealing book titles. Feel free to stop me.)

Éomer led his companion into the large hall of Meduseld, as he had done countless times in the past with so many others. It was late at night, and they had been traveling for many long hours, so it can only be expected that he allowed his mind to wander. But it wandered to thoughts that Éomer would have preferred be left untouched in the deep places of his conscience.

It had once made the young Marshal proud on many levels to present someone to his uncle, the much-respected ruler of Rohan. He had been so happy to have connections with so good a man; a beloved king of men. But he could scarce remember such days of happiness. Indeed, it was now a completely different feeling that filled his heart at the sight of his withering uncle. Shame.

He winced inwardly as the thought struck him. All former loyalty to this King seemed useless, and this feeling of discomfiture was more unwelcome than any other emotion. A father Théoden had been to him, raising him from a child and bringing him to manhood. What treachery had Saruman unleashed, so as to kill—yes, killing was the term to describe such malice—a man so dearly loved by all: friends and family, strangers and subjects? What duplicity had arisen in the Riddermark?

As he drew nearer to the throne, his eyes actually fell upon the aged form of his uncle. He had seen much of the King in this shriveled state. Yet every time the sight surprised him, as though the man grew years older with each passing day. "Years never took their hold on you before now, my lord. What wizardry has now stolen your wisdom and longevity?" he silently pleaded with the wretched form in front of him. He hated this feeling of hopelessness. He knew—or, rather wished—there was something he could do to help. But he simply couldn't comprehend what that might be. "My lord, you must awaken!" He continued his unvoiced anguish. "Where have you gone? Why will you not AWAKE??"

Éomer tore his eyes away from the King before his own bitter sadness drove him mad. His eyes came to rest next on his cousin. Théodred was standing close to the throne, looking gravely at Éomer, but frequently casting curious glances at Boromir. Poor Théodred. His father's ruin had caused much distress on the young lord, though he tried hard to hide it.

On the king's right was his lovely niece Éowyn. She had been kneeling beside the old king, grasping his aged fingers in her own delicate hand, but had stood upon Éomer's arrival. Her face was grave, and the light in her eyes had long since gone out. Her hair cascaded to her waist, the golden strands reflecting the glow of a nearby fire. She was indeed a sight to behold, though her beauty did not make up for the coldness of her face. To a stranger, she was stern; to those who knew her, she was grieving. She loved her uncle dearly, and was perhaps the King's most loyal subject. Éowyn, Éomer was sure, would literally go to war for her uncle, and do anything that he asked of her. He was the only father she had ever known.

Éomer was sorry for his sister, even more so than for himself or Théodred. Looking up, she met his eyes, and smiled weakly as he bowed to Théoden. Behind him, Boromir silently followed suit.

* * *

Boromir had been distressed when his friend had told him of the happenings at Edoras. But now, as he looked at the old man who sat limply on the golden throne, he was in utter shock.

This was not Théoden.

The King's eyes were half-lidded and swollen. The man appeared barely conscious, if indeed he was awake at all. His head was resting on his right shoulder, and he sat slouched in his throne. The worthlessness of his appearance was such a mockery of the nobility of mankind that it was enough to drive anyone to grief. When no recognition appeared on Théoden's face at the sight of Éomer, all thoughts of seeking Rohan's assistance vanished from Boromir's mind.

Reaching the throne, Boromir bowed low. But bowing only served to send his mind into a whirl of confused emotion. Never had he felt this way. The dignity of his forefathers had left him proud to serve Gondor, as well as keep close friendship to Rohan. He had always admired the valor of his people. But before him sat the only king of men. Oh, what a king he had been. And what a king he was now.

In that hour, Boromir despaired. And it was a terrible feeling. A feeling, if he had only noticed the distraught appearance of his comrade, that could rival Éomer's shame.

He met the young Théodred's eyes. Théodred offered a small smile, though the gesture did nothing to heal the cold sadness of his eyes. If anything, it only served to show Boromir a look of resignation that did not suit the brave Prince of Rohan.

Éowyn still clasped her uncle's hand. Her eyes were quite devoid of emotion, but Boromir suspected it was more out of tiredness than sorrow. Even in the torchlight, she appeared as though she had not had a good night's sleep in some time.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, Éomer broke the inclement silence.

"My lord, I present Boromir, son of Denethor of Minas Tirith." Boromir couldn't help wondering if the Marshal really expected an answer. Apparently, he did not, but pressed on regardless.

"He has come a long way to see you, uncle. He would speak to you of the happenings in Gondor." Éomer shot a glance at Boromir. Did he want him to speak?

That appeared to be the case, as pointless as it seemed. Feeling painfully foolish, he stepped forward. Clearing his throat, Boromir began, "My lord, I regret to give you bad tidings from my fa—"

"What is this?"

Boromir looked up, wondering at the source of this new, unpleasant voice that had so despicably interrupted his report. He was not an arrogant man, but he did have his pride, and he considered such a disturbance to be a capital offence. Turning around, he saw a small, pallid man enter the room, robed in fine black velvets with dark, shoulder-length hair. His eyes were keen and alert, and they looked upon the son of Denethor with nothing short of suspicion. And the man made no attempt to remain stoic; he appeared to feel quite comfortable here in Théoden's court, and his distrust was open.

Boromir faltered. Who was this intruder, to speak so curtly to a guest and friend? Éomer looked no more pleased. And then he realized.

This was Gríma.

"Gríma," the Marshal said icily, nothing resembling civility in the coldness of his voice. "I was about to inform you of our newly arrived guest. He is Boromir, son of Denethor, whom you know to be the Steward of Gondor, I daresay. I don't believe you have had the pleasure of making his acquaintance in the past."

The man did not look warmly at Boromir, even at this new disclosure, though it did serve to visibly discomfort him.

"My lord, to what do we owe this honor?" he asked, alarming Boromir by the feigned (he assumed it to be feigned; he relied heavily on first impressions, and did not like the man at all) pleasantness in his voice. Nevertheless, he answered civilly.

"I come bearing ill tidings from my father." This was a lie; he was simply passing through Rohan on his errand to Imladris. But he knew that the Rohirrim's hospitality would be of no small service to him, and they would probably not be pleased with his destination.

"Indeed?" the man pressed curiously, a sudden interest replacing the wariness in his bright eyes.

"Yes...," Boromir began, uncomfortable. But with a glance from Éomer, he continued. "Osgiliath is presently under attack by the dark forces of the Enemy. Days ago, orcs came at us unawares from Ephel Duath. We drove them away with little effort, but they returned with an increase in numbers. With them were Haradrim and the Easterlings, who were more skilled in battle than they. After little more than an hour they reached the eastern embankment, a league south of the North Crossing, where finally we mustered enough force to prevent them from crossing the river. Many lives were lost, and the Bridge of Osgiliath was destroyed in the battle, after serving us for more than an age."

"Oh? That is ill news indeed," Gríma began softly. Boromir hated to admit that the man sounded sincere, as though his sympathetic response was in earnest. "Tell me, my lord, who now is in charge of Gondor's troops, while you are away from home?" The question, falling upon innocent ears, seemed harmless enough. But for the rest of his life, for a reason unknown to him, he would regret the answer he so willingly gave.

"My brother, Faramir, is serving as Captain."

* * *

The fighting had ended in Osgiliath for the time being. And Faramir, weary from the physical and emotional strife of battle, welcomed the peace he was temporarily allowed. He had had the strange dream again. And again. And he still did not understand it.

He was a great reader, like his father, and nothing gave him more pleasure than a good book to take his mind off things. So he had settled himself in a chair on his balcony, which overlooked the highest wall of the city, and began reading his current selection.

It was an interesting book, though it was confusing to be sure. It was an Elvish history, and from what Faramir could make of it, the title translated into Westron as something about the building of a dam.

"Interesting," he thought, before immersing himself into translating the elven tale. There were pictures that aided his attempt, many drawings of people—probably men—cutting trees and collecting timber. More sketches showed people tying together long pieces of kindling and stacking them into sturdy piles on a coast. A final illustration showed the finished creation. The concept of people coming together to build this mighty dam did not interest him in the least, and yet he read on. For some reason unknown to him, he reveled and took much pride in his ability to understand the Elvish tongue. Apparently, the dam had been built on a small tributary of the River Isen.

It was strange reading about the event in Sindarin lore. The elves had a more reserved, objective perspective of the events described, probably owing to the fact that it was in no way associated with them. But still, he somehow felt connected with the Eldar when he read their books. Perhaps it was the eerie knowledge that an elven hand had written the original script that his fingers now touched.

"What are you reading?"

Faramir started, almost dropping his book. He had been so deep in his thoughts that he had failed to hear his father's approach.

"An Elvish Script," he said vaguely. He did not cherish the talks he usually had with his father; it was better to end them as quickly as possible. Especially when Boromir was not around to keep the peace.

An awkward silence followed. Faramir did not know what had driven his father at this early hour to his bedchamber, and this thought tweaked his curiosity enough so that he opened his mouth and spoke.

"Did you need something, Father?"

The Steward replied that he did not, and without a word he sat himself next to his son.

"What are you reading?" he repeated, obviously not happy with the indistinct answer he had initially received.

"It concerns the building of a dam somewhere on the Isen," he said, knowing how lame he probably sounded; it was true he had held no interest in such a trivial subject, but his father didn't know that.

"It is in Elvish? About building a dam?" his father asked incredulously, causing Faramir to inwardly wince at his harsh tone. "Whatever drove you to read such a thing?"

The young captain was not wont to yield to Denethor; he did not have his brother's pride, but his audacity was no less. "Whyever not? It is an interesting read," he replied defensively. This was a lie, but he didn't care at the moment if he was being deceitful. Indeed, being dishonest with his father had been his means of escaping several arguments... as well as starting more than a few.

What his father next asked him surprised Faramir greatly. "May I see it?" Without waiting for an answer, Denethor leaned forward and took the proffered book from his son's hands. He skimmed through a few pages, and looked at the pictures. He turned over the last piece of parchment, and Faramir realized he had missed the last page. There was another drawing, in which a huge torrent of water could be seen breaking through the splintering wood of the blockade. "That's too bad," Faramir's young mind couldn't help but think. Aloud, he said, "I never noticed that last depiction, I always assumed the text was where the story ended."

"I'm not surprised," his father said, in a scornful tone that only served to infuriate him further. "It fits your impetuous character. You always were a bit careless; never happening to notice the blatantly obvious. Boromir was always more perceptive."

"I wonder how long he will be gone for," Faramir said, abruptly changing the subject. His father ignored him, and continued on the dangerous road he was going.

"Boromir is still better than you at arms, is he not? Perhaps if you practiced more, you could be more useful to him in sparring practice."

"I do not practice as much as I could, perhaps," his son replied, "but I always believed I have employed my time much better." Faramir didn't know what had possessed him to add that last statement, but it was too late to take back the words. And anyway, it was true; he had always preferred improving his mind than his skill with a blade.

"Indeed?" Denethor asked icily. "Pray, what have you done with your time that is so valuable, requiring you neglect your duties?"

"I have not neglected anything you have asked of me, I have merely shown hesitance when complying to them."

He narrowed his eyes. "Answer my question."

"Well," Faramir began, "I don't see how you can scorn me for being so interested in lore and ancient texts, when you yourself are such a renown loremaster."

Denethor scowled. "And you think you are like me? You think reading foolish elf-tales like this will make you wise? I've said it once, I'll say it again: thank goodness you will never be Steward."

Faramir kept his composure quite easily; his father had reminded him of his "inferiority" to Boromir quite often, in the fact that younger sons were of lesser consequence to a ruler. Boromir was Denethor's heir, and Faramir wasn't disappointed in the idea that he would never be the Steward of Gondor. But it did bother him nonetheless that his father thought so ill of him.

"With your leave, my lord, I would retire now. It is getting very late."

Denethor said nothing, and in an angry swish of thick gray robes he had left the balcony and was making his way back to the hall.

"Oh father," Faramir thought miserably.

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Hope you liked it. And as for a question: What genre should this story be under? I really have no idea, but I hate leaving it under "general". It's not.

Please review! ;)