Veradan approached the doors of the Great Hall with trepidation. It was the same journey as he made every day, to see his master, and friend, but today, he wished it were not he who had to break this news.

Denethor stood at one of the arched windows, watching the city below him, shrouded in mist, a light rain falling upon his subjects as they went about their duties. On the battlements, and at the guard posts, the soldiers huddled into their cloaks as the cold bit into them. It had been a long winter, and a bitter one.

"It is a foul day, my friend," Denethor greeted Veradan without looking away from the window.

"Lord," Veradan hesitated, words failing him.

"How fares your daughter, Veradan?"

Concern for his only child distracted him from his pressing news. "She does not eat, she does not sleep, and she barely speaks." For days now she had barely left her chambers, and he sensed her heart was heavy, but she would not speak of her grief. Not even to him, her father.

Denethor sighed, and leaned against the window arch. "Has she no hope for my son?"

Veradan knew that Denethor was asking whether his daughter had seen a vision, or dreamt of her husband, but if she had, she had not told him. Instead he held forth the fragments of the object he held in his hand.

"There is no hope, Lord."

Denethor turned and saw that his advisor held the two shattered pieces of the Horn of Gondor. He closed his eyes in pain.

Daya lay on the bed that she had shared with Boromir. Her fingers idly traced the pattern of the heavy blanket, but she did not see it. She saw nothing. For days now she had tried to empty her mind, to 'see,' to look beyond the confines of the city, to search for her husband. But she had no control over her gift, she could not command it, and now it had left her at the moment she had needed it most.

She sat up suddenly, her hands gripping the edge of the bed in anger.

"It is not a gift.... It is a curse!"

Tears came to her eyes, at her frustration, her inability to do anything that might help Boromir, but she forced them away, she was not a woman who would cry lightly. Iorweth, the healing woman had come to her chambers many times in the past days, and she had remarked on her patient's lack of tears. It wasn't natural, the woman had commented, for a woman not to cry. Daya had sent her away, finding her idle prattle irritating, and pointless. She wanted nothing more than to head to the stables, find a horse, and ride out into the lands, to search for Boromir.

Her father, having anticipated this desire had ordered guards to surround the stable, and when she had tentatively approached them, they had refused her entry. The young soldier, Heren, she had known since they were young playmates, and he had been apologetic, but steadfast in his obedience.

The sound of horses came from outside the palace walls. She hurried to her window, and peered down the seven levels of the city to the main gate. A single horseman approached, and was given entry to the city. There was no denying the importance of this figure, and Daya knew that she had to get to the Great Hall. The rider brought the news that she had been waiting for so many months now.

As Denethor stared in growing horror at the significance of the broken horn, the door to the Great Hall had flown open. Daya had stridden determinedly in, and approached the two men. There was no need for formalities that day, she did not kneel or salute the men, just stared, like Denethor in horror at the horn.

The guards, assigned to watch the young woman, had finally caught up with her, and they now stood behind her, they saw the horn and realised its significance, and the grief they felt was etched on their faces.

"Go!" Veradan commanded the guards, and they fled no doubt to spread the news of the return of the Horn, without its rightful owner. Denethor looked ready to collapse at the sight of it, but Daya, past her initial reaction of horror, was showing no emotion. She just stared at it, her face blank, her eyes dark, and it was this emptiness that scared Veradan. He wanted to comfort her, but knew that he could not do so in front of Denethor.

"It is as we had feared," Denethor muttered.

"So it seems, Lord." Veradan's voice was level with a calmness he did not feel.

He had admired the Captain of Gondor, and loved him as his own son. But his daughter would feel the loss far more than him.

Denethor stepped forward and removed the horn from his advisor's hands. Daya had looked as if she would protest at this action, but stopped herself just in time. She bowed her head to her lord, and to her father, and walked from the hall.

She was alone.

Denethor had taken the horn from his advisor and now sat upon his throne. He did not move, he did not speak, he just stared at the pieces he held in his hands.

Veradan paced inside the hall, feeling as if the weight of Gondor had come to rest on his shoulders. He ordered the guards to their duties, he tried to answer their questions, and give some relief to the confusion that showed upon their faces. A gloom had settled over the city, heightened by the violent thunderstorm that now raged overhead. Finally he approached Denethor's throne.

"Lord?" the Steward did not reply, or show any inclination that he had heard. "Lord? The Lord Faramir. We must inform him of his brother's.... We must send him word."

Veradan had about to say his brother's death, but they did not know for sure that Boromir had passed into the afterlife. He knew that Denethor clung to the hope that his elder son still lived, but Daya had shut herself away, and that was more telling than any message. If Daya did not believe that her husband lived, then.... Veradan sighed, and once more started to ask the question.

'I heard you, Veradan." Veradan was shocked by the coldness in his Lord's voice. "A messenger shall be sent to find Faramir and inform him of the discovery of the horn. The messenger shall also inform Faramir that he is not to return to Minas Tirith until his duties are complete."

Once more Veradan was shocked, and disturbed by his Lord's lack of sympathy towards his younger son. He had made no secret that he preferred his elder son, but it had not effected the relationship between the two brothers. They were as close as brothers could be, and Veradan could only imagine how deep Faramir's grief would run. He excused himself, and left to find a messenger, and to check on his daughter.

The messenger had been sent, leaving to travel dangerously close to the border with Mordor, but Veradan had chosen wisely, a brave man that had known Faramir. He was sure that Jorand would find Faramir and impart the news carefully.

Veradan walked slowly through the palace, to his daughter's chambers.

They were empty. And in disarray. His daughter was nowhere to be seen.

A feeling of dread settled onto Veradan.

Daya was gone.