"Forgive me..."
"I know, my Lord. There is no need to say it yet again as I understand. The strain of the situation..."
"Must you always make excuses for others when there is no need to?"
"Would you rather me blame you outright?"
"No. But at least let me take full responsibility for my actions. Again, I apologize for what passed in Osgiliath earlier this week..."
"And you are sorry for it. You always are. And as always, I accept your apology. I cannot do anything else," Faramir replied quietly.
Denethor looked at his younger son, startled by his swift response to the attempted apology. Disappointment darkened the older man's eyes as he took in the hunched figure sitting across from him at the round table, picking at his food, the sound of the metal fork hitting the plate echoing throughout the empty hall. It was as though the young man withered before him, the sadness etched all over his face, the shoulders hunched in defeat, the fingers tapping nervously on the table. It petrified him so to see his son, his own blood, so withdrawn. He had seen it before, in another he had also loved just as much, with all his heart. And he wished not to witness it yet again, the terrible consequences of such melancholy. It would be too much for him to bear the second time around.
"Sometimes so much like his mother before him. Such sensitivity," he thought. If only he had been stronger, like his brother. Or even better, if only he had been born in a different time. A time without such war and darkness, and freedom from the evil that seemed on the brink of enveloping the world, the forces of good balanced on the precipice, ready to fall into darkness. He would have made an excellent Steward in another, more peaceful and prosperous time. His wisdom and gentle ways, his heart so easily stirred to pity those about him who lacked such fortitude, while not in the way of the father, still proved fit for a leader of men if that different way of life existed. But now was not the time to dwell on what ifs.
"Well," Denethor continued, gruffness returning to his voice as he banished his own melancholy thoughts from his head, mind snapping back to the matter at hand, "I simply wished to let you know."
"That is all I ask of you, my Lord."
"I am your father Faramir. You need not be so...impersonal," Denethor found himself criticizing, much to his own apprehension. Why, he wondered, had he found himself censuring his son so much more often as of late? It did not seem right...
"Fine father," Faramir answered resolutely, finally looking up at his father.
Uncomfortable silence settled between them, only the sounds of eating and drinking echoing off the vast space of the Steward's private dining room as the two sat together in a rare private dinner. They were both dressed simply, finery and frippery unnecessary since they were not in the presence of the court. The dining room proved otherwise, decorated richly, the intricately carved stone walls covered in countless bright tapestries recounting various tales of Númenor and the creation of Arda. The largest and most elaborate of these, recounting the flight of Elendil and his sons over the sea, hung above the grand fireplace at the head of room. Its matching tapestry, recounting the Music of the Ainur, hung at the back of the back of the room, just the left of the numerous bookcases holding various parchments and books. Volumes on historic warfare and strategy filled the bookcases, for these had proven Denethor's favorite subjects, the vast knowledge of which he had also found necessary and effective in securing the safety of his people. Overall, this room usually proved one of Faramir's favorites, for it reminded him of the rare times his family spent together, away from the business and noise of court. This, combined with the detailed tapestries that helped along his childhood imagination of the tales of his ancestors, made this space one of his most treasured.
'Twas a pity the very air he currently breathed seemed so chocked tension and unresolved anxiety.
"I wish we spent more time like this," Denethor found himself blurting out quickly, breaking the lingering silence between them as he gestured around at the space. "I so rarely get to lay eyes upon my own sons anymore. With so many events happening in the world and all, there is little time for the things that matter," he finished quietly, carefully softening the words so that Faramir would not misunderstand it to be a criticism, but rather, a sad statement of fact.
Faramir hastily looked up, startled at the admission, immediately seeing that his father was truthful as the Steward's intense gaze focused on him.
"With Boromir leaving for Rivendell so soon, I fear..." Denethor faltered, hurriedly taking his cup and sipping the wine as he found he searched for the proper words. Odd how he proved usually so eloquent, yet as always, he lost his words around his son. This son at least.
"I fear," he began again, "that our times together become less and less. And that is a great shame."
"Yes," Faramir agreed, also taking a sip of his wine and falling silent. Apparently, he had lost his words as well.
"Well," Denethor said again after a long while, setting aside his plate and standing, walking over to the tall cabinet of drawers behind Faramir. "We have important matters to attend to."
Opening the chest of drawers, he pulled out a number of parchments, along with quill and ink. Pulling the cord next to the door to summon the servants, who quickly appeared, he directed them to clear the table and bring a fresh decanter of wine, also bidding them that they were not to be disturbed. After completing the task, Denethor walked around the room, lighting more lamps to brighten the dim atmosphere, motioning for his son to stand by his side. Unrolling one of the parchments revealed a detailed map of Minas Tirith, each level of the city carefully drawn to the most minute detail.
"There is a garrison of soldiers on each level of the city," Denethor began. "They are trained for battle, but having not seen as much action as those in the field, they will of course have to be taken through their training exercises yet again. Daily. I am sure you are able to manage that?" It was a statement rather than a question, to which Faramir nodded an affirmative.
"Since you have yet to command the armies of Minas Tirith, I expect you will at first defer to one of your brother's commanders for protocol and such. These armies are no loose alliance of men as the Rangers are. There are rules to be enforced, protocols to follow, traditions to continue..."
"I remember as such from my lessons when I was young," Faramir quickly countered, standing across the table from Denethor, his hands clasped easily behind his back as he studied the maps. He did not bother to look up at the Steward as he spoke, his attention focused on committing the figures on the parchment to memory.
Denethor could not help but give his son a wry half-smile.
"Surely, you do not expect me to believe you remember everything from schooling some 20 years ago?" he asked, cynicism in his voice. Looking back down at the map with a dismissive wave of his hand, he quickly continued. "As I said, you will defer to one your brother's lieutenants..."
"My Lor...Father, I do remember my lessons. My mind is as keen as yours. You seem to remember every little event with the same insight, as do I." Looking up, Denethor saw his son looked at him in a way that he knew he read his father's heart with his clear sight. Catching the Steward off guard, it left him little time to close his heart and mind to such scrutiny. His son's gaze was one of confidence, of challenge even.
It was as though he was looking into a mirror 60 years in the past. Such a realization made the older man's heart falter, though he did not outwardly show it.
"Well, I assumed you would not know," Denethor replied sternly, swiftly collecting himself.
"You assume much," Faramir countered with the same quiet but steely and determined tone.
"I do," Denethor replied after some seconds of silence, choosing his words carefully. "And thus, since you have never commanded the armies of this city as High Warden of the White Tower, I say you should defer some authority to those who have had the chance to do so."
"I have already spoken to Boromir of the subject. And while we have much more to discuss, I have found that the job will require some of the similar qualities one must contain as a leader of other things," Faramir replied slowly, choosing his words with the same, if not more caution. "Hence, I will use his advice and that of his lieutenants, to whom I will defer," he finished in a conciliatory tone upon seeing the age-old look of irritation on his father's face.
"Well I am glad you have had such discussions about the security of this city with your brother without consulting me!" Denethor replied tersely. Inwardly flinching, he quickly realized how irate his words sounded. Suddenly finding himself quite tired, he took a sip of his wine, siwftly sitting back down in his chair. A look of concern clouding his face for a few seconds upon seeing his father's sudden exhaustion, Faramir sat down as well. Uneasy silence fell again between them again, broken only by the slight rustle of the papers on the table. Rummaging though the other parchments, Faramir picked out another map, this time one of Osgiliath, summarily spreading it out across the table to study it.
"One of the last defenses of the city appears to be Cair Andros," he began after a long while, pointing to the island in the middle of the Audin. "Granted, we cannot possibly move further up the coast to meet to Cosairs in open combat, but the island may prove the lock our enemies will fail to open..."
"Osgilath is the last defense," Denethor replied, cutting Faramir off. "It may have been won through the efforts of your brother for now, but the enemy will return, mark my words."
"Then why not move to defend the island and the coast, effectively cutting off our enemies? It will slow them down just enough to hinder their efforts to attack in one fell swoop."
"Because it is obviously unnecessary to do so. Defend Osgiliath first and then we move to reclaim what has been taken."
"Then we shall need more men," Faramir added, emphasizing his point by pointing to the city's place on the map, the meaning of his words made stronger by his close loss of Osgiliath before Boromir arrived with reinforcements the previous week.
"We may. Or may not. That all depends on what methods you undertake to defend that position," Denethor replied evenly. "Assuming you do not fail me, Minas Tirith may still stand for yet a while. And that is assuming our allies to the North heed our call if it should come to that. You will have to hold the city and the outlying regions until your brother returns, supposing you can manage that."
"I shall try my best to do your will..."
"One can only hope you shall do more than 'try,'" Denethor replied, derision making itself known in his voice, causing Faramir to sigh in resignation, if not outright frustration.
"Forgive me, for my strategy reflects so poorly on you, father," he began quietly, though his voice was not without resolve.
Again, all too familiarly, the two men found themselves without words.
"Were that you born in another time, you would have made a fine Steward," Denethor began, his own words laced with troubled bitterness rather than acute anger. "But since you will be taking your brother's place as Captain of the White Tower," he continued, voice flat again. "You will have to call upon other talents than what you currently use. War takes place in the real world, not between the pages of some book in the libraries. In such dark times as these, there is no room for simple efforts. Results are required, the enemy must be driven back and eliminated, our people defended by more than half-wishes and poor attempts. And I will not be denied such things. Do not disappoint me, Faramir," Denethor replied rising from his chair, clasping his hands behind back and turning from Faramir. "You shall have as many reinforcements that can be spared," he finished squarely, facing his son again.
Faramir pushed away the maps on the table, stood up and stretched his tired arms as he mulled over his father's words. It would be difficult, he knew, to walk in Boromir's shadow. It was not their men he worried about, but rather the extent to which they could hold out. He wondered as to whether he would prove able to conjure the strength to lead them in such troubling times, keep up their morale as the shadows lengthened. If, and only if their current luck held would they prove able to defend the outer regions. He and Boromir would definitely have to iron out such things many times before his departure. And maybe even Mithrandir would have more to say about it...
Looking up suddenly on account of some intangible warning, he quickly saw Denethor give him a disapproving look, causing Faramir to immediately shield his thoughts, keeping them to himself. Apparently, he would have to wait to consult others.
"I thank you father for allowing me such great responsibility," he finally conceded. Better to leave this meeting with the Steward in a more conciliatory mood, as he knew from experience. Gathering up the maps, he nodded to his father, a silent signal for permission to take the parchments into his care for further study. Denethor allowed it with a casual wave of his hand as he too stood.
"And I look forward to seeing you live up to such an opportunity," Denethor replied steadily, capping the decanter on the table and striding over the door, pulling the cord for the servants to clear away the last of the dishes. Knowing they had scattered as a result of his earlier request to not be disturbed, he was in no rush. Turning around to see his son had completed rolling the parchments, he finished his thoughts aloud.
"Am I to be assured that you will prove a worthy leader?"
"I give you my word and hope that my talents please you, father."
"Our people depend on us, on you from now on," Denethor replied quietly, though the satisfaction in his voice proved barely concealed. "With great power comes great responsibility," he continued, striding over to where Faramir stood, the freshly rolled parchments in his hands. "And with great responsibility," he said, clasping Faramir by the shoulder, "Comes great hope. Do not fail me, my son. I will not allow Gondor to fall to its doom," Denethor finished, voice serious, eyes bright with uncharacteristic worry.
"I shall not," Faramir replied, seeing the relief on his father's face as soon as the words left his mouth. The Steward let go of him, expression visibly relaxing as his mind turned to lighter matters.
"You will not miss the banquet the night after tomorrow?" Denethor asked. It was a command rather than a question, but that did not matter to Faramir, for he was only too glad to think on fairer events as well.
"Indeed. I look forward to it," he replied genuinely, grinning slightly. It would allow him time to catch up with his brother as well as congratulate his men on a job well done. It was the least they deserved, and he would be pleased to give them such honor them face-to-face.
"Good. Then all's well." Denethor looked down at the papers in his son's hands, thoughts wondering to the days ahead.
"I expect you to study those, committing them to memory," the Steward instructed. "One can never depend on a map alone, for it is not always within his reach during the chaos of battle," he finished.
With a curt nod, Faramir bowed slightly.
"Shall I take my leave of you, father?"
"Aye, you may," Denethor replied, voiced edged with weariness as he took his seat again. It had been a long day, to say the least. Nodding to Faramir, he gave his leave for him to go.
Making his way out the door to the dining room, parchments tucked under an arm, Faramir returned the cursory nod of the servants passing him on their way to attend to his father. Seeing the lamps lighting stone hallways had burned down significantly, their golden glow dimly dancing on the walls, he sighed, knowing he would have but a few hours of sleep. He must rise early if he expected to meet with his brother in order to discuss what had passed this night. Not to mention they had further plans to make to ensure the safety of the city in the coming times. While Faramir did not look forward to managing only a few hours of sleep, he took comfort in the priceless advice he knew Boromir would provide. There were none wiser in the ways of warfare and defense of his beloved city and country.
With such thoughts on his mind, Faramir summarily made his way through the twists and turns of the hallways of the palace, reaching his quarters within a short time. Carefully, he set the parchments on the cluttered desk of his study. He had found little time, as of late, to organize the numerous volumes lining the shelves and stacked in piles along the edges of the room. Even the desk was strewn with numerous books, bits of written-on paper, quills, and bottles of ink of various shades. He wouldn't have it any other way. Few places held the same appeal of such comfortable clutter. But now, he had more important matters to attend to, such as becoming reacquainted with his bed. Moving to the bedroom, he promptly prepared for bed. Snuffing out the candle, he crawled into comfort of the thick mattress, soft blankets and down pillows, looking forward to falling asleep quickly.
Yes, he thought, eyes closing, mind drifting off to the recess of dreams. Tomorrow will yield fine results indeed.