The Horn of Gondor
I rush to the Citadel, pass the guards of the Court of the Fountain. A guard at the Citadel door confirms my Father is inside, though his tone raises alarm in me. Most are grim in this time of age, but I can tell something is amiss. Has Boromir's body been found? Was my vision truth? I assume the worst.
I approach the high seat of Denethor. He is there, head hanging and long grey hair obscuring his face. I bow, though my doubts say he does not see.
"Father," I say, and he finally raises his eyes to me. His sunken face is paler than usual, glassy eyes seeing straight through me.
"Where is Boromir?" he says in a craggy voice. "Where is your brother?"
"He is not here?" I ask in bewilderment.
"No," comes his stern reply. Then looking into his lap, he raises two pieces of an ox horn.
I step back, fear and anguish well up inside me. It is the Horn of Gondor; the special mark Boromir carries. I am breathless. "Where was it found?"
"On the River, cleaved in two," my Father says. "Boromir was not with it. Faramir, have you seen him?"
My Father blazes with hope, for he loves my brother over all things. I lower my head. "I have seen him." I see at a glance my Father's posture straighten. "Though it be a vision, so I assumed."
The glassiness in my Father's eyes clouds now. I cannot meet them. "What of Boromir?" he commands, desperately.
"He is dead."
In a choked voice, my Father says, "Dead?"
"He was lain peacefully in a boat, bearing many wounds, drifting down the Anduin. I dared not disturb him."
"It 'twas a vision," my Father concludes, immediately. In my soul, I know it is not so, though I ever hope I am wrong.
Denethor, Steward of Gondor, sits on his high seat in the Citadel, day in and day out with the Horn of Gondor resting on his lap ever awaiting his beloved son to return home.
I rush to the Citadel, pass the guards of the Court of the Fountain. A guard at the Citadel door confirms my Father is inside, though his tone raises alarm in me. Most are grim in this time of age, but I can tell something is amiss. Has Boromir's body been found? Was my vision truth? I assume the worst.
I approach the high seat of Denethor. He is there, head hanging and long grey hair obscuring his face. I bow, though my doubts say he does not see.
"Father," I say, and he finally raises his eyes to me. His sunken face is paler than usual, glassy eyes seeing straight through me.
"Where is Boromir?" he says in a craggy voice. "Where is your brother?"
"He is not here?" I ask in bewilderment.
"No," comes his stern reply. Then looking into his lap, he raises two pieces of an ox horn.
I step back, fear and anguish well up inside me. It is the Horn of Gondor; the special mark Boromir carries. I am breathless. "Where was it found?"
"On the River, cleaved in two," my Father says. "Boromir was not with it. Faramir, have you seen him?"
My Father blazes with hope, for he loves my brother over all things. I lower my head. "I have seen him." I see at a glance my Father's posture straighten. "Though it be a vision, so I assumed."
The glassiness in my Father's eyes clouds now. I cannot meet them. "What of Boromir?" he commands, desperately.
"He is dead."
In a choked voice, my Father says, "Dead?"
"He was lain peacefully in a boat, bearing many wounds, drifting down the Anduin. I dared not disturb him."
"It 'twas a vision," my Father concludes, immediately. In my soul, I know it is not so, though I ever hope I am wrong.
Denethor, Steward of Gondor, sits on his high seat in the Citadel, day in and day out with the Horn of Gondor resting on his lap ever awaiting his beloved son to return home.