I'd like to say that Lost Tales Of A Steward's Son's initials are LTOASS. I just thought you'd like to know that. Oh, also, I own my original character. Funny how that works, eh? But I do not own any of Tolkein's characters because— well— they're Tolkein's aren't they?
Chapter One: Darkness
Darkness crept over the horizon. The sun had sunk below the horizon, the last bright rays reflected in the eyes of a man who stood on the battlements of a castle, surveying the land stretched out before him with a judgmental gaze.
The eyes were blue, and the face was handsome and deceptively kind. He looked out on the world, and a perceptible wind blew his pale hair back from his clear brow. He watched the onset of night and smiled to himself.
From inside a voice called to him, the voice of his father. "My son—"
He half-turned and bowed. His father was tall, dignified, and had in recent years acquired a sour-faced expression that wasn't the least bit becoming. "Good evening, Father."
"What's good about it," his father grunted, and shook his head. "Things are going from bad to worse, Son. We've heard of revolts all across the country, uprisings, battles— methinks people are anxious for us to crush evil once and for all."
"Oh, I don't know," answered his youngest son easily. "Evil's what makes life interesting, I think."
Denethor looked at his son and a slight smile stole over his features. "You're so like your brothers in appearance, yet so different in personality. It amazes me, I must say."
"I don't see why it should. I was always the petted one, I'm sure. Its only natural I should achieve adulthood with something other than heroics and stolidity." They turned again to stare out at the land. "I've two brothers between me and responsibility," said the young man reflectively. "No soldier I."
His father turned back to him quickly, all traces of the smile gone. "You're sworn to me, son, and will do as I tell you, of course."
"I neglected to tell you," said his son, pleasantly, "but when I took the oath I did not repeat the words all correctly."
"What?"
"No. When I was meant to say "—I do pledge fealty—" The young man shrugged. "I actually said 'Featly.' Which it was somewhat featly. I was only three at the time." A smile appeared on his handsome features. "Surely you can't hold something from so long ago against me."
Denethor considered this, the sour expression back in its accustomed place, then sighed deeply and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "One of these days you'll have to complete the maturing process, my son. Everyone is expected, when a man, to pull their own weight."
"What about the women?"
"I am going to bed. I'd advise you to do the same." The Steward went back inside, leaving the young man alone on the balcony.
Denhamir, son of Denethor, brother of Boromir and Faramir, twenty-two years old, turned back towards the railing and leant upon it, leaning forward as far as he could without overbalancing. With bright, eager eyes he took in the spectacle of the land being eaten up by advancing darkness.
Morning dawned, as it usually did, with Boromir leaping from his bed, tripping over his dogs, swearing loudly, banging doors, and generally waking everybody else up whether they liked it or not. Denhamir trailed through the halls of the castle, shivering slightly. The stone walls, floors, and ceilings kept everything cold until the sun had a chance to warm it up.
"Bloody Boromir," he said aloud. "Never gives the sun a chance."
He wandered past Faramir's door, idling till his brother came out, fastening the belt on his uniform. Faramir was much quieter than Boromir, and more earnest than Denhamir, and in incredible awe of his father.
"Good morning to you, brother," he said, smiling gently at his little brother. Denhamir shrugged in answer, and trailed along behind him as he walked towards the kitchens. Faramir made a custom of eating by himself, taking food directly from the kitchens and carrying it outside.
"Some soldier of Gondor," said Denhamir to him, "not even eating with your fellows."
Faramir smiled again, and shook his head. "I'm not fond of the way they eat, I must say. Think on it, we've only fifty soldiers garrisoned here at the moment, the rest in their own homes. They eat enough for a hundred, and half the food ends up on the floor."
"Well, then it all evens out," said Denhamir philosophically.
"We've got the most well-fed dogs in Gondor."
"That we have," Denhamir agreed.
Reaching the kitchens, Faramir took bread from a cupboard, and a skin of ale. He indicated by a series of stilted, complicated gestures that his brother was welcome to join him. Only Faramir, Denhamir thought wryly, could make asking his brother to eat with him look like he was awkwardly trying to arrange a tryst with a loose woman.
"No thanks," he said. "I'll take my chances with the soldiers."
Faramir nodded. "Suit yourself, brother."
"I always do, don't I?"
Denhamir left the kitchens and headed for the great dining hall. It was full of tables, most over twenty-five feet long, but only two of them were occupied, nearly full-up with Gondorian soldiers, all talking loudly and grabbing food. This was perfectly customary and Denhamir was used to it. He knew that in five minutes time his father would appear to review the troops, who would immediately go dead silent and dignified. Trying to make a good impression. Denhamir snorted. Failing. Denethor tended towards unfavorable opinions of everyone, save for Boromir, who could do no wrong, and the soldiers weren't immune to this any more than Denhamir was.
Boromir entered the room, trailed by adoring dogs who had learnt to see his frequent and violent abuse of them for the affection it really was. The soldiers quickly made a place for him, and he quickly dominated the conversation, laughing loudly about some exploit or other involving a confused innkeeper's daughter and about three barrels of ale. Denhamir smiled tolerantly, leaning against the wall in his corner. Most of Boromir's tales were made up specifically to entertain his fellow soldiers. He'd explained this to Denhamir once.
"They expect me to keep them amused," he'd said. "That's my main purpose here, you see. That's why they tolerate me, even when they know I'm going to take on responsibilites as Steward, instead of ostracizing me for not being one of them. That's why Faramir has such difficulty, I think. He's not learnt to be entertaining." The thought of Faramir being entertaining made Denhamir smile.
The Lord Denethor marched into the room, sour expression in place, robes sweeping the floor behind him. The soldiers sat up straight and began to eat in a orderly manner. Denhamir smirked and shook his head.
"Good morning, my men," said Denethor. "After breakfast, Boromir, you will come to my private apartments. There is a matter of great importance we must discuss."
Boromir stood and bowed haphazardly. "If its anything to do with the recent battle and the spoils we took—" he started, and Denethor shook his head.
"No. Something quite apart from the last battle." He seemed to notice the expectant looks with which the soldiers were regarding him, and inclined his head to them. "Carry on."
They bowed their heads to their plates once more, and began eating with knives and forks instead of their hands. Denethor, clearly aware of their discomfort and restraint, watched them a few minutes more, which resulted in the following exchange:
"Achelas," said Adiron, and cleared his throat. "Please, um, pass the, um, salt?"
"Of course," Achelas responded stiffly, and did so.
"Thank you, Achelas."
"No, thank you, Adiron."
Denhamir laughed out loud, and continued doing so as he walked from the room. His father joined him in the hall.
"If you are not careful, Son, you will earn the dislike of your fellow soldiers. They can see that you have little respect for them."
"They're not my fellow soldiers," said Denhamir, "and I could not care less what they think of me. As for my respect, I likely have as much for them as you, and possibly more. It's not important. What are you going to yell at Boromir about?"
Denethor frowned at him. "Why do you assume I am going to yell at your brother? He's too old to yell at. I never yell at Boromir. And anyway I never yell."
"Usually when you call him into your room its to stand him down about something or other. What has he done this time?"
"No more than usual."
"Then why are you going to talk to him privately?"
Denethor lost his patience with his youngest son, and began to stalk off, calling over his shoulder, "If Boromir sees fit, he will notify you of what I am to say to him. If not, you will find out along with everyone else."
A light scowl appeared on Denhamir's face as he watched his father disappear down the hall, but it altered and bloomed into a smile. Boromir would tell him what was going on. Boromir could be counted on not to keep his mouth shut.
