Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it ain't mine. If you feel the need to sue, I have two words for you: blood and turnip. You do the math.
A/N: Thank you to my tireless and long-suffering betas Terreis and CaveTroll, and to the Gwethil for their encouragement and support.
The early summer sun glinted brightly off armor as the soldiers made their way up through the streets of Minas Tirith. Even this early in the season, marching in the heat of the day could be oppressive, but this was a duty none resented. For the first time in many months a patrol was returning at full strength, not one man had been lost during this tour. The citizens had lined the streets, welcoming home their protectors with flowers gathered from the Pelenor, from lovingly tended window boxes, and the rare 'proper' garden. Thrown loose to the soldiers or strung into garlands and placed about the neck of a favored young man, no offering was too small and each was appreciated.
At the head of the column rode the focus of much of the attention, Minas Tirith's favorite son, Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain General, and heir to the Stewardship. Returning the waves of the crowd, and touching babies and children lifted up to receive his blessing, Boromir leaned over to his lieutenant and asked, "Refresh my memory, Ardoron, why did I not send you with the troops while entered by the back door? I tire of this spectacle, and we are not yet to the fourth level. One would think I was sent by the Valar themselves."
"Two reasons, my lord. First this 'spectacle' as you call it, is exactly what your people need. Too often have they met the returning troops, searching desperately for the face of a husband or son only to have their worse fears realized. You have accomplished the impossible and safely brought all back to hearth and home. To many you were sent by the Valar."
Acknowledging the explanation, without actually accepting it, Boromir prompted, "And the second reason?"
The deadpan delivery was marred only by the twinkle in Ardoron's eye, "Why, Minas Tirith has no back door."
Resisting the urge to knock his lieutenant from his horse, Boromir instead shook his head and looking to the heavens murmured, "Valar, give me strength."
The company continued through the third and fourth circles of the city, collecting more flowers and dodging the occasional child who, caught up in the excitement of the day, ran between the ranks. More than once Ardoron was grateful for the well-trained war horses that effortlessly avoided the children.
'What a wonder these Rohirrim are,' thought Ardoron, to be able to teach these beasts the difference between friend and foe.' His musings were cut short as they approached the gate leading to the fifth circle. Ahead he could see a somber carriage drawn by two black horses, walking behind the carriage was a large group all dressed in mourning garb.
"An interment procession, so much for our homecoming."
At his lieutenant's comment, Boromir looked up from the smiling child who had reached out to pet his mount. "At least we meet them upon our return and not at our leave taking."
Both men gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of what some of the poorer, less educated of their men would have made of such an evil omen. Yes, it was better to have met the procession today, even if it did cast a shadow on their homecoming.
The troops moved to the side of the road, allowing the mourners to pass. Hats and helmet were removed and heads bowed in a show of respect. After the carriage had passed, Boromir lifted his head and idly scanned the group following behind it. At the head was an older man; leaning heavily on a cane and assisted by a woman, behind them walked a man escorting two women. Although they wore the traditional color of mourning, the well-made clothing spoke of wealth. After all, in these times who but the wealthy could afford specially made clothes to be worn for a short time and burned as custom dictated? Boromir frowned at this obvious show of ostentation. A mourning sash would have served this purpose better, he mused. One look at the two men told Boromir they were father and son, but what of the women? He wondered. Daughters? The one in front, perhaps.
As he started to look more closely at the woman in front, a movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. Looking in that direction, what he saw brought a smile to his lips. There, walking just behind the deceased's family, was Faramir, waving while trying not to look like he was waving. Ah, Boromir had missed his little brother. Not so little anymore, he corrected himself. While Boromir still held the advantage of weight and breadth, Faramir had inched past him several years ago and was now the taller of the two. Dipping his head to acknowledge his brother's greeting, the elder wondered why Faramir would be part of this procession. He was wearing his robes of state and not his dress uniform, so he must be here representing their father, the Steward. The deceased must have been someone of importance to warrant an appearance from the House of the Steward.
Once the procession passed, the company was able to continue up through the city, their presence brightening the pall the funeral had cast on the crowd's mood. Upon reaching the barracks on the sixth level, Boromir ordered Ardoron to dismiss the men from ranks, and took his mount to the stable. After seeing to his horse, the Captain-General (for that was how he regard himself; he was, after all, still on duty at least until he reported to the Steward) pondered whether to go directly to his father or freshen up first. Knowing his father would be anxious to see him, he decided to forego the bath. Was he not a soldier newly returned from patrol? Who would expect lilac water and a spit polish? He chuckled to himself, who indeed?
Denethor was holding audience when Boromir entered the Hall of the King. Standing just inside the doors to the great hall, he watched his father, surprised at how much the Steward seemed to have aged while Boromir had been out with the patrol. For the first time he questioned the wisdom of his decision to lead this most recent patrol. Many of his father's counselors had argued against it. The Captain-General of Gondor's army had more important things to do than lead a routine patrol, they reasoned. He should leave that duty to one of his captains. But Boromir would not be swayed. He had wanted to see for himself how things were progressing or deteriorating as the case may be. As good as his scouts were, as much as he trusted his officers, he had wanted to see for himself how things stood. Boromir knew the Steward understood his son's reasons for going and had given his official approval and a father's blessing to the undertaking. The intelligence he had gathered would be invaluable, but was the price Denethor had evidently paid been worth it?
The Steward's heir was roused from his musings by raised voices coming from the pair of petitioners now before Denethor. While he could not make out what was being said, it was clear that his father's judgment had been … unexpected to say the least. Boromir smiled to himself, Denethor certainly was in his element here. The mantle of leadership agreed with Denethor. Not that there had ever been a choice, he had been bred for one purpose and one purpose only, to be Steward of Gondor after Ecthelion's passing. That he enjoyed and even flourished in the role was a happy coincidence.
So here the Steward sat, listening to what some might regard as petty grievances, carefully considering all sides of the tales told. His advisors repeatedly tried to dissuade him from these weekly audiences, maintaining that his various ministers were more than capable of handling these minor crises and that his time was better spent on other, more pressing matters. What his advisors failed to realize was that he truly enjoyed it. He had once confessed to Boromir that he looked forward to these sessions, they gave him a real sense of purpose. Not only was he able to connect with the citizens, but what he did, the decisions he made had an immediate, tangible effect on those people's lives. His people's lives. When dealing with the whole of Gondor, it was too easy to get caught up in the numbers, 2,000 troops here, 500 bushels of grain there. Being able to impact his people on an individual basis, however, helped him keep his focus. He felt it was important that his people know he was concerned about their welfare. How could he convince them if he passed their concerns off to some underling? Besides, he had added with a chuckle, the smell of livestock and hard work was a refreshing change from the wind blown by some self important lords and preening diplomats.
Without raising his voice, Denethor promptly quelled the rising protests. The petitioners bowed respectfully and made their way from the great hall as their Steward watched. Denethor smiled as his gaze fell upon his eldest son. He raised his hand beckoning Boromir to come before him.
"Your pardon, my lord father, I did not mean to interrupt your audience." Boromir stated as he went to one knee before his father, kissing the Steward's ring of office.
"Nonsense," the elder admonished, raising Boromir up with a hug and a kiss to the cheek. "Who of these assembled would deny a father the joy of greeting his beloved son? That we are Steward and Captain-General is of no consequence."
Boromir returned his father's embrace, ignoring those around them, content for the moment to be simply father and son reunited after so long apart. Finally, regretfully, the two released each other.
"You are newly returned from patrol, are you not?" Denethor prompted, smiling at his son, unobtrusively taking in his heir's appearance and the unmistakable bouquet of horse and unwashed soldier.
"Forgive my appearance, Father, I wanted to give you my preliminary report immediately."
"Of course, of course. I am most anxious to hear how things fare on our borders." Denethor had thought to delay Boromir's report, allow him to freshen up and take some food, until he noticed those standing closest to his son taking a discreet step backwards. 'Self-important snobs,' the Steward thought, 'let them suffer. It will do them good to get familiar with the scent of an honest day's work.'
For the next half-hour Boromir outlined his patrol of Gondor's northern borders, including reports on orc numbers and movements as well as an encounter with a Rohirrim patrol.
"Théodred Prince sends his regards and those of his father, Théoden King. He reports an increase in Dunlending activity along their outlying holdings."
"And Théoden has taken no action to defend those areas?" Although couched as a question, it was clear from his expression Denethor already knew the answer.
"None, my lord," confirmed a shocked Boromir.
"None," repeated Denethor. In a voice almost to low to hear, he added, "Then it is true."
The council began voicing their concerns at once, each trying to make his voice heard over his fellow's. All assembled knew that with Gondor's main strength holding the evil of Mordor at bay, they would be hard-pressed to fight a battle on a second front if Rohan fell.
"Silence!" Denethor's voice cut through the din. When the noise had died away, he motioned once more to Boromir. "Pray continue, Captain."
"As I said, my lord, Theoden King has taken no action to protect his people. However, Théodred has taken it upon himself to order increased patrols in those areas being harried."
Denethor's frown deepened, shaking his head in concentration and speaking as if to himself. "This makes no sense, Theoden would never allow…"
"I do not believe…" Boromir cut into his father's musings, but hesitated to continue.
"Pray, complete your thought," urged the Steward.
"It is only that…" again Boromir hesitated, wondering how to convey his concerns, deciding after a moment that the direct approach was the best. "Théodred spoke of a new advisor to the king. He says the king heeds this man's counsel almost to the exclusion of all others'. And Théodred fears not all his counsel is for Rohan's weal."
"Who is this new voice?"
"He is Grima, called Wormtongue by Théodred."
"I am not familiar with that name, though if what Théodred Prince believes is true, he is rightly named Wormtongue."
From outside the bells announced the noon hour. Denethor noticed the slight slump of Boromir's shoulders, and recognizing that telltale sign of fatigue in his son, was no longer Steward, but Father.
"Come, we can discuss Rohan's court intrigue later. The bells have sounded and we shall heed them. I will await your full report, Captain. As for this audience, we shall resume at the third hour."
With that the assembly bowed to their Steward and dispersed. Father and son, after ordering lunch to be brought, made their way to the Steward's rooms.