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.
Chapter Two
By the time Denethor and Boromir arrived at the Steward's rooms, the table in the private dining room had been set for lunch, and a hot bath drawn in the bathing chamber. Cambar, Denethor's valet, had been observing the audience; he had the uncanny ability to see without being seen, as do all exceptional servants. He had seen Boromir's arrival and, knowing his lord as he did, knew the two would share the noon meal. He also knew that despite Denethor's objections to the contrary, Boromir would worry about offending his father's "sensitivities," and so had dispatched a page to have a bath readied for the Captain General. The standing order with the kitchen staff to have his master's lunch ready to be delivered by the noon bells relieved him of that responsibility. So it was that a smiling, composed Cambar met his lord at the door.
"So the horse trader said, 'But he only needs one to breed.'" Boromir delivered the punch line as he and his father walked through the door.
Denethor laughed heartily at the joke. "The Rohirrim are an … earthy lot, are they not?"
"Aye, some might call them unsophisticated, but the Sons of Eorl are a good people. Fierce warriors, and loyal allies."
Denethor made no comment, but instead addressed his valet. "Ah, Cambar. Help me out of this accursed costume. I swear that tailor of mine is in league with The Eye."
Cambar did as he was bid, silently helping Denethor out of his court robes.
"Oh," sighed the Steward, dressed now in the lightweight tunic and leggings he had worn under his robes. "Much better, much better. Thank you, Cambar. Lunch …," the Steward paused as he noticed the table. He continued with a smile, "…has been seen to. My apologies, I should never have doubted you."
"Of course, my lord." Cambar answered with a smile of his own. "I've had a bath prepared for the lord Boromir, if he is so inclined."
Boromir's answering smile spoke volumes. He started towards the bathing chamber, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, then paused, turning towards his father.
"Father, your lunch …"
"Nonsense, my boy, go have your bath. I will amuse myself with some correspondence. Lunch can wait."
The Steward's heir continued toward his bath. Once inside the bathing chamber, Cambar helped remove his lightweight traveling armor and boots, leaving the rest for Boromir.
"You will find a fresh change of clothing there," the valet indicated a neatly folded pile on a bench in the corner.
"As always, you've thought of everything." Boromir sighed as he slipped into the warm water. "And Cambar? Thank you for taking such good care of Father, in my absence."
"It is my great pleasure, Captain Boromir. Enjoy your bath."
By the time Boromir drug himself from his bath, the water had cooled significantly and his fingers and toes were nicely pruned.
'How is it,' he wondered to himself, 'that too much time in the water causes one to resemble dried fruit?'
At the thought of the amount of time he must have spent in the water, Boromir hurriedly dried himself off and dressed in fresh clothes. His own clothes, he noticed, not his father's, not that he would have minded it simply felt good to be clean. Leave it to Cambar to have the foresight to send for Boromir's own clothes.
Still drying his hair with a towel, Boromir started toward the door. He was half-way through his father's bed chamber when he heard voices coming from the sitting room. Had one of his father's counselors followed the Steward to his private quarters? Who in court would have the audacity to do so, and to what end? Boromir was loathe to consider the options. Opening the door to the bed chamber slightly, he peeked out making sure he could close it quickly and quietly in case he didn't want to help his father entertain this "visitor."
The sight that greeted him was not at all what he had expected. There on the settee were his father and brother, with their backs to him, apparently deep in conversation. Boromir smiled to himself. It was good to see the two of them together, talking and at ease with each other. It was not that Denethor did not love both his sons equally, never that. It was simply that Denethor and Boromir were so much alike. Their time together seemed effortless, each enjoying the other's company; both were born soldiers and could talk endlessly about battles, strategy, weaponry and the like. But with Faramir… With Faramir the love, the respect, the desire for camaraderie were all there. Only the connection was missing. Denethor and Boromir could spend hours on end in each other's company discussing the current state of affairs, the latest court gossip or simply in companionable silence. For Denethor and Faramir most attempts at conversation felt forced. It wasn't that Faramir did not understand or appreciate the subtleties of war craft, he was an excellent soldier and commander, intelligent, and insightful. Nor was he above a little court intrigue, truth be told he had spent more than his fair share of time in the limelight. No, the sad fact was that Boromir was not sure what it was. He only knew that right now his father and brother, the two upon Arda he loved the most, were sitting, heads together apparently at ease one with the other.
As he neared the two on the settee, he could make out what his father was saying to Faramir.
"And so the horse trader said, 'But he only needs one to breed!'"
Faramir joined Denethor's throaty laugh, clapping his father on the shoulder.
"Taking credit for my hard work, Father?" Laughed Boromir. Ah, but that joke got better with each telling.
"Boromir!" Faramir exclaimed as he stood to greet his brother.
Boromir sighed contentedly as he engulfed his brother in a hug. "Little One, have you grown while I was away?"
It was an old game, left over from Boromir's days at the academy, when for the first time the brothers had been separated for any length of time.
"No," came the expected reply. "You are shrinking. Soon I shall be the big brother!"
The brothers laughed, glad to be in each other's presence once again. Boromir had been gone since the first thaw and even before his departure, Faramir was spending most of his time in Ithilien, so it had been a long time since they had been able to spend any time together.
"I may, indeed, be shrinking, Little Brother. After so long on the road, with nothing but trail rations, I can fairly feel myself wasting away."
Denethor raised an eyebrow at his son's blatant over exaggeration. "Well, then by all means let us hurry to table before Gondor is deprived of her future steward." Eyeing Faramir carefully, the ruling Steward added, "Of course, Faramir would make an excellent steward, so …"
It took a moment for Faramir to realize his father was teasing, and answered with a chuckle. "Oh, no. Not I, thank you. That is an honor I will gladly decline. Days on end of state functions, foreign dignitaries, treaties and trade agreements?" Faramir feigned a shudder. "I'll gladly keep to my Rangers, at least in Ithilien one knows who one's enemy is."
"Oh, you two are vastly amusing," stated Boromir, eyes rolling skyward. "You really should consider taking your comedy troupe on the road."
Boromir allowed himself to be dragged to table by a chuckling Faramir. After facing west for the Standing Grace, father and sons set to their meal. Conversation was kept light, Boromir sharing anecdotes from his patrol, Faramir passing on some of the juicier court gossip. Through it all Denethor remained silent, content to simply enjoy his sons' company.
"I had meant to ask about the interment procession. I thought perhaps it might be one of your Rangers, except that you were not in uniform." Boromir asked around a mouth full of boiled potato.
"Gah, do not speak with food in your mouth. No, not one of my Rangers. Do you remember old Telmist?"
"He had that shop on the Fifth Circle?"
"Yes, that's the one."
"Oh, I loved that shop. He always seemed to have whatever you were looking for." Boromir chuckled, adding, "I always wondered what kind of connections he had, and if all of them were above-board. Do you remember when Mamma would take us there for sweets? Old Telmist would always sneak an extra into our pockets when Mamma wasn't looking."
"I remember," answered Faramir with a smile.
"Oh, your mamma saw all right," added Denethor with a similar smile. "Tried on several occasions to get Telmist to stop, even threatened to go to another shop, but he knew his business. He knew the two of you would insist on going back to his shop. As for his connections, we never had reason to suspect his dealings. He has, or rather had, a brother in Dol Amroth, I believe most of his goods came from his brother."
"What will happen to his shop?" Asked Boromir. "His wife died a few years ago, did she not? And I do not recall any children."
"Evidently his brother from Dol Amroth will be taking over." Denethor smiled fondly at his eldest. "So you can rest assured, Boromir, that the quality of merchandise will not suffer."
"Well, I am merely thinking of you two," the Steward's heir began. "After all, I was away for my naming day and I know you will want to make it up to me."
Boromir's father and brother rolled their eyes skyward in unison and continued their meal as if they had not heard.