Looking pale and distraught, the ranger walked slowly forward. A few years younger than Faramir, Denethor thought as Hirluin bowed unsteadily then knelt on one knee.

"You may rise. Have you broken your fast?"

"Yes, my lord," Hirluin murmured. He rose stiffly to his feet as if his wounds still pained him.

"How old are you, Hirluin?"

"I will have eighteen years at midwinter, my lord." The words were Sindarin, but Denethor could hear the rhythm of hoofbeats in his speech.

"Eighteen years? At that age, both my sons were as hungry as bears in the springtime." The young ranger gave him a startled look. Denethor smiled to himself. As like as not, Hirluin's father had often said these very same words. Pointing to a low, rush-seated chair, the steward said, "Sit then, and have some cakes while we speak." With a glance at the ranger's white face, Denethor reached for the bottle of wine. Filling a cup, he said kindly, "I am told you are from the Firienwood."

"Yes, my lord," Hirluin replied in a faint voice.

"I remember it well, though many years have passed since I rode so far afield. A fair land of bright streams and mountains clothed in fir trees. We hunted deer and boar in the forests, and never had I seen so many fine beasts." The steward offered Hirluin the wine.

The ranger took the cup then he hastily set it on the table as if it burned his hand. "It-it is silver," Hirluin whispered, staring at the cup with a stricken look.

More silver than his father earns in a year, Denethor thought. And he is unused to servants and halls of stone. I fear this parley is doomed ere it starts. Denethor was not sure how best to deal with this man. He glanced toward the windows. Mayhap if we walked in the gardens, he would feel more at ease, yet the sky is grey and heavy with rain. But what other place in the City would seem welcoming to a stranger from the country?

After a moment, the steward rose from his chair. "My horse trod on a stone when we rode to the Harlond. The grooms have wrapped his hoof in a poultice, but now I must see how he fares." Taking two apples from the bowl, he handed them to the ranger. "Bear me company while I walk to the stables."

"Yes, my lord," Hirluin murmured as he took the apples, though in truth this seemed a strange errand. The Lord Denethor wore a long robe of fine sable; he hardly seemed clothed for tending to his horses. Yet, as Hirluin reminded himself, it was not for him to judge the deeds of his lord.


Once the errand-riders and grooms had been sent away, the steward and Hirluin were left alone with the horses. The young ranger gazed at the vaulted ceiling that soared many feet above their heads; below, the walls were set with stones of many hues. Water splashed from a marble fountain and ran down stone channels to the watering troughs. However, to Hirluin's surprise, this lofty stable smelled much the same as any other, for the air was heavy with the scent of manure and the sharper tang of leather and horse sweat.

The dusty silence was broken by the swish of a tail and stamp of a hoof. "Yes, I see you," Denethor called in answer to a low whicker. He strode over to a tall horse and reached up to stroke his withers. The ancient steed was gaunt and iron-grey. Indeed, Hirluin deemed that horse and rider looked much the same, and then he blushed with shame at such unworthy thoughts. The Lord of the City had put aside his sable robe; underneath, he wore the plain tunic of a soldier. As he moved his arm, Hirluin was startled to see the gleam of mail beneath his sleeve.

Bending down, the steward lifted the horse's lower leg and ran his hand over it. "Good. It is not swollen."

"My lord, does-does his hoof feel warm?" Hirluin managed to say. Last spring, his father's mare had bruised her hoof on a stone, and the wound had festered.

"No, it heals cleanly," the steward said, brushing his hands on the front of his tunic. "Brave old Mithren." Denethor patted the horse on the flank. "Have you still those apples?"

Drawing the silver dagger, Hirluin cut a slice of apple and gave it to the horse. Along the aisle, a row of heads swung about to watch with hopeful eyes. Deep-chested beasts with long, sturdy limbs, these were the mounts of the errand-riders. A little apart from these steadfast coursers, a great black steed whinnied and shook his head. "My son Boromir's horse," Denethor told him. Arching his proud neck, the noble steed took the offered piece of apple. "That grey belongs to Faramir," the steward added with a nod toward the next stall.

Not so eye-catching as the black, yet just as fine a beast, Hirluin thought. After giving him a slice of apple, the ranger scratched him under the halter, murmuring "Swifta mearh, leofa mearh." Hearing the language of the horselords, the grey steed bowed his head and blew out his breath, whickering in contentment.

"I deem you have made a friend," Denethor said. "Though indeed he is lonely enough for I can come here but rarely and my sons are often far afield." Leading the horse out of his stall, he tied the halter to a pillar then found brushes and a comb.

"My lord, I beg you, that task should be mine," Hirluin murmured in dismay as the aged Steward of Gondor set to work with a horse brush.

The steward glanced at him and shook his head. "You are likely to open the wounds on your back. Here, if you would aid me, hold the brushes while I work."

Hirluin stood beside Lord Denethor, watching while he brushed the horse's coat in a steady rhythm. The steward seemed no different than any other man as he turned his hand to this homely task.

As he worked, Denethor told how his two sons and their friends were wont to race their horses below the City walls. "Oft this grey would win, passing even Boromir's steed. Always has Faramir had a calm and steady hand with creatures of all kinds," the steward said with a flicker of a glance at the young ranger.

Then the Lord Denethor asked him questions about his training as a soldier. At first, Hirluin answered in slow and halting words, but as he continued, he felt more at ease. Though the steward was held in great awe by his people, he was as kind and honest as his sons. Hirluin told how he had learned the runes and other signs used by the rangers. At the steward's urging, he found a stick and scratched the marks on the floor. After years of hunting, Hirluin shot well enough with the longbow, but he admitted that the rangers had found him less than skilled with the sword. "Though Lord Faramir often sets us to practice, and he has taught me much," he told Denethor.

"Hand me the soft brush. No, that other one." The steward's iron-grey head was bowed as he leaned down to groom the horse's belly. "You may be a poor swordsman, yet you fight passing well with a dagger."

Brush in hand, the steward looked up and gazed at Hirluin's startled face. "Yes, I know of your fight with that orc. Or at least as much as Boromir could tell me." Denethor pushed his hair away from his eyes, leaving a smudge of dirt on his brow. "And if my son again had need of your aid?"

"I would fight through fire and sword to defend him," Hirluin said quickly then blushed at his words to the steward. He was no high-born lord but merely the son of a woodsman.

"I do not doubt it, but the task I have in mind is not nearly so perilous. I would hear what befell your patrol in Ithilien, and Faramir is yet too ill to speak of these matters."

At last, Hirluin understood the purpose of this summons, and his heart was like a stone within his breast. For he would rather fight through fire and sword than tell the tale of their luckless patrol.


When Hirluin reached the end of the battle at the farmhouse, the steward bid him stop since Haldan and Boromir had already told the rest of the tale. The ranger had often faltered, but this man was young and without guile so Denethor had easily guessed much that was left unsaid.

"No doubt this morning's work has left you weary. Return now to the care of the healers. As you are yet a stranger to this City, I will send my household guards to guide you," Denethor told him. It was only the distance of a stone's throw from the stables to the Houses, but the ranger looked dazed with weariness. "And, Hirluin, once you are fully healed, it is my wish that you return to Ithilien with Faramir. There may you best serve both Gondor and your steward." In truth, Denethor thought that his son could do far worse for a bodyguard.

"Yes, my lord." Hirluin made an unsteady bow.

Denethor watched as, flanked by two guards, the young ranger departed. His blond head hung down, and one of the men caught his arm when he stumbled. "'Down from the North, rode the fair horselords, driving the foe into the flood'," Denethor murmured to himself. It was so like his younger son to steady this man's failing courage with a fragment of old verse. The steward took the grey horse by the halter and started to lead him back to his stall. Then he shuddered and drew a sharp breath as a vision came unbidden into his mind.

Faramir sat with his back against a tree. Hhis hands had been bound in front of him with cords, and his face was shadowed with bruises and weariness. The other prisoners lay sleeping in the grass. Denethor could see the slow rise and fall of Hirluin's back; his blond hair was streaked with blood. Standing in the shade, their guards squinted into the midday sun. Faramir frowned slightly, his eyes narrowed as he stared first at the enemy and then at his men. Denethor had often seen this intent look when Faramir sat at the chessboard. Now his son studied the pieces, dark and light, searching without hope for a saving move. Dead leaves crackled as one of the guards turned and saw the prisoner watching him. "Eyes down," the orc snarled, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Faramir bowed his head; his dark hair fell forward and hid his face.

Leaning heavily against the horse's shoulder, Denethor closed his eyes and pressed his face in the mane.


The Lord Denethor was minded to walk alone, and when he reached the Court of the Fountain, he ordered his guards away. He was overweary, and it left him lightheaded yet restless. During the stifling hours of council and petition, how he had longed to feel the cold slap of the wind on his face! After several turns across the courtyard, his mind had cleared and he felt wide awake.

Young Hirluin had told him how, with courage and resourcefulness, Faramir had saved both their lives. Though against all hope they had survived, the ordeal had clearly left its mark on his son. Yet, despite Denethor's grave misgivings, Faramir would have to return to the field. The Great War drew nigh, and the steward could spare no man, least of all his own sons. In the coming years, the heir would need his brother's strong arm and clear-headed counsel.

In the distance, Denethor could see the slow curve of the river and, beyond that, the wild, forsaken lands. Further east, a mountain burned with dull fire. He had been Boromir's age the year that the Enemy's beacon was lit, and his sons had never seen the sky untainted by its glare. All fell creatures are drawn by His will, and slowly He gathers them to Him. In the fullness of time, the hammer stroke would fall. It was a bitter inheritance that the steward would leave to his sons.

As the wind shifted to the north, the green smell of damp earth and tender shoots rose from plain, eight hundred feet below. The steward walked to the parapet and gazed down at the scattered lights of the farmsteads, strewn in an arc around the fortress city. Like the patterns of the stars, Denethor thought. Then he turned toward the West and gazed at the sky. The haze of moonlight veiled the lesser stars, yet Eärendil, steadfast and clear, gleamed above Mount Mindolluin. He remembered a winter night in the year after his wife had died, when he had stood in this very place with his sons. The light of Eärendil had shone so bright that it had cast the faintest shadow.

"Do you see that star, just above the mountain?" Denethor had asked the children. "The one far brighter than the rest?" His little sons had searched the sky until they found it; then they had nodded solemnly."That star is the very jewel that Beren cut from the iron crown of Morgoth."

Boromir's clear, high voice had asked, "That is a true story, then?"

"Indeed it is. For oft the old tales are true, and the world is not so changed that there are no longer marvels. Many, many years later, the Valar set the jewel in the sky, and still it shines as a sign of hope. For the Valar have never forsaken the sons of Men, and so long as Eärendil shines, we do not fight in darkness nor do we fight alone."When the children had looked up at him, he could see the starlight reflected in their eyes.

For a long while, the steward stood in thought, so still that the very stars in the heavens seemed to circle slowly about him.


After closing the shutters against the cool night air, the young healer bowed then left the chamber. The steward had said that he would take the midnight watch.

Denethor stood at the foot of the bed. "The healers said you were still awake. Then sleep deserts us both for I can get no rest. I deem it is the lengthening days that leave us so wakeful."

Faramir nodded. He was not sure if he should smile or not at this wry remark. Though the rumors that his father never rested were untrue, Denethor had not slept well in many years.

"As you cannot hold a book, I thought you might like to hear a tale." Denethor held out a small tome bound in faded red leather.

Faramir knew this book, The Tale of Beren and Luthien, by sight. He could see it in its proper place on the shelf in his father's library, in between The History of the Peoples of Arnor and Gondor and The Book of Lost Tales. A great seashell, coiled like a trumpet, had sat on the shelf below. When he and Boromir were children, they would take turns pressing the shell to their ears so they could hear the roaring of the sea. Who taught us to do that? Faramir wondered. He could not remember.

"It is kind of you to think of me, father," Faramir replied. Though in truth, he had been too weary to long for books or study. Outside the shuttered windows, a cricket began to chirp.

Denethor settled in the chair beside the bed. Squinting, he held the book an arm's length away from his face. "'Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that have come down to us from the darkness of the elder days, there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories, most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Luthien'."

Many years ago, the steward had been wont to tell the old tales in the evening. Closing his eyes, Faramir imagined that he was a child again, lying in bed in the chamber that he and Boromir had shared. For a moment, he imagined that the love between him and his father was still unguarded and free of bitterness.

Denethor's voice had lost none of its power, and as he spoke he struck each word like a bell. Few others in Gondor, save the descendants of the old houses, still spoke with the flowing accent of Numenor.

Hunted and in exile from his realm, Beren took refuge in the woods of Doriath. There the young mortal chanced to see Luthien, fairest of the elves, as she danced upon the grass. At once, he fell under her enchantment. The elven maid returned his love, and she laid her hand in his, and thus she chose his mortal fate. Her father, the king of the woodlands, was outraged that this ragged wanderer would dare to touch his daughter. He swore that Beren would never wed Luthien unless he brought one of the great jewels-the silmarils-as a brideprice. This seemed a hopeless task that could only end in Beren's death for the jewels were set in the iron crown of Morgoth the Black.

Whenever Denethor reached an interesting word or phrase, he would stop reading so he could discuss it with Faramir. Every so often, the young healer peered silently in the door then just as silently left.

A band of twelve companions set out on the quest to prize the silmarils from Morgoth's iron crown. Beren was joined by the elven lord Felagund and ten loyal warriors. At the foot of the Mountains of Shadow, they slew a company of orcs and took their weapons and gear. Then Felagund cast a spell that gave them the outward form of orcs. Yet Sauron, the first among the servants of Morgoth, espied them from afar and wondered at their secrecy and haste. A clever ambush was laid, and the twelve companions were taken captive and brought before him. In spite of the craft of Felagund, the dark lord perceived their disguise, yet still he did not know their names or purpose. So he threatened to slay them, one by one, until he was told the truth; Then Beren and the others were dragged away and cast into a lightless dungeon.

"'From time to time, they saw two eyes kindled in the dark, and a werewolf devoured one of the companions; but none betrayed their Lord'." At these words, Faramir glanced toward the shuttered windows in spite of himself.

When the wolf came for Beren, Felagund broke his bonds, and with his bare hands, he slew the creature. Yet this deed cost him his life, and the elven lord soon died of his wounds. Then Beren was left alone in the darkness.

"He must have been hopeless," Faramir said in a low voice. "After the others were slain."

His father's eyes, as clear and grey as a winter evening, looked up from the page. "I do not think he was ever without hope, for then he would surely have died in that dark place. And, in truth, he would have been wrong to despair. Never have the Valar forsaken the sons of Men, not in the days of Beren One-Hand nor even now."

"And his companions. What of them?" Faramir asked, and the words tasted as bitter as wormwood. "Did they grasp at hope even as they died? Or did they curse their lord for leading them into the hands of the Enemy?"

Denethor was silent for a moment before he answered. "The story does not tell us, but his companions had sworn to follow Beren to the end. That was their free choice, and they knew that they were likely to die. And, Faramir, there may yet be hope for them-if not in this world, then in the next."

Countless times, he and Boromir had listened to their father tell this tale. Though Faramir had learned the words by heart, until now they had been only half understood - for he had not seen the terrible cost of devotion. He turned his face away so his father would not see him weeping like a child.

"The fire has burned down," Denethor said quietly. Faramir heard the tread of boots then the rattle of the iron poker in the grate. When at last he could weep no more, his father put an arm under his shoulders and helped him sit enough to drink a cup of water. The rush-seated chair creaked as the steward sat down and began to read again.

Fearing for Beren's life, Luthien followed him to the fortress of Sauron. The elven maid did not set forth alone or unarmed. Huan, a fierce hound, trotted by her side, and she was a spell-singer of great power and skill. When the Enemy saw her, he shifted to the shape of a werewolf and sprang at her throat. With a low growl, Huan the Hound leapt forward, pinning the evil beast to the ground. Then Luthien sang a spell so mighty that the heavens grew dark. Cowering before her, the dark lord surrendered his fortress and fled.

Denethor's gaze was clear and unwavering as he looked at his son. "Gladly Beren's companions gave their lives for their lord, and gladly Beren and fair Luthien faced death for the sake of each other. In the end, their devotion proved stronger than the Enemy's malice. He was cast down, and not a stone of his fortress was left standing." The steward closed the book and stared at its worn cover. "This tale comes to us from another age, yet I deem the world is not so changed that there is no place for wonders."


Notes:

This chapter includes two short quotes from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion (they are shown within two sets of quotation marks.)

Many, many thanks to Raksha_the_Demon for her tactful but honest beta-reading! You can find her beautiful writing about Faramir and other members of the House of the Stewards on this site.

Thanks for any and all reviews!