Hi there! Again I must apologise for the delay - unseen and very difficult family circumstances have made this a rather awful fortnight for me, and as such this chapter is a whole section smaller and a whole week later than I would have liked it to be. I hope that you enjoy it nevertheless, and that you can forgive my dreaded typos.

Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Steward of Gondor

Denethor had not even let him come into the city. He had met Faramir at the gate, demanded an explanation as to why Osgiliath burned. Why Faramir could not hold the river-side city from Ithilien, why he could not have stopped the armies marching into Mordor.

It felt like a poor excuse to say there were too few men to fight, but it was truth, and he told it. And, despite the small, child-like voice in the back of his head that begged him to leave out talk of Frodo, he told his father everything.

And he had watched Denethor's face grow darker and colder, watched the steely fury that he had come to recognise cloud his father's gaze. It was a look reserved for Faramir. His love was reserved for Boromir.

Now, Faramir waited alone in a courtyard of stone, staring at the man who had raised him glare with a hatred once reserved for Mordor. Before, Faramir could stand it – he had Boromir, at least, to care for him, Boromir to confide in, and to seek advice from, and take shelter with. But Boromir was gone.

"You…" Denethor's voice trembled with fury, and Faramir fought against the desire to close his eyes. "You treacherous fool!"

"I had no intentions of treachery, father," he said softly. "I merely had to do what I believed to be right."

"What you – you sent the Ring of Power to Mordor, in the hands of a damned halfling!" growled Denethor. "It should have been brought here, to the citadel, to be kept safe. Not to be used – except in our most desperate need…"

Faramir shook his head. "We could not wield it, and the Eye of Mordor is already on Minas Tirith."

"What would you know of this matter?" spat Denethor, his fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, Faramir almost thought his father was going to strike him. "Boromir would have brought me the ring."

"No," said Faramir, as the whip lash of his brother's name cracked across his heart. "Boromir would not have brought you the ring. If he had succeeded in taking it, he would have fallen, and when he returned, you would not know your own son."

"Lies!" A pair of birds nesting in the battlements took flight at the steward's shout. "Boromir was loyal to me – he was not some wizard's pupil! Boromir would have held Osgiliath!"

Realisation struck Faramir like a rock between the eyes, and the air flew out of his lungs. "You wish now that Boromir had lived, and I had died in his stead?"

Denethor did not hesitate. "Yes. I wish that."

For a moment, Faramir could not speak. He could not even move. He had known of his father's preference for years, but to hear it spoken aloud, to know that his father would genuinely prefer for him to have died…

He had not realised that hearing those words aloud would drive pain so deeply into his chest that he could feel it boring out through his back.

Gathering himself as best he could, Faramir took a deep breath. "Since you are robbed of Boromir, what would you have me do in his stead?"

A frantic knocking at the door interrupted any words that Denethor might have said, and he scowled. "What is it? I demanded we be undisturbed!"

The door to the courtyard opened, and a young soldier stumbled in. Faramir recognised him from the battalion at Osgiliath, though he could not remember the lad's name. His arm was in a brace, and bound tightly to his chest, and there was desperation wrought into every part of his ashen face.

"My lord, my lords, forgive me!" he gasped. "But I have ridden and run as fast as I am able – Osgiliath is overrun – the river is lost! Please, the order must be given to retreat!"

Faramir looked to his father, and his heart cringed further beneath the steely glare that met him.

"Only cowards retreat," snarled Denethor, his eyes holding Faramir's with unwavering intensity. "And the men of Gondor are not cowards – or at least they were not when Boromir was alive. Is there none now with the courage to reclaim the river?"

A great feeling of emptiness rose up within Faramir, an abyss with a pull so strong that he had no chance but to fall to it. Denethor did not care if the forces in Osgiliath were wiped out – not if it made a statement.

And he did not care if Faramir were to die.

He had lost Boromir, and still, he did not care if Faramir lived or died.

After all that he had seen, all that he had lost, Faramir was not sure if he cared, either.

"I will go," he said softly. "I will hold Osgiliath, as well as I can."

He heard a gasp of horror leave the messenger, but the soldier did not speak. The shadow of a smile lit in Denethor's eyes.

"Yes. I think that is right," he said.

With a bow, Faramir turned, and begged the tears away from his eyes. He had reached the door when his father spoke.

"Faramir."

He turned, and saw his father staring back at him, with the gravest expression that Faramir had ever seen.

"If you do not reclaim the river, do not come back."

Minas Tirith was not as impressive as Pippin had imagined it. It was big, yes, and much bigger than he thought it would be, but apart from that, he had expected a little more. Yes, it was beautiful, and its statues and decorations were lovely to look at, but he had expected to see sparkling gems embedded into the walls, or silver running through the veins of the white stone of the city, or great stone gates carven with intricate details smaller than his fingernails. From what Boromir had told him, he had thought that the sight of the city would rob him of his breath or his words, but it did not.

Or maybe, maybe, it was not that he was unimpressed.

If he was completely honest with himself, Pippin knew that he was impressed. He had never imagined that towers could climb so high, that a city could so beautifully cling to a mountain instead of being carved inside it. He had never seen so big an outside city in his life.

He had just been hoping that Minas Tirith would look a little more like Erebor.

Pippin had never really felt homesickness like Bilbo or Kíli or Frodo before – he was always happy where he was, with a fond remembrance of the other side of the world, but now he wished to be home so badly that it ached. He wanted to be warm and safe in Erebor's cosy darkness, to know that the walls were around him and that he would be alright.

To know that his dwarves were there, and would protect him.

To know that he could protect them, too. If he ever managed to make a use of himself.

He hung his head, and sighed. They were winding up the roads towards the citadel, apparently, but he did not care much. It was the wrong citadel, anyway.

"Are you alright?" asked Gandalf, slowing Shadowfax slightly. "I thought you would be more curious, Peregrin Took."

Pippin shrugged. "I'm fine."

Gandalf chuckled beneath his breath. "Ah, the most told lie in the world. I will not push you, Pippin. But it would do for you to have your wits about you, now. We are approaching the halls of the steward. Denethor is less affable than his sons, and it would not be wise to mention Aragorn. Or Frodo, or the Ring – in fact, do just leave the talking to me, I think."

Pippin nodded. A piece of baggage again, it seemed.

"I remember when I first met old Mr Baggins," crowed Dwalin, a grin on his face and an ale in his hand. It was the fifth impromptu speech during Dis and Bilbo's wedding, but they were all very fun, so for once, Pippin did not mind. "When I first stepped foot in Bag End, I thought Gandalf'd lost his mind! More of a burden than a burglar, I thought, and I'd never been so wrong in my whole life."

That day, Pippin had been so proud to be a hobbit. If Dwalin could see him now…

Shadowfax stopped, and Pippin looked up. They had reached some great, stone doors, but though they were decorated, they had nothing on the doors of Erebor. At least in Pippin's opinion.

"You there, lad!" said Gandalf, beckoning a nearby guard as he dismounted. "Take my friend here to the stables, see to it he gets a good feed and drink. But take care with him – Shadowfax is a proud creature, and will not be bullied or patronised. Pippin, you're coming with me." With that, the wizard lifted Pippin off the horse as though he was nothing more than a child, and then he handed the reins to the young guard. The doors swung open, but not onto a hall, as Pippin had expected. Instead, he found himself following Gandalf into a large, stone courtyard, built around a white tree.

A white tree that looked very, very dead.

"Gandalf…" he whispered. "Gandalf, that's it! That's the tree I saw!"

"Yes," said Gandalf heavily. "The White Tree of Gondor. The tree of kings"

"Is it dead?"

Gandalf simply gave Pippin a sad smile, and continued to stride across the courtyard. They reached yet another pair of doors, and Pippin bit back the urge to ask, 'Are we there yet?"

These doors, too, opened before them, and Pippin could have sworn he felt a rush of cold air escape into the outside. He shivered. The hall before him was dark, but not in the way of Erebor. Instead it was a cold dark, the dark that was caused by a veil of shadows from half-covered windows, a dark that was dim, and glum, and threatening.

At the end of the hall, was a great, empty throne, and to its right was a smaller throne. This throne, however, was occupied.

Pippin did not recognise the man he knew to be Denethor from his memories. He had only been a toddler when they last met, and there was nothing about him that five year old Pippin had thought worth remembering. Pippin had imagined him to be an older, greyer version of Boromir, but that was not the case. Denethor did not look much like Boromir at all. It was his scowl that set them apart the most, a cold, angry look that rather made Pippin want to hide behind Gandalf.

The wizard, however, did not seem the least bit abashed. He strode straight down the hall towards the man, and Pippin trotted along behind him

"Hail Denethor, son of Ecthelion," said Gandalf. "I come to you with tidings and counsel at this dark time."

"Do you?" said Denethor, his voice a whisper away from a sneer. "Do you, Gandalf the Grey – or is it the White now? I hear that is what you are calling yourself. Counsel, you say. Tidings? What counsel do you think you could give me? What tidings do you think you could bring? Perhaps you come to tell me why my son is dead?"

Pippin looked up at Gandalf in alarm as the wizard stiffened, his eyes growing wide. "Has something happened to Faramir?"

Denethor's face screwed up in anger, and his hands clawed around the arms of his throne. "Faramir? Only if the orcs win the river tonight. Do not plead ignorance with me, wizard! I know that you have come from Rohan, and I know that Boromir is dead."

Pippin frowned, looking up at Gandalf again, but for once, the wizard seemed as stumped as Pippin.

"Boromir?" he said. "Boromir is not dead, my lord Denethor. I saw him not three days ago, and I can assure you he is very much alive."

"Liar!" hissed Denethor, leaning forward as his face lost colour. "Do not lie to me about my son! We received word a week ago from Gríma Wormtongue, on a letter with Théoden's seal!"

"Gríma Wormtongue is currently locked in Isengard with Saruman, his Master," snapped Gandalf. "He is a traitor, and I am not a liar. Boromir was injured, yes, in defence of Master Took here, but his friends found him in time and he survived. As you were receiving news about his apparent 'death', he was fighting in the Battle of Helm's Deep – a battle that we won and that he survived."

Denethor's face burned red, and he stood up slowly from his throne, his entire body shaking with rage, but something he had said earlier came to Pippin's mind, and he found himself interrupting.

"Tonight? What's… what's happening tonight?" Denethor's sharp eyes landed on him, and for a moment, Pippin regretted speaking. But then he found his voice, and he repeated the question. "You said Faramir… something about orcs and rivers?"

Denethor's eyes narrowed, and his lip raised into a sneer. "Faramir is returning to Osgiliath as we speak to hold the river, though his uses are few and I have no doubt it will fall. But Boromir-"

Shock hit Pippin, immediately followed by anger as he realised what this stuffy old lord was saying, and though he tried, he could not bite back his words. "If anything happens to Faramir, Boromir will never forgive you!"

Gandalf stiffened, and flames of fury lit in Denethor's eyes.

"What did you say?" hissed the man, his voice soft and dangerous.

"Pippin-" began Gandalf, but Pippin had started, and he might as well finish it.

"Boromir loves his brother more than anything else in the world," insisted Pippin, unable to believe that Denethor had to have it spelt out for him. "If you give an order, and Faramir dies, Boromir will never, ever forgive you. He will hate you."

"How dare – how dare you say such a thing-" Denethor's voice rose to a roar and he surged forward, his hands reaching towards Pippin's neck, but Gandalf brought his staff down an inch from the steward's face, forcing him abruptly backwards.

"Don't touch my hobbit, Denethor, son of Ecthelion," the wizard rumbled. "He speaks no lie, though he speaks with less tact than a drunken troll. Boromir will not be pleased if he returns to find his brother harmed."

Denethor's face grew redder and redder, until Pippin was sure that he would explode, but instead the man simply spat words at them – bitter and laced with hate. "I will not be spoken to like that in my own halls! If – if Boromir is alive – it does not change your twisted tongue, Gandalf! You claim to come with counsel, but I know what you are planning! You plan to usurp me, you plan to put that Dúnedain street-rat on the throne of Gondor!"

"Street-rat?" cried Pippin indignantly, but Gandalf hit him in the back of the shins with his staff, and he thought that he had probably better be quiet.

"Authority is not given to you to refuse the return of the king," thundered Gandalf, and quite suddenly Pippin wished that he was somewhere – anywhere – else. "You are sitting, waiting for an attack from Mordor – an attack that is swiftly coming? Where are Gondor's armies? You are not alone – you have allies! Your own son rides with the Rohirrim! Light the beacons, and Théoden will answer."

"It is not your right to say what happens to this city!" Denethor's voice rose to a yell, and Pippin winced. He wondered if Denethor would notice if he sidled behind Gandalf, but then he thought of Dwalin again, and dwarfishly – and reluctantly – stood his ground. "I am the steward, Gondor is mine to command, mine, and I shall run my kingdom as I see fit!"

"You are not the king, and the stewardship does not make Gondor your kingdom! Your pride will be the death of your people, and your stubbornness will burn your cities to the ground! Call Faramir back hear – withdraw troops from Osgiliath and call your armies to Minas Tirith. Do it now, or you will be too late."

A sneering smile contorted the man's face, and Pippin gave a shudder. Denethor stepped backwards, and sat down in his small throne, resting his elbow on the armrest as though he had not a care in the world.

"Very well," he said, and his tone made the hair on the back of Pippin's neck stand on end. "I shall do ask you deem fit – if your words are proven true. Show me Boromir – show me my son, and I will call back the troops from Osgiliath. Show me him breathing, and I will light the beacons – prove him to be unharmed and I will call to Rohan with my own lungs. Until then, until I know that my Boromir lives, I will heed no advice from the likes of you."

Gandalf snarled under his breath, but Pippin could make out no words. The wizard turned, his robes nearly batting Pippin in the face, and strode towards the door so quickly that the hobbit had to run to catch up.

"What now?" he asked. "Why doesn't he believe us?"

"Well," muttered Gandalf angrily, "if I were feeling generous, I would say that he is too afraid of new grief."

"And if you weren't feeling generous? Has he lost his mind?"

"His mind? No. Denethor is too smart, too cunning for that. But he has certainly lost his way, and lost sight of sense. Come now, Peregrin Took. I have a job for you."

So there we have it. Sorry to those of you hoping to catch up with Erebor, or Frodo - I will do my best to remedy that next week. If you have any feedback for this, and/or any other chapters/aspects of the story, please do let me know. It is truly really motivating and heartwarming to know that people are appreciating my work, especially when life gets a little trickier, and I love trying to include things that you want to see in the story when possible.

I hope that the next chapter will be up next week, and I also hope that if any of you have had a week like I have, or are grieving too, you can take a little comfort from the wise words of Samwise Gamgee:

'"But in the end it's only a passing thing, this shadow; even darkness must pass."

And advice from the wonderful Uncle Iroh:

"You will find that if you look for the light, you can often find it. But if you look for the dark, that is all you will ever see."

(I don't know how many, if any of you, have watched the Last Airbender,/Legend of Korra but you don't need to to appreciate the wisdom and wonder of Uncle Iroh.)

Thank you so much for reading, and until next time, take care of yourselves and your loved ones.