Chapter Ninety-Two: The Sons of the Steward

His brother was alive.

That was the thought that kept whirring through Faramir's weary mind, the wonder that let him continue to cling to consciousness. Boromir was not dead, not even hurt – he was home. Though his vision was hazy, and his head swam, Faramir did not dare close his eyes. Not again. He wanted to soak up the sight of his brother forever, he wanted to just sit and be with Boromir beside him.

But it was not Boromir to whom Faramir owed his life. Not this time. This time, Faramir had been saved by the small, scared little hobbit now cradled in Boromir's lap.

If it were not for Pippin, Faramir would have let go. He almost had – he remembered, and he felt it, deep within his soul. He had been trapped in an endless slumber, drowning in a darkness to which he could see no end, and he had lost everything. His brother was gone, and his father's love was gone, and his hope was gone, and he had no strength to fight for a world without Boromir, or a world without hope.

And then he had heard a voice. He could make out no words, but the voice itself was gentle and kind, and cheerful, cheerful, in a time where cheer could do nothing more than shrivel and die. But the cheer did not die – it continued, and the voice's meaningless monologue carried on, and Faramir had felt hope. Hope for his city, for his people, for the world.

And when that hope kindled within him, Faramir decided that he did not want to die. He wanted to live, and to grow, to fall in love and to settle down, to read until he became cross-eyed, to eat, and drink, and laugh, and cry. He wanted a life, and with the hope from the strange little voice, he fought for it.

For the first time in his life, Faramir fought for himself.

When he woke, he discovered that the voice belonged to a hobbit, and as Peregrin Took introduced himself, almost at once Faramir's muddled mind took him to Nelly. Happy as a child with a cupcake, Pippin chattered away about how relieved he was to find out his sister was alright, and how happy he was to see Faramir awake.

And he had said that Boromir was alive. That it was but a lie that had reached Gondor, a lie and a broken horn, but Faramir had not believed him. He had not had the strength to believe him. Not until he saw Boromir for himself. The joy that had swelled within his chest at the sight of his brother had taken Faramir's breath away.

Though joy had not lingered long in the room. Helplessly, Faramir had watched Boromir tell Pippin that another hobbit had been injured – one by the name of Merry. Frodo had always mentioned Merry and Pippin in the same breath, described them as closer than brothers. From the way that Pippin wailed, Faramir knew that Merry was to Pippin what Boromir was to him, and his heart ached for the little folk, and for his brother. Boromir was stricken – Faramir could see it all over his face.

Now, they were waiting. Boromir was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand still holding Faramir's. Pippin was still sitting in his lap, biting at the skin around his fingernails.

And then someone knocked at the door.

Boromir jumped, and the hobbit tumbled out of his lap and sprang to his feet, and Faramir turned his head towards the door.

"Enter," called Boromir, his voice ragged and tense.

The door eased open, and a sense of relief and calm washed over Faramir as Gandalf stepped inside. Unlike the last time that Faramir had seen him, the wizard was clad in white, right down to his beard, through at present his robes were smeared with dirt, and with blood both red and black. As soon as his eyes met Faramir's, the wizard smiled widely, bowed his head.

"Boromir, Faramir, Pippin," he greeted, bowing his head at each of them in turn before looking straight back at Faramir as he strode across the room. "It is good to see you awake and alert at last, Faramir. You had us all rather worried."

Faramir twitched the side of his mouth up into what semblance of a smile he could manage. "Thank you…" His voice still sounded almost silent, weak, even in his own ears, but Gandalf heard him, and bowed his head. Then, he turned to Boromir and Pippin. "Now, my fine fellows, are either of you harmed at all?"

"No, no," said Boromir dismissively, as Pippin shook his head.

"Gandalf," choked the hobbit, "Merry-"

"I have just come from his bedside," said Gandalf gently, crouching down to Pippin in the eye, and taking the hobbit's hands in his own. "You may see him soon – very soon. He is going to be just fine."

"Fine?" whimpered Pippin incredulously. Even from his bed, Faramir could see the hobbit shivering, and a surge of sympathy and sorrow rose within him. "Gandalf, Boromir said he was stabbed-"

"He was, but Boromir treated the wound well at the sight," said Gandalf, and a spark of pride brought another twitching half-smile to Faramir's lips. "There was little more for the healers to do, but stitch him up. What's more, I performed a little spell myself – we need not worry about the wound getting infected, and if I'm not mistaken, he should find that it heals much quicker than most wounds of that ilk. The healers are applying new dressings now, and when they are finished, you may go in and be by his side."

Pippin gave a little whimper, and the strength seemed to eke out of him entirely. He slumped forward into the wizard's arms, and to Faramir's mild surprise, Gandalf's arms wrapped around him at once. Denethor had always instructed Faramir and Boromir to view the wizard with a wary respect, and had ever said that he was an ally, and not a friend, but that was clearly not the hobbit's view. Faramir did not think it was his own view, either, or Boromir's, from the look on his brother's face.

"What of his arm, Gandalf?" asked Boromir tightly.

The wizard inclined his head, a small, weary smile on his face. "Aragorn has cared for it as well as even I could – I don't doubt that any save perhaps Elrond, or the Lady Estë herself could do better. It may yet be a day or two before he wakes, but he will not pass into the shadow. He is free of the witch-king now. Indeed, we all are."

Faramir blinked, though his brother's gasp more aptly described his surprise.

"The witch-king?" Boromir breathed. "Merry took down the lord of the Nazgûl?"

"Indeed." Gandalf gave a grim, proud smile. "With the knife he found in the Barrow Downs, scarce miles from his own Shire, he struck the blow that brought the Witch-King to his knees, and Éowyn delivered the final strike. They did very well indeed."

"But, but he's going to be alright?" begged Pippin, seemingly uncaring as to who the Witch-King was, or why it mattered that he was gone. "I, I can see him soon?"

"Very soon," promised Gandalf. "But before you do, there are a couple of things that we must discuss."

"Discuss?" echoed Pippin, his voice uneasy, and Faramir caught sight of the beginnings of a scowl on his brother's face.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Boromir sighed. "Can't it wait, Gandalf?"

"No, unfortunately it cannot," said the wizard, his voice grave. "It is a matter of importance and urgency, and one that will undoubtedly unsettle the entire city – if not the whole realm of Gondor – if it is not resolved quickly and quietly. Though I hate to do so, it will require my asking questions of both Pippin and Faramir."

Faramir raised his eyebrows slightly, wondering whether the wizard was referring to Frodo's quest, or perhaps wondering about the forces that had overtaken Osgiliath, but he doubted he could be much help in either case.

"Faramir?" Boromir's cheeks flamed red, and he threw out his arm towards his startled brother. "Gandalf, he is barely conscious! For pity's sake, leave him be, leave them both be!"

"It's… alright," mumbled Faramir, glancing at Gandalf and blinking until the haze was gone from his eyes. "I want… to help."

"No, it's not alright," said Boromir hotly.

"You're quite right," replied the wizard. "It is not alright, and it's not fair. You have been through far too much for me to ask this of you now, both of you. I do not wish to do so, but I must. If we could wait safely, nothing could move me to demand your time now. Come, Boromir – they need your support, not your fury. I will not take a single moment longer than I must."

Boromir glanced at Faramir, who gave a little nod, smiling as comfortingly as he could when Boromir shook his head.

"Make it quick," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. Faramir's little smile gained a little strength – Boromir had done that ever since they were children.

"Of course," Gandalf murmured, patting Pippin on the shoulder and then stepping closer to the bed. "I must start with you, my dear Faramir – how are you feeling?"

Faramir considered that for a moment. How was he feeling? There was pain, certainly, mainly in his back, and there was also an uneasy churning in his stomach and an ache in his head. But more than the pain, Faramir felt exhausted. Each one of his limbs felt heavier than an anvil, and his mind kept trying to tug him back towards sleep. Still, above all this, Faramir felt breathtakingly grateful. He was still here, and so was Boromir, and their city had been saved.

In the end, he settled on the simplest explanation he could offer. "Alive."

Gandalf smiled sadly, and Boromir squeezed his hand. Slowly, Faramir's leaden fingers entwined around his brothers.

"Now, please know I would not ask you this if it were not utterly necessary," said Gandalf, and Boromir's shifted uncomfortably. "Do you remember what happened when your father sent you to Osgiliath?"

Faramir felt like the wizard had thrown a bucket of icy water over him, and he felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He looked to Boromir, but only for a second. Then he closed his eyes, and turned his head away.

If Boromir knew what had been said, he would never look at Denethor in the same way again. If Boromir knew, it would be like losing his father, and Faramir could not do that.

"You… you shouldn' hear this," he murmured, tightening his grip on Boromir's fingers, and then trying to push him away. "You – you-"

"I'm not going anywhere," Boromir said firmly, encasing Faramir's hands in his. "Speak, brother, and I will listen."

Faramir shook his head slightly, and felt his lips shaking. "It… it will break you, brother…"

"You won't," promised Boromir quietly, and a lump grew in Faramir's throat. He opened his eyes to find that a mist of tears had replaced the haze of fatigue, and he blinked. "Tell me," Boromir murmured, "Please."

A tear broke free, winding its way down Faramir's cheek, and he took a deep breath. "He… he was angry. Angry that I… let Frodo go…"

"Frodo?" cried Boromir, jolting with a shock so sudden that Pippin jumped half a foot in the air. "When did- how-"

"Ithilien," mumbled Faramir. "We met… in Ithilien… They are going, going to Cirith Ungol… Frodo, and Sam… and Nelly, and Bróin… and their warg, and Gollum."

"They – what?" stuttered Boromir, and Gandalf smiled slightly.

"Rion has told us what you spoke of with Frodo, Faramir," he said. "The details of that exchange can wait a little longer. What of your father?"

No matter how much of a haze there was in his mind, the memory of his father's words was sharp as a razor, and Faramir flinched away from its sting. Boromir stared down at him for a moment, but then his face crumpled, and he turned away.

"Gandalf, do we really have to do this now?" he pleaded.

With a voice almost as sorrowful as his face, Gandalf murmured, "What did he say, Faramir?"

"That…" Faramir closed his eyes. He could not look at Boromir, not now. "That I was a traitor… a fool… that – that I was… a coward. A – a boy came… from Osgiliath… interrupted – he, he was angry… Father. He was angry… the boy said, said we must… must retreat… said it, it was hopeless… but Father… Father sent me… to reclaim the river. He – he said if… if I did not… that I should not return…"

He heard Boromir groan, felt his brother's fingers grow painfully tight around his own.

"Anything else?" Gandalf asked quietly.

Faramir squeezed his eyes shut tighter. The words buzzed behind his lips, words of sorrow and shame, words that he knew would tear his brother's heart into pieces.

"Faramir?" Boromir whispered, but his voice was more like a whimper.

"Boromir," Faramir whimpered, tugging on his brother's sleeve. "Boromir, where is Mama? Why is Father so angry? When is Mama coming back?"

Boromir sobbed, and wrapped his arms tightly around Faramir. "Mama… Mama isn't coming back, Faramir. Mama's gone."

Boromir had been ten years old, and he had been the one to tell Faramir that their mother was dead. He could not have wanted to, he could not have ever wanted to say those words, but he did.

"He…" Faramir whispered, the words like acid on his lips. "He wished that I had died… and Boromir had lived."

Boromir made a small sound like a man struck in the gut with an axe, and Faramir winced. He had not thought anything could ever feel worse than those words when he heard them, but repeating them to his brother cut him to the core.

"No…" Boromir's voice was quiet and broken, more vulnerable than the mewl of a wounded kitten. "No, no…"

Faramir pressed his face against the pillow.

"I am sorry, Faramir," said Gandalf softly. "You have done nothing to deserve such disloyalty. Please, if you can, I need to know only a little more. When you reached Osgiliath, what did you decide?"

Disloyalty… was it really his father who had been disloyal? It was Faramir, after all, who broke his father's orders. Faramir who acted on a judgement he knew that his father would condemn.

Then again, it was also Faramir who had been sentenced to die.

"There… there were good, good people there," he breathed, opening his eyes and meeting Gandalf's eyes once more. The exhaustion was growing stronger – it was getting harder to speak once more. "Good men… loyal… hopeless… I didn't… didn't want to let… let them die… I ordered, ordered a retreat… We set charges, in the city, we… we ran. I saw… saw Rion stumble… The arrows, aiming – P-Pippin says she's alright?"

Gandalf smiled sadly. "She carried you herself, until I reached you, and she stood guard over your room until Pippin relieved her. She was not uninjured, certainly, but last I saw she was well enough to fight in the battle."

Faramir's stomach twisted tightly. "Has… has anyone… seen her… since?"

Boromir looked up at Gandalf sharply, and the wizard's face darkened. Faramir heard Pippin give a small moan.

"I will send someone to look for her, the moment I leave this room," Gandalf promised, and Faramir nodded weakly.

"Thank you…"

"And I am deeply sorry to have made you recall this, Faramir. I would not, if it were not vital for understanding your father's state of mind," said the wizard. "As is what happened in this room during the battle. Pippin?"

Faramir frowned slightly, his eyes sliding over to Pippin. The hobbit had a hand on Boromir's knee, but his eyes were brimming with worry. He had not mentioned anything about something happening in the room during the battle, and neither had Beregond. They had only said that the battle was over, and that they would let the healers know that he had woken.

"Well," said Pippin slowly, removing his hand from Boromir's knee and stepping back a little. "Um… Lord Denethor came in and, and he sounded – he was saying things that were insane he, he sounded like he had lost his mind and he – he got a little worked up and hit his head."

"Indeed?" Gandalf raised his eyebrows. "That is the report I was given by Captain Daeron. But I was also sought out by a soldier called Beregond. He said that you might recall something different."

Pippin stiffened, and he looked up, flickering fearful eyes between Gandalf and Boromir. "No," he said, too quickly. "No, I don't."

"Pippin," said Gandalf, in a tone of warning much like that of a parent. "Come, you know you have no enemies in this room. Tell us what happened. We will protect you."

Pippin looked from Gandalf to Boromir, his mouth agape and brow furrowed anxiously. "They… they said that what I'd done… that if anyone found out, your law would demand my head."

Bewildered, Faramir glanced at his brother. Boromir was trembling, and his jaw was set in a tight line. There was a fury growing within him, a strong one, and a surge of pity rose in Faramir's heart.

When he spoke, Boromir's voice was almost a growl. "No one will take your head, Pippin. If they try, I will take theirs, I swear it. What happened? Pippin?!"

The hobbit winced, and glanced at Faramir. Then he gave a heavy sigh, and hung his head. "I… I was guarding Faramir. Like you told me, Gandalf. Then, Lord Denethor came in. He looked – he looked awful. He was pale and his eyes… there was… there was a madness his eyes. There were guards with him, six of them, and, and he commanded them to take Faramir. So, I asked where they were taking him, I, I said that the healers said he needed rest. And Lord Denethor, he… he said that Faramir was dead, that his 'sons were spent' and that… that there would be no tomb for Faramir. He said that they would burn, and 'so cheat Mordor, and Gandalf, and the Dúnedain' – he, he kept ranting about Aragorn and… and I wouldn't let them take him. Faramir, I mean. Because he's not dead, but they didn't, they didn't believe me!"

Faramir's stomach curled with a new wave of fear and pain, and he tightened his grip on Boromir's hand. "He… he wanted to… to burn me?"

Pippin nodded anxiously. "Well, in his defence he did think you were dead, and he did want to burn himself too, but… yes. He ordered the guards to take you away, so… so… I drew my sword. Lord Denethor, he, he told the guards to kill me, to get rid of me, but I, I tried to talk some sense into them and that didn't work, but it did make him even more angry and he lunged at me – so I, uh… I might have conked him on the head."

For a moment, the seething rage in Boromir's eyes was replaced by surprise. "You did what?"

"I hit him," Pippin confessed, with an expression that would look adorably sheepish if it was not so terrified. "With the hilt of my sword, three times. Until he stopped coming at me. Of course, then the guards got really mad and they still didn't listen and drew their swords and when I tried to say that Denethor had gone mad the one called Amrod wanted to, to take my tongue and-"

"He what?" snarled Boromir.

"Let him finish," said Gandalf gravely. "Go on, Pippin."

Pippin winced, but nodded. "They said it was Attempted Murder, and I, I tried to say that Boromir was coming back and he'd be angry, and that you'd be angry, Gandalf, but that just made Amrod angrier and he said I was threatening them and he, he wanted to kill me himself, I know he did, and Daeron told me not to make things any harder and he pointed his sword at my chest – I didn't, I didn't want to hurt anyone, but I – I was surrounded and outnumbered and they, they were going to kill me."

Boromir's hands pulled away from Faramir's and tightened into fists, and Faramir could feel his brother trembling. Standing up, the older son of Denethor strode towards the window, his back to Gandalf, and Pippin, and Faramir.

"It, it was Beregond that stopped them," said Pippin, sounding utterly dejected. "He saved my life – he stood in front of me and said it was wrong. Amrod argued something about orders being orders, and the duty of a soldier, but Beregond stood his ground and their swords collided, but Daeron… Daeron called them to stop. He said that he, he didn't think I deserved to die, and that he didn't 'recall' any laws being broken. He, he said if anyone found out then Beregond and I would be killed and the others all banished and then, then they locked Denethor up and left to join the battle. They left Beregond here with me. That's… that's what happened."

There was a loud, angry thud, and the sound of the splintering of wood as Boromir smashed his fist against the window frame. "Amrod will pay-"

"Boromir," said Gandalf sharply. "He was following orders."

"He was too stupid to use his own two eyes!" Boromir yelled, whirling around with eyes that blazed with fury. He looked half mad himself, and Faramir's ribs tightened painfully around his heart. "Did you not hear? What if Pippin was a second slower? What if we were now talking to his corpse, to my brother's ashes? He will pay for his threats and for his stupidity, I swear it!"

"He is not the problem, Boromir. Please, sit down," said Gandalf, gesturing to the bed. "You know he is not to blame."

"He is not blameless," growled Boromir, and the wizard nodded.

"No, he is not, but he is secondary. We can worry about Amrod later – Pippin and Faramir are safe now."

Faramir could see Boromir's lip trembling, and he closed his eyes. His brother's world was falling apart around him, and Faramir hated it. Boromir had always adored their father, even if he loathed the way Faramir was treated. His city and his people were everything to Boromir, and his loyalty to them was rivalled only by the love of his family. But that family was broken, and the city was battered, and Boromir was standing right in the middle of the ruins. Faramir wanted to throw his arms around his brother, to hold him close until it was all alright, to promise that none of this was his fault, but he barely had the strength to string a sentence together.

So, he did what he could, and raised a trembling hand towards his brother.

With a sob of anguish and fury, Boromir strode back across the room, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking Faramir's hand, pressing it against his mouth for a moment, before holding it over his heart.

"Now," said Gandalf softly. "I believe that Lord Denethor has been using a Palantir, much like the one you got your hands upon, Master Took. My guess is that he was using it with some minor level of success, until the news came of Boromir's death. I suspect that Sauron used your father's grief to pour images of the doom of Gondor into his mind, and that that was instrumental to his fall – instrumental, but not wholly responsible. What must be decided now is what to do. If we announce that the Steward has been injured during the course of the battle – which is not untrue, mind you – you, Boromir, will become acting Steward. However, if the first thing you do is announce the return of the King…"

"It may look like I have played a part in usurping the Steward," said Boromir. His voice was shaking.

"Indeed. I would advise you to take the role of acting Steward at once, and welcome Aragorn officially in the capacity of a visiting chieftain. That should buy us a little more time," said Gandalf, and Boromir nodded, but then he froze, and turned his head slowly towards the wizard.

"Did you make Faramir and Pippin say all of this here, now, just so that I would take the acting stewardship?" Boromir asked quietly, in a voice more dangerous than an avalanche.

Gandalf stared at Boromir for a long moment before replying. "It was essential to hear what they had to say in order to understand the extent of Denethor's madness, and to establish whether or not the fact that he is currently bound to a bed three rooms down the hall is justified. We might have won the battle, but the war is far from over – we cannot afford for the kingdom to fall into political turmoil. If it does, the world is doomed."

A cold, hollow laugh broke from Boromir's throat and he shook his head slightly, dropping his head into his hands. Faramir tried to gather the strength to say something, anything, that might make his brother feel better, but before he could Pippin stepped forward, and put a hand on Boromir's knee.

"I'm sorry, Boromir," he murmured sincerely. "It, it'll be alright, you know, I, I'm sure it'll be alright… I'm sorry."

At once, Boromir surged forward, pulling Pippin into a tight hug and resting his chin on the hobbit's head. "You have nothing to apologise for, my friend," he murmured. "Nothing. I'm sure the Steward deserved far more than a conk on the head."

Pippin gave a small laugh, and Faramir saw his arms wrap tighter around Boromir. A strange sense of warmth grew in Faramir's heart – he had never heard his brother use that tone before, that gentle, patient tone – unless he was talking to Faramir himself. Boromir did not just see these hobbits as friends. He saw them as little brothers. Faramir smiled.

There was a soft knock on the door, and a dwarf popped his head around the door. He looked utterly exhausted, but he was smiling a little.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, as Pippin gave a cry and flew out of Boromir's lap, vaulting into the dwarf's arms. "Pippin!" the dwarf choked, squeezing the hobbit tightly. "I'm so glad you're alright, oh it's good to see you. They've just finished bandaging Merry up, I've come to take you to him. Whether Gandalf's done with you all not."

Pippin nodded frantically, and the wizard laughed.

"Very well, Gimli. I wouldn't want to keep them apart any longer."

The dwarf bowed his head, and smiled slightly at Boromir. "Thank you."

"Anytime," said Boromir sincerely. "I mean it. I will be in to see him in a minute."

Gimli nodded, and gave an awkward half wave to Faramir, who gave a little nod back. Then, the dwarf took the hobbit by the arm and marched him from the room.

"I will go and track down Master Rion," said Gandalf, putting a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "If we are to prevent the collapse of this kingdom, you should claim the stewardship within the hour, but for now, I will leave you two alone." With that, he bowed, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Boromir drew a deep, shuddering breath, and dropped his head into his hands. Faramir wanted to say something, but he was too tired. He could not think of a single thing to say that would help, and exhaustion's grip was growing stronger by the minute. His eyelids began to flutter, but he did not dare close them. Every time he did, he grew terrified that he was dreaming.

"I am sorry, Faramir," groaned Boromir, without raising his face. "I'm so sorry."

Faramir gave a sad smile. "You have…. Nothing… to be sorry for…"

"I do," said Boromir. "No, I do, Faramir, I – I have made excuses for that man for far too long. I, I knew what he was doing but I, I pretended that it was not so deep, not so dark, I – I should have said something. I should have said something sooner."

"You did."

"Not enough." Boromir raised his face, and he looked as though he had aged fifty years in the last five minutes. "I did not say enough. If I had, had not been so blind then…"

"Father-"

"Don't call him that," Boromir said sharply, though his words were laced with tears. "No father would do what he did to you, and if he is not you father then he is not mine either. Many things I could forgive him for, but not this. Never this."

Faramir felt the heat of tears on his cheeks. "I didn't… didn't want you to lose… him."

"I did not lose him," said Boromir, leaning forward and rubbing his thumb over Faramir's cheek, the way that they had when they were children. "He betrayed us, and that will cost him everything. He will never hurt you again, Faramir, I swear it. Never. I am here now, and my eyes are open."

Faramir nodded slightly, wrapping his fingers around Boromir's wrist. "I – I miss him," he confessed. "I miss how he was… how he was before Mama died."

"Me too," whispered Boromir, his eyes tight with pain, but he brushed Faramir's hair back from his face and spoke firmly. "But that man is gone. And Denethor will pay for what he has done."

I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Please do let me know what you thought of these ones, I love your feedback!

Until next time, do take care, and thank you for reading.