CHAPTER 1
June 29, 3018
"This city was once the jewel of our kingdom! A place of light, and beauty, and music. And so it shall be once more!"
The soldiers cheered for their commander. Chants of "Boromir!" could be heard ringing throughout Osgiliath.
"Let the armies of Mordor know this," Boromir continued. "Never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands!"
The horde of men continued to cheer for their leader and for their beloved city.
Boromir was standing atop the remnants of one of Osgiliath's structures in a most warrior-like fashion, with his sword in one hand and Gondor's flag in the other. Half the city had been reduced to rubble, but Gondor's soldiers took it back with ferocity and cut down many orcs in the process.
"This city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed for Gondor!"
"For Gondor!" the men of Gondor proclaimed.
"For Gondor!" Boromir repeated.
"For Gondor!"
"For Gondor!"
Lothíriel gazed in admiration upon her cousin. She saw that Boromir could not easily hide a proud smirk as he looked over his army. He was honored to be leader of such loyal men. And the soldiers of Gondor respected the son of the steward. He was strong and valiant and dedicated to his country.
Lothíriel was the only daughter after a line of sons, born to the prince of Dol Amroth. The hill was a small but great city in Gondor, located on a peninsula along the northern shore of the Bay of Belfalas, and was the only principality remaining in the country of Gondor. Her uncle Denethor had two sons whom Lothíriel was very close to, and Finduilas, Denethor's wife (her father's sister), had died after giving birth to her second son Faramir over thirty years ago.
Prince Imrahil, the twenty-second prince of Dol Amroth, had spared a collection of soldiers, his Swan Knights, to aide Boromir's recapture of Gondor's once prominent city. Her eldest brother had led while her other two brothers had served with the knights to defend Osgiliath. Lothíriel travelled with them and acted as a nurse. The blood of Imrazôr the Númenórean and the Elven-lady Mithrellas, whom, according to tradition, began the line of Dol Amroth, flowed through the veins of Lothíriel. Her mother told her she had traces of healing magic likened to those of Silvan Elves, and so her healing came naturally.
Lothíriel made her way through the crowds with her cousin Faramir in search of Boromir. They passed by Elphir, the oldest child of Prince Imrahil. He was handsome and stern-looking, very like their father, with hard eyes, sharp features, but a loyal heart. Elphir took his role as next-in-line and chief defender of the Bay very seriously, and so Lothíriel was pleased to see he was talking gaily with their good friend Irolas. In the meantime, her other brother Erchirion entertained a group of soldiers by recanting his tale of killing an Orc with his bare hands. Erchirion was similar to Elphir in duty, but not so in looks. The second brother had a kind face, a gentle and understanding way about him, and unremarkable skills with a blade.
Finally, they saw him. Boromir was talking to Amrothos, Lothíriel's third and final brother.
Amrothos still had a boyish look about him at the age of twenty-four. He was Lothíriel's closest friend growing up. He taught her how to defend herself with a sword and defend others if needed. Her brothers and father all favored her, but Amrothos was always the one to be there for anything.
Lothíriel and Faramir approached them with joyful smiles.
"Good speech," Faramir said to his brother as Amrothos put his arm around his sister's neck. "Nice and short."
"Leaves more time for drinking!" Boromir joked.
The men laughed as Boromir embraced his brother. Breaking loose, Boromir yelled, "Break out the ale! These men are thirsty!" At his command, barrels upon barrels of ale were brought out, and Amrothos hurried over to be one of the first to get a drink.
Three full mugs were served to Boromir as he distributed them amongst himself, Faramir, and Lothíriel.
"Remember today, little brother," Boromir addressed Faramir with a raise of his mug. And winking at his young cousin, he proclaimed, "Today, life is good."
Boromir took a swig of his ale as Faramir casually glanced around. Though something caught his eye and quickly his face fell as he looked back at Boromir.
"What?" Boromir asked, smiling, as though nothing could damper this victory.
"He's here."
They all followed Faramir's gaze and saw that he, indeed, was there.
"One moment of peace, can he not give us that?" Boromir sighed.
Lord Denethor was pushing his way through the soldiers, shaking their hands and patting their backs in a congratulatory fashion. He was an older man with shoulder-length hair that was a gray color. And he reeked of vanity. When he lost his wife years ago, it was almost as if all that was once good and honorable in him had died with her. He became grim and acted out in anger all the time. He was proud and loving towards Boromir, but towards Faramir he was cold and harsh. Faramir never seemed to please him enough, if at all.
"Where is he?" Denethor smiled proudly at Boromir, taking no notice of his younger son. "Where is Gondor's finest? Where is my firstborn?"
Putting on a rehearsed smile, Boromir handed Faramir his unfinished mug of ale and turned to Denethor.
"Father!"
They hugged as Denethor spoke.
"They say you vanquished the enemy almost singlehandedly."
"They exaggerate," Boromir shrugged modestly. He opened is arms and gestured proudly toward his brother. "The victory belongs to Faramir also."
Faramir stepped forward expectantly but stopped short at Denethor's words: "But for Faramir this city would still be standing. Were not you entrusted to protect it?"
"I would have done, but our numbers were too few," Faramir defended himself calmly.
"Oh, too few? You let the enemy walk in and take it on a whim!" Denethor let his voice rise to a shout.
An embarrassed Boromir looked at Lothíriel with exasperation. He hated when his father bullied Faramir at all, let alone in public.
"Always you cast a poor reflection on me," Denethor spoke in quiet disappointment.
"That is not my intent," Faramir assured.
"You give him no credit and yet he tries to do your will." Boromir stalked away in frustration.
Stunned by his son's outspokenness, Denethor followed.
"He loves you, Father!" Boromir pleaded.
"Do not trouble me with Faramir," Denethor complained. "I know his uses and they are few."
Boromir looked away in disbelief.
"We have more urgent things to speak of."
Lothíriel and Faramir were standing in discomfort as they overheard part of Denethor and Boromir's conversation.
Lothíriel watched Boromir for a moment, then turned back to Faramir.
"Faramir, I hope you do not take what he says to heart," Lothíriel pleaded. "He loves you."
"Loved," Faramir corrected. "While my mother lived."
"I think you and I know that is not the truth," Lothíriel argued, but she couldn't keep the uncertainty from her voice.
"Thíri, don't do this," Faramir put his hand on his cousin's shoulder. "I appreciate your intentions, but the pity in your eyes tells me you don't even fully believe your words."
She lowered her eyes in embarrassment. "Faramir," Lothíriel began to protest, but just then, Boromir came storming around the corner yelling, "Not in Rivendell!"
In unison, Lothíriel and Faramir cried out, "Rivendell?", their words from a moment ago forgotten.
A split second later, Denethor came behind Boromir. "Would you deny your own father?" he spat angrily.
Faramir stepped forward hopefully. "If there is need to go to Rivendell, send me in his stead."
Lothíriel, Boromir, and even Faramir knew almost instantly that he would have been better off holding his silence.
"You?" Denethor smiled wickedly. "Oh, I see. A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality. I think not. I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will not fail me."