Reminder:: Making a semi-witty disclaimer is getting hard! x_x What you recognize still isn't mine; it belongs to the previously aforementioned owners.

Been a bit longer than I wanted, but here I am! n_n

Just because I feel like getting you all hyped up: another major canon appearance is coming up! Chapter Thirty-Two! Look forward to a general favorite and an adorable shortie. =3

Chapter Twenty-Nine :: House Arrest

Pacing about in my room wasn't the most exciting thing in the world. Separated from Ioreth and completely isolated, I could not bring myself to realize the severity of my situation. What a change! In just a matter of hours how my world had simply flipped upside down. Hold a moment; I'll explain.

The days surrounding the discovery of Boromir's cloven heirloom became a series of waiting and utter chaos. When I wasn't wandering the White Hall by myself, I was next to Denethor's chair waiting with him. Sometimes he would cry and sometimes he would stare off into nothing, too shocked to move. On the third day when the horn was brought, word had come that Faramir had returned to the city. This seemed to only confirm rumors though he was probably only coming to learn if these things were true himself. I would not know. I was not permitted to see him.

In fact, when word had reached Denethor that Faramir was come to the city, he had completely changed. The Steward was an unstable man, but he had been through so much and so much was still relying on him. At a moment's notice, he was willing to lash out at anybody. And it was unfortunate that the first person he saw was me.

Unlike the other days in the Hall, Denethor took one look at me and went near berserk. His pupils had dilated and he spit from his mouth. "You! You! You!" He kept saying, wagging his finger at me.

Half-worried that he might strike me, I had risen from my chair and backed quickly away. This seemed to only anger him more and he followed after me.

"You are not my Finduilas!" He rightly accused. "You are a vixen in woman's clothes! Sworn to the enemy! You'll be the death of my house! Out! Out!"

And now here I sit in my room, quite literally chained to my bed. Ioreth was not to speak to me – no one was to speak to me. I was given food, so I wasn't caged like an animal just yet. I might have well been in a dungeon or a prison cell though what with this sporadic treatment.

A heavy iron cuff clung tightly to my left ankle and wrapped about the lower bed post. My movement was limited this way so I could not reach the door. It would not matter – it was locked from the outside anyways. The only thing I could do was write letters that would never send or step out on my balcony; it was close enough to my bed, but I could not go near the rail.

I stopped pacing, losing my reminisces of yesterday, and listened closely. Horses.

A rare thing in the city, I ran towards the balcony. I passed the curtains and took two strides out. The clinking of the chain stopped with a sharp tug – I could go no further.

My hair picked up in the strong wind gathering outside. The sun had not shown itself for days now. The clouds forming had grown blacker and blacker; a sign of the times. From what I could see, the people were in the streets below to welcome the new Captain-Heir.

Faramir the Captain-Heir. It was strange.

I could not see anything of interest because of my precarious position. I stooped and picked up the heavy chain, pulling at it. My bed was much too heavy. I might have well been Sisyphus pushing a boulder uphill.

I sat on the ground dismally. Everything was too confusing and I was left in the dark in more ways than one.

His son would never return. The palantir had told him as much. Boromir was lost. His son… lost.

Denethor clenched his fist tight around the carved arm rest. Finwen! He had trusted her too much. Let her in. She had succeeded – somehow. The Valar only know how, but she had managed to slay his son right under his nose…

But it all seemed too impossible. Finwen had been here the whole time… But Denethor began to see the girl in the light of the fire again, uttering the same words he had heard in the palantir before: … kill… your son!

One of his sons was dead. He knew it in his heart. And the palantir never lied.

And frightening images of gathering orcs and boats on the river – coming, coming… Too late. All was too late. It would be lost. Fire. The city would be lost. The Eye… And Denethor could not do anything. He could do nothing but wait for the doom of his people…

No! Never! He is a man of Gondor. Steward of Minas Tirith. He mustn't allow this to happen. But what could he do?

He knew it was a matter of time before the great war, the last war; to end all peoples would erupt over the world. Orcs would spill out of the gates of Mordor and wash over the city like waves on a pile of sand. Gondor was weak. But there may still be hope. If he could evacuate all the women and children, keeping only those able to fight, he may defend Minas Tirith yet. And Osgiliath. The outer defenses must be in tact if they wish to win this onslaught. And Boromir… he had kept the city safe. He raised morale. He brought Osgiliath back to his father on a silver platter. Whatever he asked of Boromir would be done and done efficiently. If only he had—

"The Lord Faramir, Steward." A man announced and his younger son strode fearlessly into the hall.

Aggravated by the interruption of his thoughts, Denethor was only made more upset for the fact that Faramir was standing before him. This wasn't Boromir! What little use he is, Faramir. And to make things worse, he has left Osgiliath un-minded while on this 'trip' of his home.

Denethor grunted this thought aloud. "You have left Osgiliath. Why?"

Faramir stopped in his tracks. For a moment, Denethor thought he might try to answer him, but instead, Faramir's eyes rested on the horn split in two resting on his father's lap. Denethor noticed this and was angered. He wrapped the horn in his robes, stashing it from sight, and looked to Faramir for his answer.

"The… Osgiliath, my lord, is under control." Faramir replied.

"Why have you come? Come to gawk impishly at the horn of your brother, now deceased?"

Faramir paused. Faramir would not share what he had seen with his father, his brother travelling from Rauros in an elvin boat laden with his peacefully resting body and the weapons of his foes. No; Denethor need not hear this. May he cling to whatever hope he had left of Boromir returning. It was the same hope his sanity rested upon.

But this still took Faramir by surprise. He was expecting his father to be rash, frightened for the loss of his favorite, but Faramir did not expect him to be surprised that he had come. Wasn't it natural to be concerned for his father? Perhaps it was a family thing that neither could understand between them. Something that was empty and hidden away like the broken horn. Denethor loved both his sons, truly and deeply; they were all he had. But Faramir could see clearly that he was shaken by this loss. That although Boromir was dead, he was frightened for Faramir as well. Somewhere amidst the cold, scathing glares and sharp questions, Denethor was concerned. And Faramir felt this was all he needed.

Faramir bowed his head. "I was concerned for you, Father. I will now return to the outer defenses if you so wish."

"I do."

Faramir nodded. With another slight bow, he left all behind. This was probably the second shortest visit with his father he would have.

He did not inquire about Finwen. She was probably mourning the loss of her betrothed and wished not to be bothered. A slight pang reminded Faramir and he shook the thought away. Faramir would bring more men with him this time and make sure the Citadel was running smoothly here before he would leave again in the morning. He clenched his fist, tightening the gauntlet about his wrist, and left the White Hall.