Faramir had just turned five, and still Finduilas was bedridden. The three of them tiptoed around her, afraid to speak to her for too long or make too much noise, lest they disturb her rest. Faramir knew only that Mother never felt well, Boromir knew that giving birth at thirty-three hadn't been healthy for her and that she'd never quite recovered, but only Denethor knew that she was dying.

And that knowledge was destroying him.

Suddenly Denethor could find no interest in anything. He let his responsibilities slide. He stopped attending Boromir's training and lessons and always refused whenever his son asked him to play. He alternated between avoiding his wife altogether, insisting that seeing her in this weakened state was too painful, and spending every minute at her side for fear he might not be there when she passed and that she would die alone.

As for Faramir, he barely existed, a fact that puzzled and hurt both of the Steward's sons. Boromir was intent on honoring his poor mother's wishes and spent as much time with his little brother as possible. He helped Faramir take his first steps, play his first game of catch, and every day as soon as he finished his lessons he headed for the nursery where Faramir was looked after by palace officials and nursemaids, something the little lad always looked forward to.

This day was no exception. Boromir had scarcely stepped through the door of the nursery when Faramir raced toward him with his arms outstretched. "He's here!" he cried.

"Hello, little brother," Boromir said, and smiled as he picked him up. He did that often, partly because he considered it good exercise for his upper muscles and partly because no one else would. Whenever Faramir held out his arms out to Denethor, their father would merely say, "Is there some reason you cannot walk? You have two legs with nothing wrong with them." Boromir couldn't imagine why; he had spent many a time on his father's shoulders despite his being heavier than Faramir. But for whatever reason, Denethor wouldn't and their mother couldn't, so Boromir held his brother whenever possible.

"Did you slay the dragons?" Faramir asked.

"Of course. I drove my sword right through them, and they cried and cried." Boromir made a pretend dragon scream and Faramir giggled. "All in a day's work, of course," Boromir said proudly.

"Will you take me to see Mother?" Faramir asked. When Boromir hesitated, he started begging. "Please? They won't let me go see her unless I'm with someone older."

Boromir reluctantly agreed. "All right, but it will probably have to be a short visit, you understand?"

"Yes." Faramir rested his head on his brother's shoulder. "Thank you." Boromir smiled and tousled his hair. He took Faramir to their mother's room and, at her insistence, left them alone. As he headed back to his own chambers, he ran into his father.

"What have you been doing, my son?" he asked with a smile.

"Taking Faramir to see Mother," he said. "They wanted to visit with each other."

Denethor had a look his son couldn't place. Confusion? Hurt maybe? "Did she at any point ask for my presence?"

Boromir shook his head. "No. She said she wanted to be alone with Faramir for now, but that I can come visit later when he's been put to bed."

"But she said nothing about me?" Denethor pressed. "Her husband who has looked after her so well?"

Boromir felt a twinge of pity in his heart as he shook his head. "No Father, she did not ask for you."

Faramir curled up next to Finduilas like a kitten, looking up at her with adoring eyes. His mother had the sweetest, kindest face of anyone in the world, and there was no one- save perhaps Boromir- that Faramir loved more.

"I missed you all day, Mother," he said, closing his eyes and savoring the love in her fingers as they brushed his hair. "Especially this morning." Then he shut his eyes tight as he realized what he'd given away.

Finduilas's fingers stilled. "Why? What happened this morning?"

"Nothing," Faramir said too quickly.

Finduilas pulled him closer and kissed his cheek. "Darling, you know you can tell me anything." When he was quiet, she turned his face to hers. "Come on, sweetheart. Tell Mama."

Faramir buried his face in her chest. "I accidentally wet the bed again."

Finduilas tilted his chin up. "That's all right. The servants can wash the sheet and give you another one."

"I didn't mean to, Mother," he said. "It's been happening every night." Faramir had tried every tactic he could think of, such as not eating or drinking anything right before bed and using the chamber pot first, but nothing worked. Every morning this week, his sheets had been soaked and smelly. And, though he didn't want to worry his mother about it, he knew his father was losing patience with the amount of sheets being washed every day. Can you not control yourself, he had asked. Faramir had tried, but he apparently couldn't.

Finduilas, however, put him at ease. "Do not worry about it even one little bit, my son. It's a small mess that's easily fixed, and I know you didn't mean it." He smiled and she held him to her. This was what she loved about Faramir; he would just relax in her arms for hours. Boromir would try but eventually get restless and bored. But not his brother. He loved her singing, her stories, everything she had to give him he took with love and adoration. He worshipped her.

She jerked her head up at a tapping on the door. "Just bringing you your medicine, My Lady," the healer said. Finduilas nodded and shifted so she could take it. The healer hurried out, closing the door behind her, and Finduilas held the medicine and pondered whether to take it. She didn't like this kind; it had a habit of making her delirious and much too sleepy, but it would also curb the knot of pain in her abdomen. And of course, it would set a bad example for her young son if he saw her skimping on her medicine. So she took it.

The draught worked its effects in minutes. Finduilas lay back with Faramir, growing more and more relaxed as she held him against her chest. "You want to know a secret, Faramir?" she asked. He looked up, alarmed at her voice. It was slurring and didn't sound entirely like her.

"Yes Mother," he said uncertainly.

"I never really liked your father," Finduilas said. She smiled and was surprised to learn that she felt no shame in saying so. "Nor have I ever liked Minas Tirith. Well, I cared for the tree- goodness knows I cared for it enough and nagged your father about it, but everything else was awful. I missed the sea." She closed her eyes. "Oh, you would have loved it, Faramir. The sea where I lived was beautiful. Clear as crystal, warm in the shallow end and cold in the deep. How I longed for it."

Faramir was puzzled. Why was his mother talking like this? "But Father loves you," he said.

Finduilas laughed a little at that. "Oh, he did that. And my family loved him too. They loved his earnestness, his position, his kingdom, his lineage, and especially his position. I did not; I was young and he was much older than me and I had no desire to leave my home for his. But in the end it was not up to me."

She began to doze off then, and Faramir thought perhaps he'd stayed too long. Perhaps he should have left when his mother took her medication. It was just that he felt loved when he was with her, and that feeling was difficult to leave. He wondered if she meant all of those things she had said about Father and if she had meant to say them to him. He wasn't entirely sure he even understood all of it.

He would though, in time. Years and years later Faramir would remember that conversation whenever his father was angry with him. He would dredge it up and remember it and he would feel comfort for himself and pity for his father.

Because of all people, Faramir understood the difficulty of loving someone who did not love you back.