After that day, it was as Denethor foretold. Thorongil was given a fleet of ships and many men and so ambushed the Corsairs of Umber by night. A great victory was achieved, with little loss for Gondor. As the White City made ready to welcome him, the Captain tarried in Pelargir. There he sent a message of farewell to his Steward, saying "Other tasks now call me, lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate." And so the Eagle of the Star moved on to other labors, sailing across the wide Anduin and setting his road toward the Mountains of Shadow.
Many, seeking for answers where none lay, surmised he had withdrawn from the field ere his rival became his Steward. Ecthelion, bereft of the son of his twilight, mourned openly Thorongil's loss, but of necessity leaned the more upon his son.
Less often then did Mithrandir come to the city and the more did Saruman, consumed as he was in learning all that could be found about that which he desired. It was at this time he found the scroll of Isildur and first understood truly that which he sought.
With dismay, Denethor watched in those years as Ecthelion, now stooped with age and the weariness of his ninety-seven years, began to fail. A man of foresight, he perceived that in his time as Steward the last test should come, thus he strove to learn much of the Enemy and his designs from Saruman and his own study. The time for watchfulness was passing and so it was that into a city of hushed and anxious waiting, Finduilas was delivered early of a second son.
The Steward of Gondor, against all protest at the lateness of the hour and his need for rest, came at once see his new grandson. He entered the torch lit room and saw Finduilas settled in her bed, Denethor beside her. The healers, dropping their lord a curtsey, left at his signal, giving them a moment of peace.
"You are well my lady, and the babe?" he asked, noting with concern the marks of exhaustion on the lady's pale but beautiful face. Her dark hair for once unbound, lay damp upon the pillows.
"Yes, my lord, it was a trial, but it is over." she smiled tiredly, looked adoringly at her little one, contentedly asleep, unaware of the consternation he had caused. Impossibly small the baby seemed to Ecthelion, but perfectly formed, a shock of dark hair and long dark lashes on his cheeks. Such a perfect reward, he thought, for two days of pain and fear.
"She was very brave, father. He is little but the healers say he is strong enough." Denethor absently dropped a kiss on his wife's brow. Ecthelion marveled, thinking as ever that she brought out the best in his stern son.
"Do you wish to hold him?" Finduilas asked, sitting up a little straighter.
Delighted, Ecthelion took the little bundle from her hands, cradling him carefully. "Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn Dunadan" he blessed the babe. Searching his peaceful face the Steward thought saw something of his father, tempered with a fineness that must come from his mother. Old fool, they all change so much, he reminded himself. His heart was lost completely when the babe started in his sleep, tiny fingers fanning open in surprise. One hand gripped reflexively his finger and the babe's eyes opened. Ecthelion, in wonder, beheld in their dark blue a calm and focused gaze he did not expect with one so new. As the babe and his grandfather beheld each other for the first time, theirs was a recognition, two wise and happy souls, for the nonce, at one with the world.
"What have you named him?" his voice rough with emotion. You are doting, old man.
"Faramir " Finduilas explained, "We have another jewel."
"You are greatly blessed, my lady, as are we all." Ecthelion felt strangely bereft as he passed his grandson back to his father.
A knock came upon the door. A guard entered at their biding. "Captain, Lord Saruman is without, he has herbs for your lady". Denethor turned to his wife, "May I show him the little one?"
"Yes love" she said, "I would sleep now awhile, if you will return him to the nurse". Leaving Finduilas to her rest, they entered the sitting room beside.
In the hushed, expectant outer room, three once and future stewards of Gondor gathered, each Captain with their part own play upon the board. The grandfather to rebuild its defences, left idle after too long in decay; the father to hold against the gathering storm; drawing knowledge in to turn the oncoming tide; the son: to lift up and steady their salvation on his road. The Maia, come out of Valinor to aid the peoples of Middle-Earth, had strayed from his position, reshaping the future entrusted to him to preserve. He was the bishop but he would be king.
"My greatest congratulations to you Captain, on this happy eve." exclaimed the wizard "I am relieved to find they are both so well".
"As are we all, after all the hours and concerns." agreed the current Steward, gazing steadily upon their visitor. He found himself wary, uncertain of Saruman's haste to intrude upon the event.
"Indeed, I have brought some herbs of my own stock, to strengthen his lady mother. My heart was afeared that the trial last so long and difficult.
"Thank you for your consideration, lord" replied Denethor.
"What is the child to be called?"
"Faramir" explained his father, proudly.
"A noble name, his namesake was a valiant prince." Lying and flattery was reflexive to the wizard, even on so trivial a point. An ill portent. Sarumen considered to himself. Why name the child for a prince who, disobeying his father, was slain in battle and so robed the throne of Gondor of an heir?
Peering intently at the little one in Denethor's arms, he touched the baby's cheek with a gnarled finger, its skin rough against the down of the new. "I offer my blessing". Faarmir's eyes flew open and he gave a single mewing cry of protest.
A fair and grey-eyed man sits in cloak and hood upon a wooden chair, a lamp beside, throwing shadows about the rough stone walls. He speaks low."The One Ring that was thought to have perished from the world. And Boromir tried to take it…..and here in the wild I have you and a host of men at my call and the Ring of Rings."
As if burned, the wizard drew back his hand, but as quickly schooled his features. "He is so little lords" he chuckled, "I am afraid to hurt him." As ever, he dissembled well, under the flowing robes his body trembled in fear.
Both grandsire and father laughed in their turn, at the sound and the thought of a boisterous reception to come. Ecthelion smiled ruefully "Yes, indeed, he is the tiniest babe I have seen. His big brother will have to be gentle with him when they meet on the morrow."
Smiling, the wizard took his leave, "I will leave you the herbs for the Lady Finduilas, my blessings again on the babe"
As he walked the torch lit corridors of the Steward's apartment, Saruman's mind was swiftly shifting strategies. For him a new pawn had been placed upon the opposing side. Somehow the man this babe will become plays a part against my design. I will not let that happen.
Despite his small size the baby thrived, and Finduilas, though slow to heal, gained in health each day. Her husband worried that the wakeful baby tired her too much, but she would not have a wet nurse and insisted on caring for him herself. By summer the colour had returned to her cheeks and she delighted in her son, a quiet and happy child, intently observing everything around him, rarely fussy or difficult. If he would only sleep more, she wished, knowing it was not in his power to grant.
A routine settled into their days. They would almost always be in the gardens, Boromir playing nearly, at five just learning a few feints with a knife and set upon his first pony. "Look at me, Mama" he would call, pretending to parry the moves from a Harad captain, swooping in to plant a messy kiss on the baby's forehead and running back out to his battles. "Gentle Boromir, gentle" she would say, but Faramir was untroubled by the rough affection. His eyes ever would follow his big brother, hands and feet kicking in excitement.
"When is he going to be able to play Mama? Babies are a bit boring." She laughed. "Soon, love, soon."
As she came back in from the garden, the warm summer sun streaming through the rooms, Finduilas laid the baby down in the cradle by the bed. Her husband was dressing, his formal black uniform, a council meeting soon to start. He was a handsome man still, she thought. His black hair untouched by time, the intent grey of his eyes reflected in the silver tree upon the tunic.
"This always suits you so well, my lord," she smiled, smoothing the velvet across the broad expanse of his shoulders, her fine fingers lingering upon his ribs.
"Lady, surely it is too soon." He murmured, always embarrassed but thrilled by her forwardness. "I am now surrounded by men, I think I should like a daughter."
At midsummer festival the great and the good gathered in the city, and Denethor, once again, invited Saruman to attend. Throughout those days, Finduilas dressed in the clear Dol Amroth blue, diamonds at her throat and upon her brow, would be hostess to the city as Ecthelion tired easily. Boromir, bursting with pride in a little mail shirt, cloak and dagger made just for the occasion, strutted across the court, imitating his father's march, his grandsire in body, if not in personality. Faramir, nestled in his mother's arms, seemed a replica of his father. His body long and lean, and his eyes grey, although his face and temperament were his mother's. At least there is something of Dol Amroth in one of my children.
If those were sunny, happy days, the only uneasiness that came was when the lady would look up to find the wizard's eyes upon her. Or rather, she realized, betimes, it was Faramir he was looking at intently. A shiver of fear runs through her, although no waking dream of certain dread comes to her mind.
As the first of the many dinners began, and she and her lord stand in the receiving line, Boromir proudly in front, to welcome the guests. She sees with unease, the wizard come forward. Reaching out, Saruman cradles the baby's scalp, as he greets her lord.
Finduilas, her eyes unfocused and the room receded, shares the vision with the wizard. Hope unlooked for springs within her heart.
Thorongil kneels beside the bed of her son, who lies at the brink of death, with one hand the Captain clasps his fevered hand and lays the other upon his brow. 'Faramir', he calls, fainter and fainter, again and again. The young man opens his eyes and there is a light of love and understanding in them. 'My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?"
Saruman decides to act. The babe has thrived. Is it too much to hope that that his great oaf of a brother would drop him? His mother guards him too closely. But there are many maladies that will take a child early…
That eve, Finduila speaks with her husband. "Denethor, the wizard frightens me. I do not like how he looks at Faramir. I beg of you, please send him away."
Her lord, surprised and puzzled at her reaction, wonders if it is some fiction of a new mother? "Lady, he is a wizard, and indeed has little experience of children, he looks stern yes. But I see or hear no malice in him."
"Denethor, please, send him away. I cannot attend the festivals, otherwise."
The Captain walks in the court the next morn, stern and serious, unlike his mien of the day before.
"My lord what troubles you." asks the wizard, "Where is your Lady, is she well?"
Denethor sighs. "She is well, but much concerned with the baby and would not be apart from him. I wish I could reassure her."
An opportunity presents itself. "Captain, if she is concerned, I have a tincture to give the babe for his strength. He is so small he must be more subject to the many slights of childhood."
"I thank you, lord, it will ease her mind, I am sure."
And so, the next day the wizard passed a vial of clear red liquid to the babe's father, his voice a river of calm, insistent reassurance. "A few drops each day will ensure he thrives. Be sure the child has it each day"
"No, I will have nothing from that creature, near my son!" Finduilas, in her fear and agitation, held Faramir so tightly he started to wail.
"Finduilas! This was a thoughtful offer on his part, to the babe's benefit. You are starting at shadows."
"No!"
"You will give it to the babe, it is for his good."
"No!" Tears pricked her eyes as she looked at the thunder in her husband's face. Always he had looked on her with love, he who never so much as raised his voice.
"Your objections are unfounded." He recalled a conversation in the study, years ago. "Does the lady pine for the Captain?" Saruman had asked, artless innocence in his tone. "They were much together." Now even she will not listen to me, he thought, and the bitterness rose up within him, "Finduilas, do as I say, now" he found himself shouting.
With trembling hands she gripped the proffered vial. Afraid, of a sudden, that Denethor would force it on the baby himself, Finduilas swiftly raised the vial to her lips and in one movement drank it down.
"There, are you happy?" she cried, flinging the empty vial with all her strength back at him. It smashed against the stone wall beside, crystal pieces splintering to the floor and on the velvet shoulder of his tunic. A scent of green grass filled the room, oddly bright amidst the discord. Reaching up with one unsteady hand he felt a wet nick on his cheek. The lady did not see, comforting the wailing boy and avoiding her husband's gaze.
Aghast at the fury and fierceness on his wife's face and her actions, Denethor kept his distance. Is this some malady of the birth? What has happened to my gentle wife? He strove to calm his voice before he spoke.
"Lady, you are overwrought and imagining dangers where none exist. I will give orders for you to rest. You will not attend the rest of the festival, which seems to be your wish. After we will find a nurse for Faramir, you have become obsessed." Her husband, in his dismay, turns away and leaves them be.
That night, as Finduilas rocked and crooned to Faramir in their empty bed, the tincture coursed its way through her veins, winding its way back to her trembling heart. A dose to scythe the babe but slowly, it did not kill her, but worked its damage. She was never the same.
A/N Thorongil's words to Ecthelion are from the Appendix, Return of the King, JRR Tolkien. Saruman's first vision is paraphrased from the Two Towers; his second vision paraphrased from the Houses of Healing, Return of the King, all by JRR Tolkien. I make no recompense from this but greatly appreciate the opportunity to play in his legendarium.