In which a new captain is placed upon the board, a pawn is moved and several feints are planned
Denethor, Steward of Gondor, long known as a man stern and proud, became ever more grim and grey in the years that followed his lady's loss. Mourning always the bright jewel of his heart, he wore only black; great sable robes that hid the mail and sword he wore to keep his body strong. Long hours he would sit in the White tower of his forefather, deep in thought and searching o'er the wider realm. Gondor's defences he and his father had strengthened: the Rammas rebuilt, the beacons set and ready, foreseeing that their final trial with Mordor would come within in his time.
His sons had grown and now he readied them, tools also to be used in war. Boromir had his father's pride and face, but not the blood of Westernesse, the gifts of both Hurin and Dol Amroth had passed him by. He had his mother's sense of humour, but his own great heart and an appetite for life to match, delighting always in arms and deeds of valour. Just 19, he had become the youngest Captain of Gondor's army, his fame and renown growing with each skirmish. Faramir was his mother in personality; sensitive and steadfast, ever curious, looking out on the world with her gentle grey eyes. His face was the mirror of his father's and his body also: lithe and quick and strong. Already he was training in arms and archery, although he stole what time he could for what he loved best, lore and language and history. In him, as in his father, the blood of Westernesse ran nearly true.
Mithrandir pulled his great grey cloak more tightly round, shivering a little at the damp. The rain was softly pelting down, the pavement wet beneath his feet, and a steady drip commenced again from the brim of his battered hat. The staff beat time with his footsteps upon the stones, steady as he climbed up through the city's streets. He was in no hurry, indeed taking his time, pondering how best to attain his goal, in this city where he was little welcome.
A ring Bilbo had shown to him, a gold ring without device or design, simple in its beauty, less simple in its uses. Mithrandir remembered once again the words of Saruman, the last time the White Council met. "It is gone" said the great wizard, his words ringing in the air. "Gone down the mighty Anduin to the sea. Washed outside our reach and only great Ulmo can find it now." And so he has believed for long and long. Was not Saruman the most learned of their order? Had he not spent many years researching the One Ring's very fate? Surely Bilbo's ring must then be one of many rings of magic, wrought by a smith of lesser skill.
And yet of late the wizard had witnessed many things that made him uneasy about the eldest of their order. Manwe himself had charged them with their toil: to give such aid and guidance as they were able, but not impose their will upon events. Grown proud and arrogant as his power waxed, already Saruman had broken this vow; overruled the Council and stayed their hand against Dol Gulder. Many had been slain and taken when, emboldened by their hesitation, the Enemy attacked the woodland realm.
Now having come to doubt his mentor's intent, Mithrandir found he doubted all he had been told. "Naught but an account of the moment he cut his prize from the Enemy's hand, my old friend. Nothing to describe the ring itself." Saruman had said as he declared useless the scroll of Isildur.
Perhaps this was a waste of precious time and yet, here to Minas Tirith he had come, misgiving in his heart, hoping to search once again for some sign, some design that would identify the ring. The wizard wished to see the scroll for himself. He paced on up through the final circles, through the wet and lowering weather, thinking he would need a strategy indeed to convince the Steward to let him rummage in his vaults.
Faramir skidded to a sudden halt outside the breakfast room, as the Tower guardsmen hid their smiles at the haystack of his hair, unbrushed and quite forgotten at the news. Nera had come to wake him as she always did, setting out the order of the day.
"My lord, you are to breakfast with your father straight away and then apply yourself to your studies in the morning." Faramir sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. Flushed from sleep and hair more tangled than usual, his pupils were wide despite the light. Nera wondered Had he dreamed again?
"In the afternoon you have arms practise with the Captain and then you will attend the feast tonight with all the companies. Mind you wash after the drills and dress in your best boots and a clean tnnic." Now governess, she kept a close but gentle rein upon on her forgetful charge, lest he feel too often his father's easy wrath. Lord Denethor was always punctual and well turned out. His younger son was not.
"The feast is tonight?! Which Captain? Are they back?" The covers were thrown quickly back, Faramir forgetting in his excitement that she still looked through the doorway.
"Why, your brother of course and yes they came back late yestereve." Nera smiled and gave him a last instruction. "Lord Faramir, don't forget to brush your hair!"
Now that he stood before the door, clothed in a wrinkled shirt and breeches pulled hastily from the floor, the boy licked his palm and tried to smooth the unruly black locks that stuck out in all directions. Father would not be happy with the presentation, but he didn't care. Boromir was back! At his nod the guardsmen opened the door and announced his presence.
It was no dream that sat at the table with his father, spreading jam upon a bun, smiling broadly, as if he had not been gone these four months past. Faramir just barely remembered his manners.
"Good morning father" He bowed his head respectfully. His father nodded and placed his teacup down, a mixture of displeasure and resignation upon his face.
"Good morning, Captain." He bowed to Boromir, who pushed his chair back and rose, a napkin falling to the floor. "You don't need to Captain me!" Boromir protested as he engulfed his younger brother in a fierce hug. He stepped back to survey his little brother at arms length. "Fara, Valar you have grown! I almost can't do this" he grinned, reaching out to perch his elbow on his brother's head. He laughed as Faramir squirmed away, but their usual joke was on him. Indeed he couldn't, his brother was now taller than his shoulder.
As they settled back at the table, Boromir was peppered with excited questions, launched around mouthfuls of the copious breakfast the fourteen-year-old was wolfing down. "Faramir." their father admonished sternly, before turning back to his ever present papers. His younger son tried to swallow before speaking.
"You went all the way to Firien wood? It must have been wonderful to be camping out every night." Boromir laughed ruefully. The boy made campaigning sound almost like a picnic.
"Wonderful is not the adjective that comes to mind, little brother. Wet, cold, or hard more like. I prefer a bed, and a warm meal. I am very thankful now that as Captain I do not need to cook. A well fed company is a happy company, I have quickly learned that."
"They probably put you up for promotion." Faramir's teasing grin lit up his gentle face. "No more risk of poisoning!"
"What?" The Captain turned wide-eyed upon his brother, poised to clip him on the shoulder. Denethor, not entirely ignoring his sons, read his eldest with ease and shot him a quelling look. The hand was lowered. Boromir had indeed laid low half a squad with a carcass of rotten meat, he remembered, but how had Faramir heard about it?
The brothers thought it prudent to eat quietly for a while, Boromir silently passing to his brother every last pastry on the table and most of the fruit too. Where was the slighter boy putting it all?
"What have you been doing, Fara, other than growing and eating and sleeping late." He ruffled his brother's hair, to show that he was teasing.
"Archery and sword practice of course." His brother nodded. "History with Ivanduil, and lots and lots about the laws of Cirion. Did you know he started the beacons?" he asked excitedly. Faramir reveled in the chance to talk. It had been too quiet. Their father these days was a man of few words and little time.
Boromir, for whom learning was a skill done with energy, imprinted by experience and not reading, snorted. "Have you not yet ruined your eyes, peering at all those dates and names?" He knew full well that Faramir could recite it all by heart and was really rather proud of that.
"No! My sight is better than yours. Belegon says that is why I make the better archer." The Captain raised an eyebrow, thinking he must have a word with the armsmaster. His brother was enjoying himself far too much at his expense!
Denethor paused in marking notes upon a parchment and closed the folio. He stood up, the meal was over, and his sons rose obediently. He looked pointedly at his second born. "Mithrandir has arrived and I have reluctantly given him leave to use the archives. You are not to disturb him Faramir. By midday I expect you to give me the Oath that Cirion spoke to Eorl, its history and importance to governance by our house."
As his father strode purposefully from the room, Faramir had to remember to close his mouth. Mirthandir was here! And Boromir! This was going to be a most wonderful day.
The early morning passed slowly for the young Dunadan, for once less intent upon his studies than the promise of events to come. The dim and filtered light of the library did not help the task, nor did the flat and droning voice of Ivanduil, his tutor, a dedicated historian who quite despaired of Boromir's attention but usually found his younger brother eager to learn. Not so this day. The boy fidgeted and turned his gaze away, looking past the heavy curtains on the great arched windows to the sunshine outside the Citadel and the parade ground beyond.
As Faramir failed to answer his question for a second time, the silver-haired and grey-eyed gentleman sighed and put his quill down, rubbing his thinning temple. "Young master, is there any point in continuing? I am afraid your heart is not with Cirion this morning."
The boy looked back with a start, and flushed. He was being rude and Ivanduil was trying. "I am very sorry Sir. I am not making good use of your efforts."
"Then I think I will release you. Perhaps fresh air and sunshine will help you focus."
"Thank you, Sir!" Faramir bowed and rose, the delight at his release all too evident. The elder man waved him away, concealing a smile, knowing the boy's quick mind would make up for it another day.
"Do not thank me, but I sincerely hope you have a considered answer for your Lord Father's question come the time."
Faramir made his way towards the side door, closest to the practise ground. Here the library divided into smaller rooms, arranged off a low-ceilinged and little used hallway. As he trod the hall in silence, the worn carpet muffling his footfalls, the boy heard a low, insistent muttering. A door just farther on was open a crack. Curiosity waylaid his original purpose and he peered in.
In the small dim room packed nigh to the ceiling the aged scrolls, sat Mithrandir intent upon his research. Murmuring all the while in the Elven tongue, the wizard scanned the papers before him, one gnarled finger traversing each line in quick succession. The great worn staff leaned against the desk and beside it floated the only source of the light in the shrouded room, a softly glowing yellow sphere. Faramir exclaimed softly in wonder at the sight. Magic!
As the wizard looked up, he saw the young boy duck his head, ever courteous and apologetic for intruding. "Welcome, Lord Mithrandir. I am sorry I disturbed you." Could this youth, all coltish limbs, hair and tunic askew, be the quiet and serious child he had last seen? Eyes twinkling like stars in inky sky, a smile lit up the lined and careworn face. 'Lord Faramir, how good it is to see you again! Come in, come in."
Faramir moved lightly through the door, a hesitant smile alighting on his features. It seemed to the wizard he could see the thirst for knowledge in his face, the sense of wonder in the keen grey eyes. "What are you searching for sir? Can I help? I read Sindarin and a bit of Quenya too."
"Nothing to interest you lad, just dusty tomes of long forgotten history." He would not speak openly of his quest. It would not due to speak of rings aloud, so close under the mountains to the east. "What have you studying young lad?" He motioned the boy to sit in a chair beside the desk.
"The history of Gondor, sir. Today it was the Oath of Eorl and our alliance with Rohan."
"Ah. Now there is an exciting tale. The Riders of Eotheod came upon the field at Celebrant just when your forefather thought all hope was lost and defeat stared us in the face. It was a moving day when Eorl and Cirion swore oaths in gratitude and friendship and Cirion gave Calenardhon to the Rohirrim to keep and guard."
"You were there!" Faramir marvelled at the agelessness of wizards.
"Yes I was. It was the first time a steward swore an oath to Eru, reserved only for the Kings. Cirion was wise and laid his hand upon Elendil's tomb as he spoke the words. An oath so sworn will not be forsaken, not by Gondor or Rohan, however burdensome the cost."
The two fell easily into talk of history, Mithrandir delighted to answer the boy's thoughtful questions, intent upon the morning's subject now brought to life. So lost in the enjoyment of their discussion was Faramir that he did not sense the morning slipping by, and heard with dismay the midday bell ringing in the courtyard nearby.
Suddenly the easiness was gone and the boy lept up from the chair, tense and worried. "The bell..I am late! I'll be in trouble with Father again." He groaned started for the door. "He was already annoyed at how I came to breakfast."
"And your transgression was?" Mithrandir tilted his head to one side and surveyed the anxiety in the boy's face.
It came all out in a sorry rush. "I was late then too and I wasn't neat and I forgot to comb my hair, and my clothes were rumpled." He heaved a heavy sigh, dejectedness in the very set of his shoulders. "Everything I do annoys him."
The wizard smiled ruefully. Oh the agonies of youth. "I daresay, young Faramir, there are other matters to worry more about." He fingered his long and ragged beard and his eyes were merry as he chuckled softly. "I am certain I would displease your father also. I am not renowned for my turnout either. Nor is the mightiest warrior I know."
Relief and gratefulness at the unaccustomed support flooded the boy's anxious features. As he paused, his hand upon the door, Faramir turned back. His eyes were dark wide pools, brimming with hope and longing.
"Mithrandir, who is Aragorn?"
The floating globe evaporated with a loud pop as the wizard started badly. His voice was rough and the parchment shook within his grasp. "How did you know that name, Faramir?" The air in the room felt suddenly close and cool as fear unlooked for clenched suddenly at his heart.
"You…you just said it." The boy was puzzled, not understanding. What had done wrong? The wizard rose and walked slowly around the desk, willing his feet to be steady as he went. Faramir did not flinch as the older man reached out and clasped the boy's chin, searching carefully his face for the truth.
"No I did not, lad." Two sets of wide and worried eyes met each other across the dim.
"I am sorry my lord." The boy shook his head as if to clear an image. "It must be a waking dream. I dream sometimes, as my mother did." He wanted to explain, to give his mentor hope. He was not used to seeing Mithrandir afraid. "She saw a king returned and I was there."
Did she? But he did not, else he might have recognized Estel. The wizard frowned. This was too near an escape. He has the gifts of both his houses and strong to be able to read me, even if I was not guarding.
"No, this was no dream, Faramir. You read it from my heart. However it came to you, it is a name you must keep safe. His time is not yet come. Swear, swear to me you will not speak of this to anyone. Not your father, not your brother. No one." The room seemed tense and heavy as Mithrandir's words rang, laced with a power he was ever loathe to use.
Faramir licked his lips, suddenly dry, but his eyes were steady and held no guile. "I swear my Lord." The wizard nodded gravely amd the very air relaxed with a quiet sigh. "Go, young Dunadan, and tell your father I will speak with him later. And do not speak to him of kings. He would not thank you."
Within the dark and many-windowed tower of Orthanc, the Lord of Isengard had sent his spies away, their orders clear and specific. Three men they were, loyal to his gold and his guile, certain of the approbation they would receive upon the seemingly easy task. Search the Shire for a hobbit named Baggins. Bring me word of his habits and his doings. One only had an additional task. At this their master smiled faintly. He would find out the use of this leaf of which the grey one was so enamored.
It was the appointed hour for his contact with the Anor-stone, and so the wizard drew his cloak of changing colours about him and climbed higher up into the tower. From four great monoliths of black obsidian Orthanc was wrought, by the men of Numenor long ago. At its summit four spires sharp as the points of spears stretched to the sky, the bones of the earth reaching out of the tormented hills. Between them lay a single room, the home of the Orthanc-stone, itself as black as the walls and spires around.
Saruman turned his gaze upon the stone resting on its plinth and his thoughts to one he sought to reach. The hazy, tumbling images refocused and he saw a room as white as his was black: the Tower of Ecthelion. The grave and serious face of the Steward came in to view, lines of care and worry etched ever deeper on the proud and high face.
No words were spoken into the chilled silence of each tower, yet each warden heard the other's words. The very air crackled with a cool and focused power.
Hail Denethor son of Ecthelion. It is good to see you yet again for our council. I trust you fare well and your sons also.
"We are well Saruman. The elder is newly made a captain and is a credit to his company. We are in good hands. He will in time be the Captain-General and key to our defences."
Prudent my steward. He seems a man worthy and valiant. And the younger boy? What of him?
"There, it will take time to temper him to Gondor's need. He is dreamer and little inclined to the deeds he must take on. His fills his head with songs and lore and fables. He has spent already too many hours at the feet of Mithrandir, entranced by his tales. The grey one has come again to Minas Tirith and I am keeping them apart."
Come again to the city, whatever for?
"To search our archives for scrolls of knowledge. He seeks he says a weapon that will aid us all in our hour of need to come."
The wizard's chuckle echoes down the link. He was ever the lesser of our order, Denethor. Lesser in wisdom, but not in pride. I have searched as you know and have gleaned all that can be got. He resents my knowledge and so seeks on his own to copy what I have done. Thorongil placed his trust in Mithrandir as did your father, wanting only gain and greater power. But I would not expect your son to be this way at such a tender age.
"I little understand him, I confess. He is a wilful, undisciplined youth.
I would watch him warily my Lord. If he is already allying himself with Mithrandir, who know what plots have been put within his head? Be careful he follows your counsel and does not seek to keep his own. You have said his brother loves him greatly. Be ware that the younger does not come between you if he is learning guile from that master of dissembling.
Their council turned to matters of defence, the wizard plying the steward for news of the Enemy's position to the east and south, the state of the local lords and their troops. In return Saruman gave Denethor but tasty morsels, movements in Rohan, stirrings about the Mirkwood and word from his spies of the Dunlendings farther east.
As they broke off, the wizard pondered what he had learned. The treacherous are ever distrustful and so he gnawed in worry upon the news from Minas Tirith. So that old fool seeks again. Why would he do so? What treachery does he plot against me? He felt a flicker of unease. What draws the boy to that upstart?
Resentment coiled within the wizard's chest, as it did within the Steward's. Cirdan gave Narya to Mithrandir and not to me! I was the first, I volunteered to aid the children. Why should it not have come to me?
Suddenly he laughed aloud, the black eyes flickering madly within the high and kingly face. It is no matter, I have made my own! And will gain the other in due time. He fingered a gold and silver ring upon his hand. From its jagged runes he drew new strength and gathered himself, walking westward about the tower to shift the palantir's gaze.
This time the image he sees is near as black as the spires above. Far away in a city once fair and beautiful, now stinking with the fires of corrupt creation, the Ithil-stone focuses upon a ring of fire, circled round a red and lidless eye. Even expecting what he would see, Saruman trembles at the awesome sight.
"The Power of Isengard is at your command, Sauron, Lord of Earth." His thoughts ring with the enchantment of his speaking voice. The fallen one must not know of what he too desires.
What news Saruman, from beyond my borders? What news?
"Great Lord, I have stayed those who would oppose you. I have kept the peace with the peoples of the west, all the better for your search. Your instrument wants only to return to you. As the kingdoms lie idle you may regain what was has been lost."
Very good, wizard. Very good. I would have what was taken from me. With it, none can stand before my designs.
Despite his new power, Saruman's breath grew laboured and his limbs weak with the strain of guiding the Orthanc-stone. He was not its rightful owner and thus it grew more wayward with each use. He turned himself to one last thought; bargaining with one, in his swollen pride, he believed he could coerce.
"Together, my lord, we shall rule this Middle-earth. The old world will burn, the forests, fail, a new age of orc will rise. Before all is done we will drive the machine of war with the sword and fire and the iron fist of fear."
Leagues away in another black and dreaded tower, the mightiest of the Maia, fallen even farther than his pawn, laughed and his servants cowered at the sound.
Mithrandir sought the Steward of Gondor that afternoon within the hall of Kings, anxious to be away and looking little forward to their talk, yet knowing he must speak of what he learned. He approached the Steward's throne where Denethor sat surrounded by his Captains: the talk of border-war and orc-spies and too little supplies. The youngest among them looked up at his approach and motioned to his father. The Steward raised his hand for silence and nodded for him to speak.
The wizard bowed low, leaning lightly on his staff. "My lord, I give you thanks for the use of your archives. It was princely done, and I believe to Gondor's benefit.
"Mithrandir you are ever a flatterer as much a stormcrow. I know your desire and can see your aims but at least in this search for knowledge we row together."
"Lord, I have a last request ere I make your leave. May we speak in private?"
A black eyebrow raised above an aquiline nose. Surprised, Denethor decided to allow it
" Leave us", he motioned to the men. At Boromir's quick gaze, he inclined his head and his son followed suit.
"Denethor, the time is coming when all our strengths must be put together to halt the menace as it grows. We must marshall our defences, our strength of arms and wits not least. I see Boromir is made a captain, that is indeed well for Gondor. I deem also that the more we learn of the weapon of the Enemy the greater our chance to forestall it reaching its owner. For this I came. Yet in my search I have learned something else and it concerns your other son."
"Faramir?" The Steward's eyes darkened.
"Your younger son is more like to you, my Lord, than you realize. He has both the Gifts of Hurin and Dol Amroth. Did you not know?"
"Nay, he would be young yet for at least the one to show. I had not time to test or think upon it."
"Well I tell you now both are full upon him: wild and without control. Untutored the gift of Hurin is a burden, as you well know. You must send him to Lorien as your father did for you. There is much he must be taught, to use the gift, wisely and well to our benefit."
The Steward shook his head. No power under Arda would have him send his son closer to those lands, away from his control. At least it explains his raging need for sleep and sustenance. Wild the gift burns energy like little else. "I will teach him myself what is necessary, Mithrandir. If you have not noticed there are fires stoked in Mordor to breed armies and forge black weapons. We have need of arms, not visions. He will be a soldier, not a seer."
The wizard looked as if he might speak again, but at the stubborn set of Denethor's jaw, bowed his head and turned away. He hoped in his heart that for the boy's sake his father taught him soon.
The afternoon passed quickly as the brothers sparred and joked, at ease with each other as with no one else. Faramir, unsettled by the morning's events, felt all the better when even Boromir had to allow that he was doing somewhat better with his swordsmanship. That night at the feast, he was excited to sit at the main table, at his brother's urging allowed a small glass of watered wine and quite miraculously allowed to stay when the songs and dancing started. He had of course, enthusiastically tried every dish that came his way.
Throughout the night he noticed his father's eyes were on him, and he tried to mind all his manners with the lords and ladies present, striving for his deportment to be perfect. Even Denethor could not be unhappy with what Faramir had managed of his appearance. His hair was washed and pulled back with a black ribbon, curling slightly behind his shoulders, and he was clad in his best dark blue tunic and polished boots. The boy was shyly thrilled when one of his more sprightly great aunts asked him to dance and blushed pink when the pretty wife of the Captain General asked him next. He loved dancing and clearly did well, as after that he never lacked for a partner.
Well fed and happy, up late and enjoying himself, all too soon Faramir found his father at his elbow. From across the hall he caught his brother's eye and waved good night. Boromir, caught in the centre of a throng of singing men, raised his tankard in salute and smiled. Faramir knew he would not be home for many hours, yet.
As he walked quietly back through courtyard to the Steward's Palace, Ithil was rising and very bright. He could just make the scimitar and the swan. The night was soft and Faramir found himself getting sleepy.
As they reached their rooms, his father turned and spoke. "My son I would speak with you." Certain he heard a note of displeasure in the voice, he nervously wondered what had he done. Had he insulted someone at the dance? Said something wrong?
Denethor spoke, coolly and calmly but anger simmered in his gaze "Faramir, did I not give you specific instructions this morning to stay away from Mithrandir?"
"Yes, sir, but…" The boy hesitated. His heart had fallen into his stomach.
"But what?" An eyebrow raised and dark eyes glittered all the more.
"I thought that since Ivanduil and I were done, there would be no harm."
"You thought. You thought. Were you given leave to think?"
"No, sir." The black ponytail fell forward as the boy examined intently the tips of his polished boots.
"You knowingly defied me. And in so doing, you spent so much time enraptured at the feet of that wizard, that you missed lunch and were late to the practise ground. Did you think I would not find out?" The boy for the moment kept silent, hearing the tone of his father's voice rise.
Denethor in his fury spat the words out. "Wooly headed child, you have not the sense to know your own mistakes. You want to learn, to have lore and understanding, but without experience and resolve it is useless. And now I find I am being given lessons in how to raise my own son by that upstart! Saruman was the head of the council for a good reason. Mithrandir is the lesser of their order, It is ill done to put too much stock in the lesser man."
Faramir could not help himself. He would not usually speak his mind, between his exuberant brother and his stern father he always kept his counsel. This once it hurt too much to hear his beloved mentor mocked. "But that is politics. What does it matter who is where within the order? Mithrandir knows so much."
"Everything is politics!" Denethor's face was practically purple with rage. "Your brother and I are trying to protect our people and this kingdom. Staying ones hand and sitting long listening to foolish wizards may have served the kings of old, but Gondor is in need of soldiers with the wit to follow orders. The wolf is at the door."
Faramir, in agony of indecision, tried to explain. "But father,"
"I did not give you leave to speak, do not gainsay me!" Denethor was scarcely conscious of the hand that raised: a decade of resentment uncoiled within an instant. Like a striking snake it hit and gathered back with startling speed. He was yet a man of strength, and the force of the blow rocked the boy back, the livid mark of the great ring already rising on his cheek.
Disasters are ever a mix of little events, each alone of no consequence: combined together a chain of misery. Had Faramir not moved to step forward when he did, he would have been more firmly planted. Had he expected the blow, he might have blocked it, although the instinct not to raise his hand to his lord was great. Had the stool not been behind him he would not have gone down.
As he put his hand out to break his fall, Faramir felt a short sharp pain within in his wrist and then a spreading warmth. He bit back a cry, struggling to his knees, knowing it would only enrage his father more if he stayed upon the floor. How had he fallen? What had he done?
Childish bones are easily broken, as can be trust, but love sometimes less so. Finduilas' eyes looked out, newly wary, from a younger, softer version of Denethor's own face. Within their depths hurt now lay but not anger, uncertainty but not judgement. He remembered her eyes, alight with anger and reproach, but never with forgiveness. It seemed too much bear to see it now, when she lay forever beyond his reach.
To drive those unwittingly accusing eyes away, therein lay his only solace. "Get out of my sight" Denethor roared, "Speak to me no more of wizards." The boy, cradling his arm, ran.
Boromir, Gondor's youngest and likely drunkest Captain, pressed himself lightly up the rampart wall. He was quite pleased that he could still to pull off a trick practised many nights when sneaking home after conquests in the City. He paused only a moment upon the top to smile and steady himself, reflecting that really he was only moderately drunk, not so far gone that he could not make it home without an escort. It had been a memorable evening, the men in high spirits, the ale good, the girls pretty and welcoming.
He sprang quickly down but staggered, swearing softly in the dark, his knees barked upon the stone. It was a farther drop to the garden side, longer than he remembered, and just perhaps he was a tad less steady than he first had thought. He rubbed his knee, as his eyes adjusted to the greater dim underneath the willow tree. No one came, but he listened carefully for a moment. It would not do to have his cover blown and Father see him in this state. He could hear the words. Unbecoming of your new responsibilities.
Of a sudden, he heard a faint scrape of boot on stone and what he thought was a hushed and ragged breath. It moved deeper into the shadows beside the corner bench. Springing forward, he grabbed the skulking figure about the shoulders. A familiar voice yelped and he caught a scent of soap and sweat he knew. "Fara..it's only you." He let go the shoulders at once but the figure stood taut and still. "You startled me. What are you doing out here, isn't time for you to be abed?"
Even in the shadows, Boromir could see his brother's face looked pale, his grey eyes bleary, his arm held protectively against his chest. Faramir did not say a word, but by the set of his mouth his brother knew he was in pain.
"What has happened? Did you sprain it when we sparred?" Worried that he might have unknowingly hurt his beloved brother, Boromir tried to lift the arm and see the nature of the injury. The younger boy hissed at the pain and pulled back. The wrist was clearly swollen and darkly bruised.
Now Boromir was truly worried and this seemed to quickly to clear his fuzzy head. "Can you move it? It may be broken. We should take you to the Houses." He laid an arm gently across Faramir's shoulders, intending to steer him back through the garden toward their rooms.
Once out of the shadows the full light of Ithil showed clearly the angry red mark upon the boy's face and the imprint of the ring. The Heir of Gondor knew well indeed the seal of the Steward. An awful realization dawned.
" Boromir no. Leave it. I will go get it looked at." Faramir's voice was strained and pleading. The Captain whirled, fury dogging his steps as he ran through the apartment halls. The remnants of the ale loosed his tongue as he threw open the study door.
"How could you?!"
'How could I what, my son? I am busy and this is a rather unpleasant scene, You smell like a tavern." Denethor at last looked up from the parchment he was scanning, a frown upon his face.
"How could you do this to him? I found Fara in the garden. Did you know his wrist may be broken?" Boromir held tight to a chair back, his knuckles white upon the rail.
A muscle jumped within the Steward's cheek but his eyes remained flat. "No I did not. There was an accident and he tripped. Have him seen to in the Houses."
"That was no accident. You have hurt him!" The younger man's voice was sharp with reproach.
The Steward was in an unaccustomed place, unused to explaining himself to anyone, but for his beloved son's consideration he would try. "It was not meant to have happened this way. He talked back to me, out of turn. Your own backside has seen my hand many times."
"Not like this!" Boromir thought of his brother's pale and pained face, heard again a decade of unkind words and unkinder silences. "Ever he tries to please you and you think little of it. You promised her. I heard you. You promised her you would keep him safe. Is this how you do it? You criticise him and belittle what he does,and now you hurt him? By all the Valar, why?"
Denethor's pride and grief warred within him, gnawing at his fabled self control. How dare he mention her. "Do not speak to me of my responsibilities! I would not be keeping Gondor safe alone but for him!"
Boromir gasped. The truth was a vile and twisted thing and it could not be unsaid. Here was the stinking root from which the rancor grew. Why would he blame him? Fara is the best of all of us. How could he not see that? His hands shook as he moved around the chair and advanced upon his father. "I promised her as she lay dying that I would keep him safe, I never dreamed she meant me to protect him from you."
The accusation fell like a blow. Denethor flinched and took a step back at the mounting fury in his son's eyes. It is as the wizard said, the boy would come between us.
Years spent walking a tightrope between those he loved the most made his choice no easier, but he was certain where his love and duty lay. Boromir's voice was cold, rising with each step. "I will honour my promise, if I have to beat you black and blue to do it. You no longer have the reach or strength to stand your ground against me. Do not ever lay a hand on him again."
The object of their discussion walked, humiliated, past the guards standing sentinel outside his father's door. Sick at heart, his cheek throbbing, nauseated each time the pain jolted in his wrist, Faramir walked unseen into the room. The two he loved best stood fighting like a pair of snarling dogs, the shouting loud enough he and the guards had heard it all. He could not bear the thought that he had come between them, nor could he bear what had been said: his father's truth or his brother's defence. Sometimes even a gift born of love hurts.
"Enough! Enough!" The soprano voice cracked, having yet to settle into its final baritone. The two combatants, surprised at the sound and the interruption, paused. Faramir stood very still, trembling a little from the shock. His voice was bitter but quieter now. "Thank you both, so very much. Now the entire household, nay the City, knows you think I am worthless and cannot protect myself." He fled.
the description of Orthanc is based in part upon that from the Two Towers, by J.R.R Tolkien. Saruman's words to Sauron about the machine of war are modified from the original phrases in the Two Towers, the motion picture, New Line Cinema.
These works are of course their authors own and I derive no profit.
Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing..and Annafan and LadyP for encouragement.