First I would like to say sorry to everyone this has taken so long to update. This month has been rather fraught and I am just now really coming up for air. And somehow Denethor's part was hard to get just right. I promise the next chapter (with Frodo and Sam :) ) will come much sooner..most of it is already done.

To those who reviewed as guests..a quick thank you and comment:

anthi35: I am so pleased that you are enjoying it and never fear..the romance is coming :) We just have to get through the Pelennor etc first. I had debated ending at the battle and doing the romance as a sequel but then worried I wouldn't get it done.

earthdragon: thank you so very much for such lovely words. I have a soft spot for Theodred (as likely you can tell) and somehow the image of Tilion redressed the casualness with which his death was dealt in the books. I can very well see him and Boromir joking together in the Halls :) Eowyn isolation is seen in this chapter too.

guest: Thank you so so much. It is such a sad time in the books but in some ways Boromir's dealth felt undone somehow. I wanted something moving and a sense of possible redemption and I am grateful that this worked.

and thank you so very much to Avidreadernow for following this month...

Chapter 19: T.A. 3019, Nínui 27-30
Retreat, regroup, pawns can take but one single step

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'Farewell sister-daughter!' said Theoden, pausing upon the stair's top step. 'Dark is the hour, yet maybe we shall return to the Golden Hall."

'Dark indeed' thought Éowyn, standing before its great carven doors, sword upright and hands were laid upon the hilt, 'for I shall endure a year for every lingering day minding those who shelter while you fight."

The maiden did not speak her thoughts aloud. She had her pride, but even as she nodded and lifted her chin high her gaze followed the men who rushed down the many steps after their new-born King.

Aragorn alone of them looked back as they neared the gate and she trembled as a tall thin birch quaking in the wind.

Oh faithless, foolish heart. She was no blushing, simpering maid to sing like a harp for just a smile. And yet…there was still something to be done.

As the young woman rushed down the stair the mail of her corselet flashed and the bright gold of her flaxen hair flashed even brighter.

The host had assembled below the steps of Meduseld. The horses were ready: buckles worked to strap on packs, shields and spears slung behind. She pushed through the throng and found the bright blond horsetail easily enough.

Eomer stood ready to mount with the dwarf and the elven prince beside him. Firefoot's reins were held loosely in his hands and the dwarf was frowning mightily. From the look on the small warrior's face he did not seem best pleased with the thought of riding.

Heedless of the interruption she strode quickly to her brother's side and placed a hand upon his heavy gauntlet. "Eomer…we must speak."

"'Wyn!" He looked surprised. "What are you doing here? We are set and about to ride."

At the look of grim entreaty upon her face Gimli and Legolas moved away. "Please, I would you grant me a small boon."

The shining helm and horsetail bent as the Marshal checked the tightness of the girth one last time. The big grey danced in excited agitation. A large mailed hand patted lightly at his neck. "Make haste sister dear. I have deeds to do."

At his brusque words the fury that she would be left while they marched away once more welled up. What was Éowyn, daughter of Eomund, good for but to organize the hurried retreat of the people? The ignominy of it burned.

Eomer must have seen the flash of anger in her steel grey eyes for all at once her brother's frown line softened. "Éowyn, is all well with you ..? "

She shook off his cautious hand. "I am ready to do my duty just as you." For a moment she paused, let the anger drain away. If she riled his temper he would leave without hearing and the words had simply to be said. "Greyhame spoke of Isengard…"

"Aye." Eomer blinked in surprise. "But it will be a long way ere we come to battle there. First we must go west for many days. It is not certain what first we must confront."

"You go to Helm's Deep first?" At his quick nod she took the letters from her pocket and a heavy golden torc from off her arm. The time for fear had past. Grima had been a magpie like his master and many things were found that had been missed.

"Find Godwyn and Malina. Give them these." The coolness of her regard wavered for just an isntant.. "As Theodred would have done."

Her brother's mouth was set but the face of readiness softened at her words. He doffed his helm, held it tight under his arm. The blue-grey eyes so alike to hers beheld her with a aching sadness. He reached and took her cool fingers in his larger ones.

"You shame me sister by the gentleness of your words. All my thoughts are on the looming dark, the battle that is to come." She watched him swallow hard around a sudden lump in his throat. "I too miss him when I dare to look. There will, I hope, be time yet to do him proper honour."

He bent his forehead down to rest gently against her own. His battle-braided hair brushed across her cheek. Oh brother.

"Not shame" she whispered low. "I know it is in your heart where it beats as faithfully as mine." Before she could lose her courage Éowyn pulled out her dagger. The one that would never now be drawn against a man with heavy-lidded eyes.

"If you pass the Fords when you come to Isengard, will you lay this there? As offering for his rest?"

His fair features creased. 'Nay it was for you…to keep you safe." He did not say but both heard the phrase… you may yet need it…

Seeing the fleeting pain upon her face, Eomer dropped her hand and reached across to unstrap a saddle bag. He slipped in the torc and parchment, took out a small golden clasp. Several others were wound about his battle-braids, but none so fine as this. "He gifted me this in Dol Amroth, 'Wyn. Shall I lay it there?"

She nodded, heart so full she dared not speak. Carefully, Eomer buckled the strap closed once more and pressed a quick kiss upon her brow. "Be well and do not fear. I vow I will do him honour as we pass."

It would be enough. Éowyn stepped back and settled her shoulders straight again while Eomer quickly swung up into the saddle. "Farewell my Lady." The dwarf saluted smartly as he was pulled up behind.

With the barest press to Firefoot's gleaming flanks the pair moved beside the Elf who sat bareback on his own light and restive mount. For the briefest moment Éowyn looked to his distaff side. The Dunadan, relaxed and ready on his great grey, caught her gaze and inclined his head.

Farewell.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest but she kept her smile just as correct as his. All at once the lady turned and paced with as much dignity as she could muster up to the long stone flight and to the terrace beyond the gates.

With the sound of high clear horns the host moved out.

Far over the plain Éowyn watched the glitter of their spears. She stood still, alone before the doors of the silent house, a statue of white and wheaten-gold. None could tell the tenor of her thoughts. A daughter of Eorl, just as a son, does not lightly show her hurt.

When the sun no longer struck flashes from the shield-backs of the last eored, she turned with a quiet sigh. Made ready to prepare an orderly removal to her exile.

~~~000~~~

The lady hastened, picked up her skirts to tread more quickly across the cobblestones and bit her lip, tried not to let clamouring dismay, the raw emotion of the crowd slow her down. She had to get to him. Much of the City was on the move and twice she had to shoulder aside a black-livered monolith who blocked her path.

My pardon, Duchess, I did not see you there.

No, no they did not. No blue-clad guard of Lebinnin cleared the way. She wore no rings. No hairpiece sparkled in the watery morning sun. This had not been exactly official business and she had wanted to be at least discrete.

Shaking her head at her own carelessness, she tried not to see: the pinched faces on the women, grim and worried expressions on the men.

Word had spread like wildfire. Damn the young stablehand who saw her precious cargo, too smart by half, and understanding what it meant. Ridiculous of her to have thought any man of Gondor could have kept such news to himself. Damn to Angbad her own carelessness. The city, dessicated by lack of news, tense and watchfully uneasy these days at the best of times, had positively leapt alight: the news had run, faster than any mounted messenger from the sixth down to the first even as Cahil was announcing her unexpected audience. Damn.

Guards clustered in the doorways of the Citadel as she passed. Some whispered, some wiped hastily at their cheeks. The worry that had clutched the city now blossomed, became a dark-bloomed, twining vine of outright fear. Lord Boromir is gone.

Any hope to control the spread was lost and with it the chance to assuage the blow.

Amerith hurried on.

She had until that very moment held straight and strong. Through all their talk, the first debrief, the nightmare of the last day. But now, passing his door with the sound of muffled weeping from the servant's corridor still strong in mind, it more than she could bear. If her steps were yet uneven of course it was just the speed. Not her sight veiled by a sudden stream of tears.

In public the Duchess of Lossarnach did not cry.

She turned a final corner and all at once Faramir's door was there. Their rooms were not side-by-side, some accident of available space as young boys grew she supposed, but still she could have found him blindfolded, the intensity of grief that leaked out into the hall was nigh a signal beacon. It pulled her on, filled all her mind until she simply had to be there.

At the simple oaken door she paused. Trembling fingers traced the rough tengwar rune cut into its face. 'F' for Faramir. A little boy must have carved it long ago. 'F' for Faramir but with a shiver Amerith realized also 'F' for Finduilas. She was not sure she would have had the courage to bring her news to the woman who had borne that sunny boy. It seemed a mercy that his mother did not have to know.

But the father did….Unbidden, an image of dark sleeves like wings arose. Oh Denethor..

Though she and the Steward were more at odds again (when were they ever not these days?) she had found both men in Denethor's study bent over a great map of Gondor. Carven pieces were being moved to and fro and her heart had had to lurch at the sudden thought: they are my men and pawns just as surely as his sons.

She had watched Denethor's lined, aged fingers fly across the board for a longer moment before she had cleared her throat. The son looked up and she could see.

The emptiness of wide world was etched in every sinew, every muscle of the tense figure who stood calmly discussing the disposition of their strength as if the world had not just split asunder. Somehow he knew. She had searched the beloved, familiar face intently, striving to understand, trying to not let her falling words flay the Father harder than necessity.

It had been futile.

At her knock the door opened and swung away, a shadow of a man drifting slowly backward. Faramir's mud-splattered leather jerkin lay haphazardly on the floor, the ties of his linen shirt were undone. His feet were bare and long hair loose, the ends ragged as if some one had barbered them with a dagger. It occurred to her they probably had.

Through the stubble his face, as ever, looked so young but when she found the courage to hold his red-rimmed gaze his eyes were older than she had ever seen.

He was startled and surprised to find he had a visitor. Perhaps he had thought it would be Denethor, but… no. They both knew that he would never come.

She had flinched and had to look away.

It was something Amerith had never done, visit his rooms, and so she took refuge in pointless nosiness. The space was just as she expected. Cluttered. Full of curiosity and enthusiasm. Every surface laid with parchment, cups and quills, poems and books in not one but two full bookcases. A feadan and sheets upon a music stand. And in the corner a battered hobby horse.

The careless and careful collection of a lifetime. So much of him and yet not one piece of it was what he needed in that moment.

Her heart lurched. "Oh love…I –I am so sorry for the news I bore." She found, surprisingly, it did not make her any happier that the word had come from her.

He looked…lost.

Arms ached to hug the little boy but this was a man who stood, bow-shaped mouth quirking with the barest semblance of his better self. "My brother always said I had no sense of timing. I thought I brought new tidings but Lady your network made it quickly moot…"

His laugh was short, bitter as vinegar and just as sharp. Something of it, hard and unyielding, was akin to the sound Denethor had made. Iron will it seemed could clamp securely on a maelstrom of shock and love and fear. Who knew it would make a sound like nails upon a broken slate.

"How did you know?"

Faramir turned, knelt and with shaking hands took a fagot from the hearth. The room was cold: the fire had not been lit. They had not expected him to ride in that morn.

As he struck a light and coaxed the wood to catch she saw what to the Father had been veiled. He had ridden, heart heavy with grief and fear, the sound of a ringing horn pursuing him down every mile.

"I saw him…the only thing I missed was his horn."

Oh dear heart.

It was a new feeling these days for the son to pity the father. The grief would be all the sharper for that he had not had the comfort of a vision.

"I tried to tell him but he brooks no tales of dreams these days."

The rising flames cast odd shadows about Faramir's face, made the charcoal smudges below his eyes darker still. "He would not willingly give it up."

"No."

"It was his most precious talisman…"

Next to you…

She could not say the words aloud but he heard. Amerith felt the brief bloom of happiness in his chest and watched his features fall.

Morgoth take propriety. In four quick strides she had crossed the deep red carpet and gathered the breaking pieces in her arms, put up both hands to hold the fair exhausted face. He shook with the overwhelming weight but still the damn did not burst.

Damn Denethor. It should be him comforting his boy. She knew he could do it. Had even seen it once, so very long ago. A garden party, Finduilas taken to her sickbed, skinned knees and a wail that brought young Boromir running fast across the terrace. For once not needed. The father held the boy and hugged, murmured soothing words (no kiss better..no never that) and dried the tears.

Now the gulf was as wide as it had ever been. She had tried to tell him once. The why. That when you are so far shorn of what you need there is less energy left to do what must be done. Boromir was simply easier for their Father to love…not better, not more loveable, just easy.

None of it helped the hurt right now, breached the wall between them. She hung on, hands now around his waist. The stillness was too great, the dam had not burst. This was but a minor rush before the flood. He could not let go and do what yet must be done.

It broke her heart.

Warmth and need seeped through his shirt. She forced the ghost back down and hugged him harder. That door was long closed and whatever he had thought, it was not the best for either of them, to love or be a ghost. Now, when she would give her right arm to see him whole she knew she would give the left to see him love, truly, deeply as was in his nature. Nienna, in your mercy let that day come.

The shaking had stopped and now a muscle worked high upon Faramir's cheek. She stepped back and gave him space to speak.

He took a breath and like a little boy wiped the salty-wet across his sleeve. "The other half?"

"We shall find it, do not fear.. I have men scouring length and breadth Anduin for news. It will be found."

That brought a spate of words tumbling. Remember his wild stories of its origin… An ancient thing from Volondil's time and still he would joke… wrestling a beast with his bare hands, carving tengwar that he could always barely read.

The smile was forced and sad. All at once, the soldier came back, fingered the Captain-General's ring upon the chain around his neck. "We must send hawks out to call up the fiefs. To tell Uncle of the news."

"What will you do?" she asked.

"Go back to Ithilien." he replied. "It is clear a new stage is set. Too many of the Enemy are gathering for just a feint."

She did not say it. It is your responsibility to be Captain-General now. "Who commands Osgiliath?"

"Torin. He knows the men." The veteran was Boromir's First Captain, a worthy man but not a general. Not him. "We must stop them mustering at all costs."

She nodded, watched Faramir retrieved his discarded sword belt from the floor and sat wearily on the bed. Grief had drained him. He had to try three times before the buckle's prong would slip through the belt's customary hole.

"Will you not come? To the house at least. Your rooms will be warmer there."

"No." Faramir shook his head. It would be both a pain and benediction to near his brother's room right now and there was much he had to do.

"If you need…." Anything…

He smiled weakly to show his thanks. They both knew she was expert at carrying a flame of memory down through the many years. There would be time to help if they made it beyond the storm.

Amerith bent, left the barest kiss upon his brow, let him lie back and hold what he could together.

She closed the door. Left a piece of her heart behind in case the darkness, the sadness and the sweetness became too much.

~~~000~~~

"My Lord…Is there anything you need?"

Still and silent, shadowed by the deep embrasure, Denethor touched the cool glass pane but gave no other outward sign that he had heard. Outside, the whirling wind scattered the winter-fallen leaves. It matched his frantic thoughts, the storm of emotion that swelled inside.

And must be contained at all costs.

Cahill, long used to waiting on his lord's pleasure, let the weight of silence fill the study before he cleared his throat and tried again. "My Lord…"

An aged hand, the one adorned with a blood red ring, waved imperiously, cut off the flow words at once, like a blade slicing an Orc's pathetic head. What in all of Arda did the fool expect that he would say?

The truth?

My son. I need my son.

Control was a dear bought thing. Hands clasped to stop the shaking, the hunched, bowed shoulders straightened as they always did. Denethor turned and raised his gaze.

His chamberlain's eyes were not struck upon his lord but some random square of golden scrolling within the carpet's weave.

The sense of relief was quite profound. His faithful Cahill would guard his Lord's dignity as if it were were his own. To look up would be to see the red rims on the Steward's eyes, to acknowledge there was aught of so much ill. …

He found he had to swallow before he could find the strength to speak. "No. No I need nothing."

"Some food and wine at least." The man's voice was pleading. Cahill needed to be of service but the Lord of the realm had not felt the need to eat or sleep. Grief had stayed his hunger and sapped him of any peacefulness.

"No. See to it I am not disturbed. Thank… you." The last-an afterthought. But likely necessary. Even Denethor knew he would need his allies in the dark days that were to come.

The chamberlain opened his mouth to protest but at once the tired eyes flared to life, irritation crackled like summer lightening in the air. Perhaps it was better to retreat and try again. Not all battles were won in the first sortie after all and truly what could he know? He had no children of his own, did not know in his bones the weight of such a loss.

His practiced eye noticed the barest tremble of the sable robes.

"As my Lord commands." Cahill bowed himself smoothly backward and softly closed the study door.

At the lock's quiet click the tall, proud figure slumped, threw out a shaking hand in desperation. It grasped the only anchor: a padded chair back and Denethor fell more than sat in the dark velvet space.

A brief choking moan was bit sharply back. Unbidden, the gruesome fruit of his imagination rose before his eyes. His handsome, smiling son. Bloodied, maimed, broken in some far off field or vale. Faramir's exposition of yet another of his fervid, facile dreams had been well meaning but in the end but another knife. He could not have listened another second more.

A pair of shaking hands raised up to his face. Hid the emotion from himself.

How could he survive this time? Striped bare and plunged down into the depths of that endless pain. He was a widower, a man who had lost his wife, but what was he now? There was no word for when a parent lost a child. No word to encompass the depth of pain. That weakness, the hollow need for comfort in face of something too overwhelming had allowed him to be all too briefly to be tempted.

His youngest had ever been a child to want to please. Faramir was needy and the elder who was gone had been ever happy to provide. The father had turned and looked across the icy space of grief. Her eyes, their soft and soulful gaze, had looked back, filled with pain. A moan, a sound like a blizzard wind across his soul, had escaped and even as it threatened to pull back the dusty curtain and show the puppet theatre that lay behind, he had stiffened.

How could he resist? Not clasp the boy roughly to his chest, let unshed tears well and share the lancing pain?

But… no…

He had watched the raised arms fall back to his (now only) son's side and murmured something appropriately sympathetic. Someday. Someday the boy must learn. The happiness of a man consists in the mastery of his passions.

In the face of certain outside threat, to show oneself as vulnerable or indecisive–that would only cost lives in the longer run. Faramir was just too sensitive. Boromir had understood it yet still he had shielded his brother out of some misplaced sense of loyalty, a poor substitute for the mother they did not have.

Suddenly unable to sit a second more Denethor thrust up and paced across the room.

Distraction was what he needed most. Work, there was work to be done and no time to waste on his own woes. It had served him well after Finduilas passed and would serve him well again.

With a moment's pause to stretch out his arms and resettle the trailing robes, he sat in the well-worn leather chair, took the first sheet from off the neatly tidied stack.

For many minutes the only sound was the scratching of quill on parchment and the faint snap of dying embers. But all too soon the first stab came.

Torin, Captain of Osgiliath, bids the Steward well and begs his indulgence for the tardiness of his query. In light of the Captain-General's ongoing absence, would the Steward kindly consider inspecting the new recruits Anarya next? …

Oh Gods.

Denethor held his arms tight about his chest, desperate to keep the great hollow ache from leaking out. It was not enough. The sobs, quiet ones (for no one must ever know) took over…

Oh my son. The chubby toddler. The proud, sparkling youth who took his oath. The laughing, great-hearted man who was everything of ease that he was not. They all clamored for attention.

He picked up the Rod from off the desk. White, bearing no charge or device, symbol of his office. Had he need of it? To cling to? Bright argent, like snow in the sun. Her tomb was also white. Should there not be another carved of marble along Rath Dinen?

But I have no body and no bones…

Rage boiled up. With a strength that would have surprised even his son he flung away the Rod. It smashed hard against a full and unsteady bookcase and broke its glass. Books and tablets, withered parchments, leaves of silver and gold in many characters fell to the floor.

Drunkenly, he stumbled forward and knelt amongst the wreck. What have I done? The shattered glass did not cut through the mail but the sound and the motion did. It left him broken, blazing with the hurt.

Denethor stayed on his knees, on the pile of glass and pain, aged hands gathering up the pieces and the parchment for no one should see.

The price of strength after all was to be strong. But my boy is the one who paid.

This time a keening cry escaped and the guards stiffened outside the door. The high wail of agony rolled on and on.

The men obeyed their orders.

The Steward of Gondor was not disturbed.
.

.
~~~000~~~

Later, heavy footfalls echoed dully on the stone as the Lord of the realm lifted his leaden legs to mount the White Tower's steps and climb steadily to the topmost door.

Through the many years the secret room above had been little changed. Now against the barren walls there was a chair, cloaks and furs for the colder months, some provision to keep him going through the long taxing hours but it was still spare. Still dominated by the black stone and its marble plinth. Knowledge and need as ever so filled the high and hidden space it could take nothing more.

With an iron will Denethor made his aching body move. Walked around to the north side of the stone and bent to call it to account. Just perhaps the boy had truly seen.

The jumbled vision cleared. He looked south. Toward the wide, flat expanse of river past Pelargir's docks, toward the Bay and its long rolling shore.

Never a man to trust in much other than his own intellect, this time he prayed.

To find a high-prowed little boat…

Eowyn's thoughts after Theoden speaks are precis'd from the original in the Two Towers. I always hated that Theoden and Eomer passed the fords and no one mentioned Theodred in the book...

Thank you so so much to Annafan for letting me borrow her headcanon. The hobby horse in Faramir's bedroom is featured in the latest chapter of her wonderful 'A Tight Space'. Go. Read it. Now. It made me melt.

Comments and critters by Annafan and Thanwen this month were very helpful and gratefully appreciated. As always the remaining sloppy punctuation and typos are my own :)