Chapter 5

Boromir heaved a breath out. He was never told that his first day in the Steward's service would be so exhausting. He knew that it demanded a plentiful sum, but did the selling of his life require so much?

He met his father outside of the Dining Hall. He ate his midday meal with the soldiers, made a few friends, including a young father named Beregond, but he was now ready to eat with his family.

"Boromir!" his father exclaimed, pulling his son into another embrace. "Did you enjoy your first day as a soldier? Did you get along with the other soldiers? It wasn't too tiring, was it?"

Boromir smiled. "No, Father, not at all. I met a soldier who was a new father. His name was Beregond. His new baby boy named Bergil was the only topic that he discussed at supper, but it was amusing."

"I am sure it was, my son."

They entered the Dining Hall. They sat down at their assigned places. The meat was served by elegant servant girls, without Faramir at the table.

"Where is that irresponsible brother of yours?" Denethor asked as he devoured his turkey.

Boromir hesitated, inhaling. He slowly admitted, "I told him that I would spend the evening with him. I suppose he got carried away and ran off to the archery range once he knew my hours were up."

"Well, he will have to learn sooner or later that tardiness is an unforgivable fault for the son of a steward. Servant!"

A squire rushed forward, bowed before Lord Denethor, and arose. "Yes, milord?"

"Find my youngest son and bring him here. See that Cook holds back on his dinner."

"Yes milord." A hasty bow was given and the squire rushed off.

Boromir stared at his food. Turkey, cheese, tomatoes, grapes, wine…it was more than the soldiers' families were getting. It was more than Bergil would get to eat in his childhood.

Boromir lifted his head, much like his father, and announced, "Servants, leave us and enter only when to deliver food."

The servants did so, without question.

Denethor glanced around in surprise. "An unusual command, my son."

"Father, I wish to speak to you privately."

"Of course, my son, anything!"

Boromir bit his lip discretely, unsure of how to begin. "Do you think that it would be unwise to not give the soldiers more payment? They risk their lives in battle, they follow your word to the letter, and they would die for your survival and the survival of Gondor! We receive the first fruits for our meals because you are the Steward. But, Bergil, Beregond's son, will receive nothing like this. Isn't a soldier's life worth reward not only for them but for their families?"

Denethor smiled. "You are wise my son. But this policy of payment has been in place since I became Steward. It was in place when my father ruled, as well as his father, and his father before him. It is good enough for me as well."

"But, Father, the baby…the children…"

Denethor held up his open hand, silencing his son. "Captain Ceredon has asked for more payment before, Boromir. The rest of the soldiers are content with their salary. The captain is just becoming more and more discontented with what we provide for him and he drags other soldiers to do his bidding. He has more than most of the men in the army, but his greed blinds him."

"But..."

"When I join my fathers, you will rule Gondor, my son. You will not be king as you daydreamed as an infant, and as you wished me to be. You will be a Steward, holding the throne for the King when he returns."

"Father, you don't enjoy the title "Steward", you wish to be king!" Boromir said, knowing that his father turned nearly every conversation into how Boromir would inherit the Steward's title. His father was just proud. Boromir wished they were kings as well. His personal theory was that if the king had taken this long to return to them, then the king wasn't worth waiting for, and a responsible ruler should be instated.

"I know." Denethor soured, but continued from his previous point. "When I join my fathers, you will become Steward in my place. You may then rule the White City of Gondor, Minas Tirith, by any means which you choose. With your compassion, wisdom, and integrity, you will make a fine Steward. I can see great, rewarding, victorious days during your reign."

"Thank you, Father." Boromir decided to drop the subject of payment. A new, more pressing topic called attention. "What of Faramir?"

"What of him?"

"Father, I am not your only son. There are two heirs to the Stewardship of Minas Tirith."

"I know of your brother."

"He keeps talking about becoming a soldier and serving you. Father, he loves you."

"And I love him."

Boromir said under his breath, "It doesn't show." He hoped his comment was hidden by his sip of wine.

Denethor snapped. "What did you mean by that?"

Boromir grimaced. He set down the goblet and decided to be blunt. "You didn't have to mock him when you discovered that he couldn't read, or at least as well as other children, as well as you and me! He tries! I helped him review the past, great Stewards last night. He can read! It's just that he's slow at it!"

"Your brother needs pushing to become the best man he can be."

"What if you're pushing him too hard?" Boromir snapped, louder than intended.

Denethor stood up, his chair sliding backward. "I will not be questioned by my own son!"

"Would you make your younger son think he's inferior?"

"Boromir, this conversation has ended."

Boromir opened his mouth to object, hot words on his lips…

"It is over!"

Boromir closed his mouth. "Yes, Father," he hissed.

Denethor sat and calmed himself. The meal continued with no conversation.

A knock sounded on the massive door.

"Come," Denethor ordered.

The meek, quiet squire sent to find Faramir entered. He bowed. "Milord Denethor, I cannot find Lord Faramir."

"What do you mean you cannot find him?" Denethor snapped.

Boromir winced. He hated it when his father was cross with him and took it out on the undeserving servants and his younger brother. If only Faramir knew how many outbursts from their father he received was indirectly caused by him.

"I have looked everywhere. The stable, the archery range, his room…milord, I cannot find him!" the squire continued.

"Search more!"

Before the squire could bow, a distressed servant girl entered, bearing a large box and a note.

"What is it girl?" Denethor asked.

"A message for Lord Denethor and Lord Boromir," she replied. She handed it to the squire and rushed out.

"Well, read the message," Denethor ordered loudly. "What does it say?"

The squire placed the box on the table and unfolded the note. "There is no signature. It says, 'Lord Denethor. Place one thousand silver coins in the crack of the Minas Tirith gate on the East side. Clothe yourself in a brown cloak so no one knows that it is you. When you have backed away five hundred paces, only then will your son Faramir be returned to you alive. Bring no assistance or Faramir dies in front of you.'."

Boromir leapt up, breath short. "What?" he shouted. "Who has him? Where is he?"

Denethor calmly said, "Boromir, stay sane. We have no proof of your brother's kidnapping. This may be a prank and Faramir is in the stables."

Boromir didn't stay sane. He was on the verge of unsheathing his sword and hunting down the vermin who dared touch a hair on his brother's head. He snapped, "Open the box. What's in there?"

The squire flipped the lid open. His face went limp. He lamented, "My Lord Boromir. It is Lord Faramir's livery." He held up the chest coating.

Boromir shook. He trembled. He glanced at his father. "Is this proof enough?"

Denethor calmly stood. "We have no deadline for the ransom. We must approach this matter calmly. We have time…"

"We have no time!" Boromir shouted. "They said they'd kill him!" Boromir shook away the tears that threatened to be released.

Denethor turned to the squire. "Go to Captain Ceredon. Give him the order for a city-wide search. Tear down houses, rip down stone. We will find Faramir within the hour."

"Father, that won't work!" Boromir yelled. "If they know they're in danger they'll kill Faramir!"

"Would you challenge my every order?"

"To save my brother…yes!"

Denethor glared at his eldest. "You will lead the search parties then."

Boromir knew he would never convince his father. That was as close as Lord Denethor came to listening. He huffed off, angry yet thankful with his father's answer. As he made his way through the corridors of the palace, he let tears drop down his cheeks. He brushed his tears, hoping that no one would see him. He whimpered, trying not to imagine what his brother was feeling.

He was probably scared to death; bound, gagged, in a cold, dark room, not being able to see the light of day. Was he threatened with death? Did they mock him? Did they tell him his father wouldn't come, that his brother didn't care?

They were wrong.

Boromir promised, I'm coming Faramir. I'm coming.