This chapter is a bit shorter than previous ones, but not without points of interest, I hope. ;-) Enjoy!

EDIT: a minor change for the sake of consistency with later chapters.

Chapter 23

Gandalf sent one of the Steward's men reeling back with a stinging blow from his staff, and then turned to greet Beregond and his men as they entered the crypt.

"Ah, Beregond, there you are," he said calmly. "Would you be so good as to disarm these men?"

Denethor had finally ceased struggling with his son, and Boromir began the laborious process of getting both himself and his father to their feet. "Take their tabards as well," he told the guardsmen, still a little breathless from his exertions. Beregond stepped forward to assist him with the Steward.

"But…but sir," one of the Steward's guardsmen protested, "we were only following orders!"

"You'll have a chance to defend yourself later," Boromir replied neutrally, "but for now, you are relieved of duty."

Denethor finally found his voice, "How dare you countermand my orders!" he cried. "You have no authority to do so!" He gestured imperiously at Beregond, "You there—arrest my treacherous son and his confederates."

Beregond paled and went still for a moment, then met the Steward's eyes, his voice firm, "I am sorry, my lord, I cannot do that."

The Steward rounded on his son and hissed, "You! You have done this! First you turn my men against me and now you mean to usurp my authority. Now I see that was your purpose all along!"

Boromir sighed and wearily passed a hand over his face. "Father, if that was truly my intent, letting you die by your own hand would have been a far simpler and easier way to see it come to pass."

"Then why didn't you just let me die?" Denethor asked bitterly. "Is it that you wish to shame me as well as tear the White Rod from my hand?"

When Boromir replied, his voice was hard, "You have ignored your responsibilities for far too long already! It would be a disservice to the people of Gondor to let you evade them further in death. And," he continued in a softer tone, "you are still my father, and I hope that someday you will be glad that you lived to see your grandchildren, however you may feel now." Boromir's eyes found Morloth and he gave her a small smile, which she returned, blushing.

By this time, Beregond and the men with him had finished disarming Denethor's guardsmen, "What shall we do with them, my lord?" he asked. "Have them join the fighting on the walls?"

"No, they will have to be detained for now," Boromir told him. "There may be a formal inquiry into what passed here tonight, as well as Father's other actions. Lock them in the guardhouse, but keep them separated. They should not be given the chance to concoct a story that shifts the blame or makes light of Father's actions."

Beregond gave him a grim nod of understanding, and half of his men departed with the prisoners.

Boromir turned his attention once again to the Steward. "Whether you are shamed by your removal from office is entirely in your hands, Father. You do have choices;" he added, "one is that we can announce that you feel that you are no longer capable of executing the duties of the Steward and wish to pass the office to your heir."

"No longer capable!" Denethor scoffed, "No one will believe that!"

"On the contrary, given your actions of late I doubt many will be surprised," Boromir noted dryly.

"The alternative," he continued, "is that we can summon Prince Imrahil and put him in command until a formal hearing of the Steward's Council can be convened, where you can address the charges against you."

"Charges, what charges?" his father asked incredulously.

"Abandonment of your duties for a start," Boromir told him. When Denethor began to protest, his son cut him off, "How long has it been since you have shown the least concern for the conduct of the war? How long since you have requested a report or gone to the walls yourself to see how we fared?"

Denethor fell silent, regarding his son stonily.

"There is also a matter of attempted murder of both your son Faramir and the Healer Morloth, who sought to protect him."

The Steward growled and cast an angry glance in Morloth's direction, but did not otherwise respond.

Boromir paused, seemingly to gather his courage. He met his father's eyes, his expression pained, "Finally, you may also be charged with aiding with the enemy."

"What? No! Never that!" Denethor cried, his face ashen.

Gandalf had retrieved the palantír at the first opportunity and tucked it away in an inner pocket of his robe. Now Boromir gestured to the wizard in response. "It is certain that the Enemy has used the Ithil stone—that is how he was able to control Saruman. We know Sauron is watching; surely you do not believe that he would refrain from influencing you if he could not corrupt you outright!"

"No one will believe…" Denethor began weakly, but the expression on his face belied his words.

"Father, you tried to burn your own son to death! Madness or evil are the only explanations for such an act." He squared his shoulders and met his father's eyes, "Especially now, when our very existence is in peril, you cannot be permitted to rule Gondor—surely you can see that!" After a moment, Boromir nodded firmly, "Now you must decide; resign quietly or face formal charges for your crimes. For the sake of Gondor you will be permitted no other choices."

The once-haughty Steward seemed to deflate, growing more gray and bent as they watched. After a long pause he said quietly, "I will resign in your favor, my son."

Boromir blew out his breath, visibly relieved, "Thank you, Father, I assure you this gives me no joy, but seeing you face charges would be far worse. You will be taken to your quarters and I ask that you remain there for now. I will send a scribe to you so that you may draft a formal statement resigning your office."

He turned toward Gandalf and gestured for Beregond to join them. "Beregond, please assign sufficient men to return Faramir to the Houses of Healing and safely escort my father to his quarters. Make certain that Father is treated with all courtesy, and see to his needs, but he is not to leave his rooms or have visitors. Oh, and send a man to find Prince Imrahil, he should witness my father's resignation."

Boromir gave Gandalf a meaningful look and continued in an undertone, "I am relieved that Father agreed to resign, but I mistrust this compliant mood. I suspect that the longer he has to ponder his situation the more likely it is that he will find a way to justify his actions. I dare not wait until after the battle to formalize his resignation."

Gandalf nodded, "Very wise, Boromir." He gave Boromir a wry smile, "Or should I say, 'Lord Steward'?"

Boromir gave a rueful snort, "Eru knows that Captain-General was responsibility enough for one man, but at least little change will be noted by the men since my father has been so negligent of his duties of late."

"It appears you have matters well in hand, my friend, so I will take my leave," Gandalf said briskly. He shook his head, "I fear this diversion has cost lives that I otherwise might have saved. I must return to the battlefield with all haste." He raised one bushy eyebrow, "I shall leave Master Took in your care, my lord Steward. With your new duties you may very well find an able young guardsman such as him to be quite useful."

Boromir smiled in return, "He's very welcome."

Gandalf and Beregond departed, the guardsman escorting a bent and defeated-looking Denethor.

Before the men assigned to Faramir left for the Houses of Healing, Boromir took Morloth aside. Their eyes met and he pulled her into a close embrace, murmuring, "I hardly know where to begin."

"I…I knew this day would come, but to have it come so soon… This…this changes things, does it not?" she asked uncertainly. Boromir could hear the fear in her voice.

"Indeed it does, my love," Boromir said, his voice warm, "but in a good way, at least for us."

"But, you are Lord Steward now, and your duties…"

"Will change somewhat, aye, that is true." Boromir agreed. "But what will not change is my love for you and my determination that we shall be together." He glanced over to the stretcher were Faramir lay, pale and still once again. He sighed, "I know you will do what can be done for Faramir. If the battle is won, we will talk about the future—our future. But for now, know that the two of you are never far from my thoughts."

She laid a hand against his cheek and said softly, "And you are never far from mine, Boromir." She shook her head ruefully, "But I'm afraid it will take some time to adjust to thinking of you as Lord Steward."

He smiled and said resolutely, "Then think of me only as the man you love and who loves you in return. That is more than enough for me."

After a final embrace Morloth departed, following closely behind Faramir's stretcher. Boromir turned to Pippin, who had been waiting nearby. "Well, my friend, it is time to return to our duties. I must confess that I am anxious to learn how the battle goes, though I suppose if we were overrun by orcs I would know by now."

Pippin bowed elaborately Boromir's direction, declaring grandly, "Of course, Lord Steward. I am at your service, Lord Steward!"

Boromir eyed his friend narrowly; there was no mistaking the mischievous gleam in the hobbit's eyes. "That's enough of that, Pippin," he growled affectionately. "Keep it up and I'll be forced find some extremely unpleasant duty for you!"

Pippin laughed and followed Boromir out of the tomb.

-ooo-

When they reached the command post on the third level, Boromir was not surprised to find his uncle gone, and Maethor, a senior captain, in his place.

"My lord!" he exclaimed as they drew near, his face anxious, "Prince Imrahil was called away and asked me to oversee the defenses in his absence. Otherwise, I would not have presumed…"

Boromir waved away his apologies, "Do not concern yourself, Maethor, I asked the Prince to see to an important matter. How goes the battle?"

"Well enough, my lord," the man responded, quickly regaining his composure. "No enemies have entered the city. The Rohirrim charge was broken by a squad of Mûmakil and it seemed that the battle might turn against us, but the horse-lords have regrouped and are holding their own." He met Boromir's eyes, his face troubled, "Not long ago there was an eerie wail that could be heard across the breadth of the battlefield, and since then there have been rumors that the Enemy's general…" His voice fell, "The Witch-King himself, has been destroyed! But I…I am reluctant to believe it without more proof."

Boromir and Pippin exchanged a startled glance and Boromir finally found his voice, "I can readily understand why, Maethor, that would be a gift unlooked-for in these dark times." He shook his head, "We can only pray that the rumor is true and that the price for this unexpected victory was not too high."

A short time later Imrahil returned, his face somber. "It…it is done, Boromir. You are now Lord Steward, needing only formal investiture in the office. I have made arrangements for all on the Steward's Council to be notified; and although not necessary at the moment, when the siege is lifted it should be announced to the population at large." He sighed, "I never dreamed your father would consider such a step, but then I have never seen him as…defeated as he is now." He met his nephew's eyes with a challenging look, "You are planning to explain how this came about, are you not?"

Boromir gave a bare nod, "Yes, Uncle, you will hear the full account, but not here and now. It is…still very painful, and it is tale best told in confidence."

"Later, then." Imrahil replied decisively. "Have you heard that the Witch-King has fallen?"

Boromir gasped and exclaimed, "So it is true? Maethor mentioned it as a rumor, but I did not think such a fell creature could be killed! How was it done?"

Imrahil shook his head, "Reports have been garbled…there have been wild rumors that I am reluctant to believe… But one thing is known for certain," he said heavily, "King Théoden is dead, killed by the Witch-King and his beast before perishing themselves."

"Oh no!" Pippin cried.

Boromir laid a comforting hand on the hobbit's shoulder. "Grievous tidings indeed," he murmured, his face drawn. "He was a noble man and a good king, and faithful to his oaths."

"Aye, he was," Imrahil replied. "I ordered that his body be laid in state in Tower of Ecthelion. I felt it was the least we could do for so valiant an ally."

Boromir nodded somberly, "That was well done, Uncle, thank you." He glanced out over the battlefield, "So Éomer inherits the crown, then. He lives still, I hope."

"He did when I was called away," Imrahil assured him. "But after he found his uncle slain, he took up the king's fallen banner and led his éored deep into the enemy lines, and I was concerned…" He scanned the battlefield intently, then pointed, "There, to the southeast! The banner flies still, but…"

Boromir followed his gesture and cursed in dismay, "They are nigh surrounded! Éomer, you fool!" After a moment he met Imrahil's eyes and answered the unspoken question on his uncle's face, "Go. I will not let our allies fall while we hold cavalry in reserve."

"I shall gather the Swan Knights immediately," Imrahil said with a nod and turned to depart. Then an unusual sight caught his eye, among the wagons of wounded that moved in a steady stream up the hill toward the Houses of Healing were a group of grim-faced Rohirrim soldiers carrying a cloth draped bier. On it was a slim figure clad in the armor of a warrior of the Mark, with golden hair falling past the shoulders. As they neared, the Gondorians noted to their surprise that the features were that of a young and comely woman.

"Ho!" The Prince cried, "What goes on here?"

Boromir and Pippin followed the Prince closer to the bier; when Pippin got a better look, he stammered, "That's…that's the Lady Éowyn!"

A Gondorian officer hurried up to greet them, saying, "This lady was lately found on the battlefield near where King Théoden lay. I am told she is his near kin, so I thought you would want her body to rest near his in the Tower. Is that not your wish?"

"Of course she must be treated with honor!" Boromir exclaimed. "But how did she come to be on the battlefield? Surely Théoden did not allow her to ride with the men!"

"She rode in secret," one of the Rohirrim told him, his face weary and sad, "none knew she had done so until she revealed herself to the Witch-King as he gloated while Théoden King lay dying. Twas her hand that struck down the evil one, though at the cost of her own life."

Imrahil bent over Éowyn, briefly touching her brow and then holding his shining mail sleeve near her face. "Are there no healers among you? She is as cold as death, but see, she breathes still!" Clearly visible on the metal was the faint fog of her breath. "She is gravely injured, aye, perhaps mortally, but there is still hope that she might live if she is attended to immediately."

Boromir exchanged a relieved glance with Pippin and ordered, "Take her to the Houses of Healing with all haste!"

Meanwhile, two of the Rohir carrying the bier began an animated conversation, one of the pointing repeatedly at Pippin. When he realized that the Gondorians were watching them curiously, the second man spoke up, "My lords, Aeldred does not speak the common tongue, but he asks about the other holbytla. Or halfling, as you would say. He says the other halfling rode with the Lady Éowyn and he would like to know his fate, for he was valiant and struck at the black one while seasoned warriors cowered in fear."

Pippin turned to Boromir, his face ashen, "Merry! It…it has to be Merry! We must find him, Boromir, we must!"