Disclaimer: I own my time, not LoTR. Well, at least from a human perspective.

Chapter V, Pale Light of the West

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The day was a cold one, wet and nearly freezing but not snowy. Just the sort of weather one expected here in the 12th month of the year.

But, as he looked down at the city, not his city, yet, he knew that today was also a joyous day, despite the gloomy atmosphere and the clearly visible orange glow of the eastern Eye.

Today, the line of Húrin was continued, and the house of the stewards of Gondor extended into the next generation.

But perhaps it was because he was not directly there, and because he was a man, and not a mother, the excitement didn't quite reach his bones.

Or perhaps it was it was because the line of the stewards was being continued. For hundreds of years, his ancestors had guarded and led Gondor, and he and his son after him would too. All in the interests of the rightful king. Whoever that was.

If he was so rightful and just, why didn't he just come flying over to save the day when the Eye was pushed just east of Gondor by the Mirkwood elves, too weak to kill it, and too scared to live near it, so just pass the danger on why do we not? Gondor could handle it, obviously.

He didn't understand what went on in the heads of the so-called White Council, in which Gondor, led by stewards or not, had no say.

But such thoughts had no place here. For better or for worse, Gondor needed whatever assistance that they could now offer, and offending a man was no way to become his ally.

A man wearing plate armor walked in seamlessly. Over his breastpiece laid a black surcoat emblazoned with the image of his service, his honor, and his knighthood: The White Tree.

"My lord Denethor, it is a boy."

Inwardly he smiled, the news was excellent, but outwardly he showed nothing; shows of emotion were for his family, not knights sworn to his house's service, "Take me to him."

"Yes, my lord."

Denethor wasn't stupid enough to ask questions on the way, this knight had probably been standing guard at the door with a fellow or two, and had made his way over directly after hearing the classic wailing and the yell of the midwife announcing the gender.

It wasn't Denethor's first time through the wringer, he knew how these things went.

If it were, he would have been there. The first time, he had been there.

He only hoped that Finduilas would forgive him for his selfish caution.

Denethor hadn't strayed far, just far enough away to not hear any yelling from the birthing room, and so they arrived quickly.

The guards asked no questions when they saw him, nor did they open the door, they only stood aside in silent deference.

Denethor himself would decide when to cross that threshold.

He dallied not at all, unwilling to display any weakness before the knights, and equally unwilling to leave his wife alone for another moment in this trying time.

The door opened gently, creaking slightly as it neared the end of its swing, and again as he latched it behind him.

"Finduilas." Denethor spoke first, hushed and gentle, as the whole room was.

Finduilas' gaze quickly went from Denethor to the baby in her arms, "The brat is already sleeping. Ungrateful child causes me pain fit to die and doesn't even stay up long enough to greet his father." She looked back to Denethor slowly, "Isn't he beautiful?"

Denethor looked at the child, and then back into his wife's eyes, as if staring into her soul, "He will never be half so beautiful as you, my love."

"Poor child, just born and here your father's already cursing you to be ugly. Too bad it won't stick, your sire is too handsome for that."

Denethor smiled at the light banter, all was well.

"Here, hold him for a bit, your poor wife is too weak to support such a heavy burden."

Aye, Though Denethor silently, Very heavy. All the world shall look to you for leadership, my boy.

Denethor stepped over nimbly, not shy in the least about holding his newborn son. He'd already gone through the sheer annoyance in his youth where his decidedly unmarried tutor taught him how to hold a baby properly. All as part of the training course for the perfect gentleman.

And, as expected, those hours spent were hours invested.

Denethor would never have forgiven himself if he was utterly clueless about what to do when his own son was born.

He held the child in his arms, pondering for a moment, but long before his majority, Denethor had become decisive, "He shall be called Boromir."

Soon after, the bells were set to ringing all around the White City. A son was born, and even orange eastern skies and cold air would not dispel the joy. At least, not from Denethor's heart.

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"So weak."

Denethor frowned a little at the comment, Boromir's lineage was certainly more noble, more powerful, healthier, and stronger, than your average knight's child, but that didn't excuse arrogance.

If that was what this was.

Interfering too often in childrens' fights sometimes took a wrong turn, he felt. It was perhaps better to simply tell the parents that they didn't need to teach their children undue restraint when it came to taking insults from his son. So long as no faces were scarred and no one was maimed, all was well.

These were boys, after-all, and they would be boys, under the watchful eyes of their parents or in the dead of night with only sycophant servants keeping an eye on them.

And here Denethor spoke, or rather thought, from experience. His own father had been very clear about the hierarchy and just what noble stewards should be learning. Any fighting skills Denethor did know, were practically self-taught.

As a result, he'd had to be twice as shrewd and three times as vocally threatening. At least he felt so.

The subtle pressure a well-trained warrior possessed was undeniable. It commanded respect. Respect that was earned.

That was what Denethor wanted for his child. Not authority only through lineage, but also through personal stature.

And no one who saw the boy could blame him in this. The child was clearly well-built and hearty, even at the tender age of seven.

His reading and writing instructor reported a lack of diligence, though not intelligence, furthering the point. Boromir was a born to be a man among men, not a scholar amongst the women, staying at home in the day of battle.

And while Denethor knew where his own talents lied, precisely there with the scholars, some part of him was jealous. But he didn't hate the child for it, that would be meaningless. Instead, it only translated to more pride.

His son, standing there, a bruise or three on him while all the other little boys he was being brought up with were on the ground or slowly getting up, that said it all. High-pitched moans of pain and some with snotty little noses belied the age of the youngsters; that being scarcely past their mothers' breasts.

He only hoped the lad wouldn't grow to despise those less gifted than he. It would bring him only sorrow.

Boromir must have noticed the gaze, and looked up, grinning wide enough to expose bloody teeth.

Little brats.

Denethor was a bit upset at the sight. Fighting was fine, yes, good, even, certainly necessary, but there was no cause or call for his son lacking teeth.

Baby teeth, He reminded himself, it wouldn't actually become a huge issue until his adult teeth came in. But how it would ruin his chances with the ladies if he really did lack them….

And Denethor worried about these things.

Realizing it was a bit belated, he smiled back and waved at his boy, who, after the acknowledgment, turned to pick up those boys he was closest with, apologizing for the pain and gently teasing for the weakness.

It warmed his father's heart, but really, every time Denethor saw his firstborn son, his heart swelled.

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Denethor turned away. He couldn't bear to look.

He didn't dare to imprint this memory in his soul, though he knew it would be.

Boromir looked towards him, tears not even suppressed. They'd both carry this sorrow for all time.

But the lump in his throat was too big. Denethor knew he should be a father here, convey something deep and profound that would help his son… but he couldn't. All he could do was run away, turn away, try to imagine a better day.

And he felt pathetic. He spared a glance at the corpse in the room, an unbidden tear welling in his eye as he turned and walked directly to the door. He couldn't face this.

Not now.

Not ever.

Just why?

She was a better wife than he'd been a husband, he knew, a better mother than he'd been a father. So why was she dead, while he yet lived? Fate seemed cruel.

But Denethor was more than a mourning husband and single father. He was the steward. And not just some butler for a wealthy merchant or an oddly-named bookkeeper. He was the Steward of Gondor.

And for every moment he had had to put away his grief for his people, a little part of his heart died.

He loved Gondor, he loved his people. He even enjoyed ruling. But he couldn't take this…

But he did. He took it all.

And whenever his second son couldn't understand how broken he felt, he was crushed all the more.

He knew it was wrong, to behave badly towards his son for such a small, petty, reason.

No. Not petty. Her death would never be small, or petty, or meaningless. Denethor would never allow it.

And whenever that boy smiled, it hurt his broken heart. That smile should have been hers. But she'd never gotten to see it. Died before her son had even been weaned, very nearly died with him suckling at her breast…

And it hurt. It hurt to see that Faramir didn't truly feel the grief, because he'd never known her.

The only thing Faramir felt was his father's feelings.

And his father's feelings had been a mess ever since she died.

Things truly were not how they were supposed to be. They should all have been a happy family, a bastion of support for each other as they faced the darkness of the world together.

But instead they grew increasingly apart. Boromir dealt with his mother's death and sided more with Faramir, disappointed in his father's continuing refusal to just let her be dead; but all the same understanding it.

But Boromir wasn't destined to the same fate as his brother. Boromir was the heir, and Faramir the spare. Boromir pleased his father, in that depressed sort of pleased he now got, wherever he turned, Faramir was never good enough. Boromir was more handsome, more extroverted, and simply a more talented leader of men, Faramir was good at things, but Boromir always seemed to be a step ahead.

He always felt inadequate. He loved his brother, looked up to him, and wanted to please his father, but he could never be enough. And it pushed him away, ever so slowly.

And so he took up things his brother didn't focus on. Faramir was far more bookish than his brother and in addition decided that as an adult, he wouldn't just be an accomplished Knight, he would be a Ranger of Ithilien. It suited his father fine. There was no need for a succession crisis and Boromir had been recognized from a very young age as a suitable heir to the stewardship.

It wasn't long before Faramir was a Captain of the Rangers, hunting orks and defending Gondor beyond its present borders, and when he was off duty, he came home and spent time with his brother, and his books.

It was only a little while longer before disturbing rumors began to come from Minas Morgul. The orks were being amassed, and a large number of The Nine were spotted in the vicinity. An attack on Osgiliath seemed the only answer as to why.

Faramir left immediately, and on his Lord Father's command, Boromir soon followed.

They rode to hold for the light, and drive back the shadow.

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Authors Note: Well, this was a nice and short interlude. Did you like it, hate it, TLDR it? Let me know in your reviews. Oh, and don't worry, this chapter wasn't pointless.

Also, I mean to post this one a long time ago. Enjoy the double update.