If this is victory, then our hands are too small to hold it.
--Durin's folk, to Thráin

‘Men of Arthedain! you invoked the law of Númenor on behalf of the Lord Elessar, the law which proclaimed that the eldest surviving child of the King should be his successor. He claimed the throne of Gondor as the nearest descendant of the last of Ondoher’s children, his daughter Fíriel, and as last heir of the first King, Elendil the Tall. Yet who was Elendil? By what right did he claim overlordship over all the Dúnedain of Middle-earth?--by his right as the nearest in descent from Tar-Minyatur first of all our kings, through the eldest child of Tar-Elendil the fourth King, his daughter Silmariën. Why should you reject the heir of your own lords, when even we of Gondor, who denied the claim of Fíriel, have not?’

Faramir, Lord and Steward of Gondor, had never approved of disorderliness -- and if anything in the world could be described as disorderly, it was the tattered remains of Arnor. The Dúnedain of the North had been divided, leaderless, in the five years since Aragorn’s death, and the chaos of Arthedain had long been the greatest of Faramir’s concerns. They were as slow to accept change as their brothers in Gondor, and even more conservative. Sometimes he thought they still believed Sauron was still there, somewhere, about to unleash even more horrors on their scattered forces; they certainly acted as if it were the case, rather than small marauding bands easily managed.

‘How do we know this is not simply a Gondorian coup?’ said Belegorn, a distant cousin now, and de facto leader of the most conservative element among the Arnorians.

Lothíriel smiled and said mildly, ‘Forgive me if I misremember, kinsman, but it was never Gondor who attempted to seize sovereignty over all the Dúnedain.’

Halmir, Lord of Lossarnach, had not the Princess’s patience. ‘I will not mince words,” he declared. ‘We accept the claim of the heirs of Isildur under one condition, that the Steward is and will remain a man of Gondor. Should you attempt to install an Arnorian regent along with an Arnorian monarch --’

‘That is enough, Halmir,’ Faramir’s clear voice cut through. ‘My lord Belegorn, we of Gondor and Arnor share history, blood and kinship, we share two tongues. Yet we remain divided. If I permit this unnatural estrangement to persist without action on my part, I would not deserve a moment of peace for the rest of my life, however long that may be.’ He paused only the smallest of moments, feeling the weight of a dozen searching glances, looking for any sign of age and weariness, any enchroachment of the Gift. ‘I do not imagine myself an Anducal, but you cannot expect a child of five to rule, nor expect the people of Gondor to accept both a monarch and regent from without.’

Later that evening, he walked into the Steward’s chambers. His wife laughed merrily when she saw him. She was a woman who laughed a great deal; her birth name, Lalaith*, was more apt than the mother who had chosen it ever guessed.

‘My love, you are almost the same colour as your eyes. Have you forgotten to eat again?’

‘Of course I ate,” said Faramir, ‘I would not dare brave your wrath otherwise; no, I have been talking to Belegorn.’

‘Oh,’ she said, and walked over to rest her hand on his shoulders. ‘That certainly explains it.’

After this day, every inch of his six and a half foot frame ached. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured, a gentle lassitude radiating out from where her fingers firmly kneaded the muscles.

There was a pause. ‘And -- what was decided?’

He clasped the hand on his shoulder, and sighed, leaning his head against her. ‘You were right to change your name, Lalwen*.’

---

*Linguistic note -- the Stewards before Mardil had Quenya names, those after (the Ruling Stewards) had Sindarin ones, until Faramir; the Kings of Arnor did the same when they became Kings only of Arthedain. Lalaith is Sindarin, Lalwen is Quenya.

Chapter One

Frodo and Sam -- and Sméagol, that pitiable, warped creature -- brought the Ring to Orodruin. On the plains of Gorgoroth, battle raged. The Lord Aragorn’s forces were impossibly outnumbered, but not hopelessly so; they fought on. And when the Dark Lord’s power was destroyed, his armies were so affected that even the bare remnants of what had been the combined forces of the West easily defeated them.

History would call it a victory.

The Steward of Gondor, alone in the White Tower, did not require the aid of the palantír at his side to see all this in his mind’s eye. There were several letters scattered haphazardly on a table; another was in his hand, pressing against his forehead as he leant forward. It was from Halmir, de facto leader of the surviving Gondorian contingent.

The plainspoken Lord of Lossarnach did not mince words, nor numbers. The men who had fled, and those left behind to protect the City, would have done no good at the battle, and would now be a bulwark against those who might have believed a weakened Gondor was ripe for the picking; Halmir’s were little more than a token force. He had found it more convenient to list those who had not died rather than those who had.

Elfhelm of Rohan had survived; Éomer had not. The marshal was kin to the royal house; he could claim the throne, although Faramir did not believe he would. The Steward knew perfectly well that there was only one with the strength, both of person and position, to hold Rohan together now.

He drew himself erect and slowly perused the letter. He re-read twice, then thrice. His shoulders did not slump, he did not weep; he could only sidestep the despair that haunted his steps. As if through a fine silver mist, he heard his own voice cry out, A Elbereth!

Yet hers was the devotion of the Eldar, people of the Stars. As for mortal Men, what were they to the Powers? Hildor? Engwar? Eärendil alone had ever swayed them on behalf of those he would have chosen, and his seed was all but gone. Were they entirely forsaken? Faramir thought of Númenor, of Míriel crying for deliverance -- A Eru Ilúvatar, ánin anta handë --

Steps pounded up the stairs. He could count on one hand the number of people who would be permitted to disturb him here. A young lady burst into the room, gasping for breath.

‘Faramir!’

He set the letter down, carefully keeping every movement steady. There would be time for grief later.

‘Faramir, Aunt Ivriniel said you have news from -- from there,’ Lothíriel said. Her eyes fell on the palantír. ‘Faramir? What is that?’

‘A Seeing-stone of Númenor. You were saying?’

She stared at it, temporarily speechless. Then she jerked her eyes away and focussed on him. ‘What news do you have?’

He shut his eyes and pulled every ounce of strength he still possessed. ‘The armies of Mordor are defeated,’ he said slowly.

Her grey eyes widened, then a smile light up her face. ‘We have victory then! Why do you not look more pleased, cousin? This is what we hoped for, is it not?’

‘If this is victory -- ’ He shook his head. ‘Lothíriel, there are scarcely any survivors. The King of Rohan is dead. The Lord Aragorn -- ’

Something flickered across her face. He did not care to look too deeply at it. ‘That is very bad,’ she said perfunctorily.

‘Lothíriel -- ’

She finally slowed, gazing at him with her clear eyes, and saw what he did not say. ‘No -- you do not mean -- ’ She pressed a hand against her bodice. ‘Faramir, it is not -- not Father?’

‘I am sorry, Lothíriel.’

She sat down, staring at the floor. Faramir laid his cloak over the palantír. There should be no danger, not with Sauron gone, but Lothíriel did not need to see what lay within. ‘And the others?’ she said presently. ‘They all went -- they insisted -- fools that they were -- ’ Tears trickled down her cheeks unnoticed. She already knew, of course.

‘They all perished in the battle,’ he told her, reaching out his hand to her. Her fingers curled around his, their grip strong. She blinked, fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped her tears away. Then she straightened and said, ‘What do you wish me to do, Faramir? I am at your service.’

‘All the lords of the fiefs must be summoned.’

‘Shall I send for Alphros?’ she said, with a faint smile.

‘Yes,’ he replied gravely. ‘He and Ailinel should be here during this time, with us. They will need all the comfort we have to offer.’

‘Of course.’ She frowned. ‘And the Lady Éowyn? I do not know her well, but she struck me as very devoted to her brother.’

‘Yes, I believe she -- was. I shall tell her.’

Lothíriel stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘I shall write my letters immediately, cousin.’ She hesitated, then bowed her head and whispered, ‘Nai anar caluva tiëlyanna’ before hurrying away.

---

Hildor? Engwar?: ‘The Followers? The Sickly?’ Both are Elvish names for Men.

A Eru Ilúvatar, ánin anta handë -- ‘O God, give me understanding’ (Quenya)

Nai anar caluva tiëlyanna -- ‘May the sun shine upon your path’ (Quenya)

Chapter Two

The Lady of Rohan took the grave tidings with all the grace and pride that Faramir expected of her. He felt, almost, as if he were two people, the man who could look at her face and never tire, delighting in all the vagaries of her character, and the one who saw a daughter of kings, stern as steel, a warrior who had won glory and renown on the Pelennor Fields, not merely for her people, but among them.

She must go to Cormallen, she said, and the part of him that looked at the world and saw an enormous chessboard agreed. Elfhelm was a fine man and a fine leader of men in battle; however, when there was no enemy to be fought, no charge to be made, he was at a loss, and Halmir of Lossarnach, himself no diplomat, was forced to do the duty of two.

Faramir knew that he, too, must go to Cormallen, for much the same reason. Húrin was more than capable of leading any defence of the City that might be required.

‘I shall come as well,’ Lothíriel said. ‘I shall be needed.’

He thought that his young, sheltered cousin should be protected from whatever she might find there; and he thought that she would be of infinite use. Lothíriel had always been the darling of her father’s people.

‘Very well,’ he said.

Éowyn rode a little apart, her mail gleaming brightly in the sun. She had insisted upon riding clad as a Rider, and to her surprise, he had not demurred. In fact, he felt it a prudent choice and approved, though he doubted she required it.

Lothíriel plaited flowers into her hair.

They were greeted with considerable relief by Halmir, Elfhelm, an Arnorian, Mithrandir, and an exhausted peredhel who looked decidedly more Man than Elf today.

‘You may not recall my young friend,’ Mithrandir said presently, gesturing towards the peredhel. Faramir looked at him, estimated his age at three thousand years, and bowed.

‘Elrohir, son of Elrond, at your service, and your family’s,’ he said. Faramir’s lips thinned, then he caught a glimpse of Lothíriel out of the corner of his eye.

‘I really must insist,’ she was saying, with her typical indomitable sweetness. ‘Nobody must be moved until they have the healers’ leave.’

Faramir smiled then, and replied, ‘Faramir, son of Denethor, at your service . . . and your family’s, though I doubt they require it.’

A shadow darkened Elrohir’s face. ‘Who can say, my lord? I stand here today because of two hob— halflings, you would say.’

‘We none of us can tell what the future will hold — in its entirety,’ he agreed. ‘The halflings, how are they?’

‘They will live. Sam is nearly wholly recovered.’

‘And Frodo?’ Faramir searched his eyes and something briefly altered the other’s face, softening the harsh lines. The image of the hobbit, far thinner than when he had seen him — almost emaciated — and the brown skin ashen pale, flashed into his mind.

‘His recovery is slower,’ Elrohir said, ‘as I daresay you can imagine.’

‘Lord Steward,’ Halmir said, turning to him with Lothíriel at his side, ‘surely you cannot expect a delicately brought up young lady to visit . . . visit men, wounded men — ’

Lothíriel’s grey eyes were as cold and stern as Éowyn’s. ‘Cousin, I must act in the stead of the Prince of Dol Amroth. If he were here, you know that he would perform his duty by those in his service.’

Faramir looked at her a moment, judging carefully. A knight, he thought, as much as Éowyn — flowers and all. ‘Halmir, you cannot expect Alphros to fulfil his position at his age. His aunt is acting Prince — Princess — of Dol Amroth.’

‘But my Lord Steward, there is no precedent, it is unheard — ’

Faramir smiled and said gently, ‘My dear Halmir, I was not making a suggestion. Please escort the Princess to the Belfalas camp.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

He noted to himself that he would have to smooth Halmir’s ruffled feathers at some point, and instruct — or advise? — Lothíriel. Elfhelm and Éowyn were deep in conversation. He hesitated, then left them to it. The Rohirrim were and had always been fiercely autonomous. Officious interference would do her no favours.

He turned back to Elrohir and Mithrandir. The latter looked almost amused. ‘You are transforming Gondor already, my friend.’

‘I? You give me too much credit, Mithrandir; Pelendur decided that Gondor was not Númenor and would not follow her ways, but must look forward to the needs of the present time.’

The Arnorian said, his voice harsh, ‘I confess, my Lord Steward, we have never seen his decision in that light.’

‘Fortunately it is my place, at present, to interpret such decisions,’ he replied easily. ‘Forgive me, I do not believe I have the pleasure of your acquaintance?’

The unknown Dúnadan bowed. ‘Arothir son of Borondir — son of Beren, who was the second-eldest son of Argonui.’

So he meant to claim the Chieftainship. Faramir looked at him. He was younger than the Lord Aragorn had been, though he looked older — perhaps seventy. Undoubtedly he had sons. Perhaps even living sons. Faramir considered. He, himself, had accepted Aragorn’s claim. He had known that he was the rightful King, legal difficulties notwithstanding. This one — every thought recoiled from it. The Arnorians could quarrel to their hearts’ content. He would have preferred a strong neighbour there, particularly for the halflings’ sake, but entangling Gondor in Northern affairs could only be disastrous.

‘Faramir son of Denethor,’ he replied coolly. He had no intention to try and bow others down by the weight of his titles and birth; he knew who he was, and they knew, and that was sufficient.

Elfhelm and Éowyn took their leave, and though he knew perfectly well that he would see her again, it felt somehow a final parting, that they would never meet on such terms as they had during the long days of waiting.

He visited his own people, and also those of Arnor, on nothing more than what might be called the impulse of the moment. A young man of about his own age, whose only injury seemed to be in the arm caught in a sling, stared at him as he spoke to the wounded and dying. Before he could pass to those of Dol Amroth, the other man stopped him.

‘Hîr nin.’

Faramir inclined his head. ‘May I be of assistance?’

‘I was not aware, my lord, of any warm feeling for my people, here in the South.’

The Steward gazed at him a moment, his expression very tranquil. ‘Is that so?’

‘It is said that your people envy us, for we carry the blood of Númenor unmingled, and we have carried on the line of kings unbroken.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘And I have since heard it said, here, that lineage is nothing without a place to call our own, that no man may call himself king without a kingdom. I have heard that we are nothing now, a handful compared to even the waned might of Gondor, destroyed by our own hubris, and unworthy of honour in this land. Tell me, what does a Gondorian of high race do here, among we who remain only on sufferance, on the remembrance, the reflection of the glory of our Chieftain, who is gone beyond the circles of this world?’

‘He believes,’ said Faramir, ‘that it is the tragedy of our race that we insist upon dividing among ourselves. Your people and mine are both Dúnedain, the nearest kin of all the peoples of the world. Whether we happen to dwell in the North or the South is a matter of little significance.’

The other Dúnadan stared at him. ‘Are there many in Gondor like you?’

‘Perhaps. Tell me, how is your arm?’

‘Well enough. It is my own fault; I could not command my own horse. And yours?’

‘A Southron arrow and the Black Breath.’

The man’s eyes widened. ‘And yet you are here. You must be a man of staunch will; I could not have done it.’

‘I owe my survival to your . . . late . . . Chieftain. He brought me back.’

‘I see,’ he said, still looking rather bemused. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon; Dior son of Arminas, at your service.’

‘Thank you,’ said Faramir. ‘I am Faramir son of Denethor.’

Dior stared. ‘You are the Steward of Gondor?’

Faramir’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I am.’

‘I meant,’ he added quickly, ‘you are not at all what I expected. I thought — well, what I thought is of no consequence.’

‘Oh, I believe it is. Would you mind accompanying me?’

With a faintly suspicious look, Dior assented. Faramir did not leave himself time to doubt, trusting his instincts as he always had.

‘Our people are in a very delicate position at present. We have our victory, but at such a price that we are now vulnerable to attack. Rohan and Arnor have lost their leaders. The Lord Aragorn may have expected such a turn of events when it was decided to leave many of our forces behind to protect my City.’

‘Your city?’

‘I am the Lord of Gondor, and of Minas Tirith — unless the king should come, again,’ Faramir said evenly. ‘I understand that the line of Isildur’s heirs has never been broken, not once.’

Dior stood a little straighter. ‘No, never.’

‘Then I daresay the protocol for the succession must be very uncertain.’

‘Nonexistent, you mean.’ Dior met his eyes keenly. ‘You must have met Arothir.’