Ecthelion’s mouth opened slowly. His lower jaw waggled for a moment, and he let loose a long, ragged breath. When he shut his mouth, a thin rivulet of drool flowed out the side. Denethor patiently dabbed at it with a soft cloth. It had become a routine in the past few hours. Open mouth, breathe out, close mouth, drool, and Denethor would clean his father’s face. It was not an easy or a pleasant thing to do, but Denethor bore his task dutifully. Ecthelion was dying, and it was the task of his son to ease his passing. The knowledge that it was his duty to attend his father comforted Denethor, or at least allowed him to put some distance between the act and the impending loss it implied.

Ecthelion had declined markedly in the year following Faramir’s birth, but he had been alert enough to recognize the decline for what it was and to prepare accordingly. Denethor’s time had been divided between performing his administrative duties as Heir and, increasingly, assuming the functions of the Steward of Gondor. He would soon have to make some provision for a replacement to perform the duties of the Heir until Boromir came of age. For ten or twelve years, one of the senior Lords from his staff would suffice.

Carefully, Denethor dabbed at Ecthelion’s mouth again. The old man coughed and spluttered suddenly, and Denethor reached for the mug of water that sat on the small table near the bed, half afraid that this was the end. Ecthelion opened his watery eyes and peered at his son in the dim light. He made strange grinding noises, and it took Denethor a minute before he realized that his father was trying to speak. He slipped an arm under Ecthelion’s shoulders and raised him a little, tucking an extra pillow behind him.

"Do you want water, my Lord?" he asked. Ecthelion nodded, and Denethor held the mug to his lips. The old man took a sip, barely enough to moisten his mouth, then turned his head slightly. Denethor set the mug down again.

"Not ‘my Lord,’ Denethor," Ecthelion croaked. "I am an old man, and I am dying. Allow me to be your father."

"Father," Denethor amended softly.

A pause. "I have had a good life."

"Yes," Denethor said. "You have indeed, Father. Your reign has been long and fruitful."

"Stewardship."

"What was that, Father?"

Ecthelion fixed his dimming gaze on his son. "Stewardship," he said, with some effort. "Not reign. A Steward does not reign. Only the King reigns. Stewardship."

"Stewardship, then. Yours has been an eventful one."

"Indeed." Ecthelion grimaced. "It was fair and fine, though marred by Shadow."

"But you did not succumb to the Shadow. Ever you fought against it."

"Aye, that I did. But not alone." Ecthelion turned toward Denethor and grasped weakly at his hand. Denethor suppressed a shudder at the coolness of the dry, papery skin of his father's hand. Gently, he tried to chafe some warmth back into it. Ecthelion watched him, and it seemed already that he had removed himself from the scene. "Leave that," he rasped. "It will not be warm again." He paused. "Where is Thorongil?"

A muscle in Denethor's jaw twitched, but he did not let go of Ecthelion's hand. "He is not here, Father," he said evenly.

"I know that. Fool. He should be here. I am dying. Why is my finest captain not here to bid me farewell?"

It was an effort to be polite, but Denethor made it. "Perhaps he does not know you are dying, Father. He has not been seen in Gondor for some years now."

"He should know. Thorongil always knew things. He had the eyes of an eagle, that boy, and a bearing as proud and stern as any King of Númenor. He should come."

Denethor desperately wanted to be somewhere else, but he could not find it in his heart to abandon his father now. Instead, he forced a smile. "Perhaps Thorongil has heard, Father," he suggested. "Perhaps he is even now traveling to your side."

"That will be well," Ecthelion murmured. "That will be well indeed. My brave captain, and my own clever boy, together with me again." The trembling hand reached up to pat at Denethor's unshaven cheek, and he suddenly found his resentment melting away.

"Father --" he began. Ecthelion's murmuring continued, as if he had not noticed.

"My boy will be Steward, and Thorongil will return for him," he said. "That will be a day . . ." The old man drifted off. Denethor set down his hand and tucked the blankets around him.

"Sleep well, Father," he said. "I will see you when you wake." Then he stood and left the room.

He went first to the training yards in hope of shaking off his dark mood by watching Boromir and the other six-year-olds at their wrestling lessons, but he found that his visit with Ecthelion had taken longer than he had thought. The wrestling lesson was over, and the training ground was empty.

In the nursery, Boromir and Finduilas were sitting on the floor with Faramir, who had pulled himself to a standing position and was clutching the nursery table for support. He grinned and giggled at his mother and his brother.

"Are you going to walk?" Finduilas said. "Are you going to take a step? Is my Faramir going to take his first step?"

"Come on, Faramir," Boromir urged, bouncing up and down impatiently. "Come on and walk. Is he going to walk today, Mama?"

"He might. Come, Faramir. Come to Mama."

Faramir let go of the table and stood teetering on unsteady legs. Pleased with his daring, he squealed and waved wildly. Boromir laughed and waved back. At that instant, the door to the nursery opened.

"Boromir, what are you doing with the baby?" Denethor asked sharply. Startled, Faramir lost his precarious balance and sat down hard. He began to cry, and Finduilas swiftly drew him into her arms. Boromir spun around and stared up at his father.

"Faramir almost walked, Papa," he said reproachfully.

Denethor sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead. Nothing was happening as it ought. His dying father praised his rival, and his older son scolded him for spoiling his younger son's first steps. He looked down at Boromir's confused expression and forced a smile as he squatted down next to him.

"I am sorry," he said.

Boromir shrugged. "He was just surprised." He turned to Finduilas, who had managed to quiet Faramir's wails. "Might he do it again, Mama?"

"Perhaps." Finduilas set Faramir on his feet near the table. "Will you try again, precious?" she asked. "Will you walk for your Mama and your Papa and your brother?" But Faramir, frightened by the disastrous results of his first efforts, clung to the table and refused to move. After a moment, Finduilas took him back on her lap. "I suppose he will not walk today," she said. "We will have to wait until later."

Denethor managed a jovial smile that he did not feel. "There will be time," he said reassuringly.

At that moment, the trumpets blew. Boromir was on his feet in an instant. "Someone is coming, Papa!" he cried and ran off toward the gates. Denethor scrambled to his own feet and followed Boromir out of the nursery. For an instant, wild hope flared in his heart. Perhaps his lie to his dying father had come true. Perhaps it really was Thorongil at the gate, come to bid Ecthelion farewell. In that moment, Denethor knew that he would welcome his rival home if it meant that Ecthelion would die happy.

But when he arrived at the gate, just in time to grab Boromir by the collar and prevent him from rushing outside and getting trampled, he discovered that the mysterious guest was not Thorongil. Instead, the wizard Mithrandir had arrived on a sturdy little bay horse.

"Greetings, Mithrandir," Denethor said. "I did not expect your arrival."

"I come in haste," Mithrandir said, dismounting in a swirl of gray robes and handing his reins to a groom. "Does the Steward yet live?"

"He does," Denethor answered. "Or, he lived an hour ago."

"I must speak with him immediately." Before Denethor could even summon a page to discover if Ecthelion was in any state to receive guests, Mithrandir strode off into the Citadel.

"Certainly, Mithrandir," Denethor told the air. "He will be pleased to see you."

Boromir stared off down the corridor after the wizard. "He was very rude, Papa," he observed.

"Yes, he was. But that is the way wizards are, Boromir. They have little thought for courtesy when they are on business."

Mithrandir stayed closeted with Ecthelion for several hours. Denethor busied himself tidying his father's study. As the shadows lengthened, a page tapped hesitantly at the door.

"Enter."

The page slipped inside and bowed. "Your presence is requested at Lord Ecthelion's bed," he said. "It is urgent. His death is upon him."

With a quick nod of thanks, Denethor strode out of the study and into his father's chamber. Mithrandir sat by the bed, but rose when Denethor entered. "Your son has arrived, my Lord," he said gently. Denethor approached his father, his heart in his throat.

"I have arrived, Father," he said. "What is your will?"

Ecthelion's watery eyes slid over to the wall, where his staff of office rested. Mithrandir retrieved it and placed it in his hands. Ecthelion looked at Denethor, who knelt down by the bed. With a visible effort, he placed the staff in Denethor's hands.

"From father to son," he said, and his voice was almost inaudible. "Keep thou the Stewardship of Gondor until such time as the King doth return." Having said the ritual words, he coughed, and wheezed, then spoke once more. "I love you, boy," he said, and then he was gone. Denethor stared at his father's body, clutching the staff and leaning on it for support. After a long moment, he reached out and drew Ecthelion's eyes shut.

"Farewell, Father," he said.

Mithrandir bowed low. "What does my Lord Denethor command?" he asked.

Denethor stood tall and straight, as befitted the new Steward of Gondor. "Tell me, what news did you bring that was so important as to consume my father's last moments?"

Mithrandir raised his bushy eyebrows. "A greeting," he said evenly. "A final greeting, as it turned out, from an old friend."

"Thorongil."

"Yes. I came upon him some time ago, and he bade me send his greetings to his former lord on my next visit to these parts. When I heard that Ecthelion was dying, I rode as fast as I could to reach his bedside. It was not my intent to rob a son of his father's last words, which indeed I did not."

Denethor had to admit that this was true. "The funeral will be tomorrow," he said. "You may watch as my father is laid to rest in Rath Dínen, Mithrandir, but then I shall be preoccupied with business, and I will not have the wherewithal to entertain a guest in proper fashion."

Mithrandir seemed to take the hint and nodded. "I will pay my last respects, and then I must depart," he said. "I have business elsewhere."

Denethor summoned the Citadel's staff and bade them make the preparations for the funeral. They bowed low before the new Steward and withdrew. Denethor's next visit was to the new Lady of Gondor. He informed her of her new rank, and she held him while he wept for his father.

Boromir played quietly with Faramir in the next room. He stacked wooden blocks into a tower and watched as Faramir knocked the tower down with a swipe of his hand. Slowly, he built the tower up again. Faramir grew impatient waiting for him and started to crawl toward the door. Boromir caught him by the waist and settled him on his lap.

"Grandfather is dead," he told his brother. "Papa is sad about that, and Mama is comforting him. I think they will not want to see us right now." Faramir squirmed, and Boromir gave him a block, which Faramir chewed on contentedly. "Mama will come to see us in a while," Boromir went on. "She will come and tell us about Grandfather. I think I will be sad then. But we must be brave, for Papa." He took the block out of Faramir's hands to attract his attention. "Can you be brave, Faramir?" he asked.

"Brrrrmmmm," Faramir said.

"I suppose that means 'yes' in baby speech," Boromir said. "If you will agree to be brave with me, then you may have your block back." He returned the block to his brother, who resumed chewing. Boromir hugged Faramir and thought sadly about his grandfather.

The funeral took place at noon the next day. All the people of Minas Tirith lined the streets as Ecthelion's bier proceeded slowly through the city. Denethor, wearing a dark cloak trimmed with sable, marched behind the bier. Finduilas followed him, carrying Faramir. Boromir walked at her side. The citizens wept and tossed flowers in the path of the funeral procession. When all the people had had a chance to make their farewells, the procession began to climb again, until it reached the door of Fen Hollen. Mithrandir awaited them there, along with the caretaker of the tombs.

The pallbearers set the bier down gently as the caretaker unlocked the door. Denethor nudged Boromir. As solemnly as any soldier, the little boy stepped forward and placed a small posy on Ecthelion's breast.

"Farewell, Grandfather," he said.

The pallbearers took up the bier once more and marched through the dark door to Rath Dínen. A sharp wind blew. In his mother's arms, Faramir began to cry, a loud, piercing wail that shattered the silence all around. Finduilas wrapped an edge of her blue cloak around Faramir and bounced him, but he only cried louder. Denethor was seized by an irrational surge of jealousy. His father was going away forever, and Denethor wanted to scream as loudly as did his younger son, but he was the Steward now, and he must uphold the dignity of the office.

He moved to stand behind Boromir, his little Heir, and folded his dark cloak around them both. Silently, they watched until Ecthelion's bier rounded the curve in the road and they could no longer see it. Ecthelion was well and truly gone now, and Denethor was the Lord Steward of Gondor.

Denethor's first act as Steward was to obtain the keys to all of the various storage chambers in the Citadel and conduct a thorough inventory of all its holdings. He sorted through Ecthelion's papers, although he did not learn much that he had not already known. The financial report pleased him; there was sufficient gold in the treasury to keep Gondor afloat and independent even if the army must increase in size. Denethor was sorting through an old, locked chamber full of antique odds and ends from the time of the Kings when he first stumbled upon something that truly surprised him.

It appeared to be a globe of dark glass, only slightly smaller than Boromir's little head. It bore no markings nor any sign that it was at all important or valuable, but there was something about it that drew Denethor back for a closer look. The depths of the glass were compelling, and Denethor carefully withdrew the globe from its wooden box and carried it over to a corner that was relatively free of detritus. He sat down on the floor and settled the globe on his lap to examine it more closely.

He found that he could not tear himself away. Colors and shapes swirled crazily within the glass. He knew that the globe held some ancient magic, and that it was probably not good to stare too long at it without knowing its properties, but there seemed to be a pattern in the chaos within. If he just watched it a little longer, he was sure that he could decipher the secrets of this little glass globe. As he peered ever closer, the whirl of color resolved itself, and Denethor saw.

Denethor heard a great cry of anguish and came back to reality with a jerk. Slowly, he realized that he himself had cried aloud. He had been so interested in the fate of the mysterious soldier that he had lost track of his surroundings. He eyed the globe with new curiosity. It was certainly magic. Mithrandir could most likely tell him what it was, but Denethor did not wish to endure the wizard's grating presence any longer than absolutely necessary and had sent him away immediately after the funeral. It was no matter; there were plenty of texts full of lore in the Archives, and one of them would certainly hold the answers he sought. In the meantime, though, Denethor found himself wondering about the fate of the strange soldier. He peered again into the globe, wondering if he would see anything more.

Once again, Denethor tore himself away from the strange vision and found himself alone in the storage chamber. What had he just seen? Had he seen the future? He thought that he must have seen one of his sons wounded in a great battle, but what of the second vision? Whoever had healed the sick man had come from far away; his clothing testified to that. He was clearly a great man, as he had seemed able to heal a sickness that the official Healers would not touch. Who was the sick man? Was he one of Denethor's sons? Was he the soldier who had fought so bravely?

Denethor carefully put the glass globe away in its box. This was a treasure that deserved more observation. He would take it to his private study and examine it there for several more nights. He was confident that, if he learned how to use it, it would be of great aid to him during the dark days ahead.