"Ah!" Denethor sighed contentedly, stretching until his spine crackled. "Now, that was a Yule feast to remember."

Finduilas stretched out on the bed and kicked her shoes off. "The cooks outdid themselves," she purred. "The orange-glazed capon was delightful, and those spiced nuts! I shall have to send a special note of thanks to the kitchen. Why, I feel as well-stuffed as one of those roast chickens."

Denethor waggled his eyebrows at her. "I hope you do not feel too stuffed," he said with a pointed smile. "For this evening lacks but one thing to make it perfect."

Finduilas rolled onto her side and favored him with a saucy smirk. "And what would that be?" she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"If we made a daughter tonight, she would be born in the last great flush of summer."

"And I would be at my roundest and heaviest during the hottest months of the year."

"For one year only. And then we would have our little girl, conceived on a perfect Yule, and born just at the harvest, when all things are ripe." Denethor ran his hand down his wife's side, gently caressing her flank. She luxuriated in his touch.

"You do have a particularly . . . convincing way with words."

"Not at all. I am merely observant, and like any good Steward, I respond to the fortunes of the land. We have spent the past week in rituals of fertility and rebirth. I hardly think it proper to ignore the message they send us."

Finduilas traced her finger delicately around Denethor's jaw. "Do you wish to be swaddled like an apple tree, then?" she asked.

"My branch must be kept warm," Denethor said wickedly. Finduilas laughed and rolled herself on top of her husband.

"Wes hael," she whispered, and leaned in for a kiss. Denethor reached up to embrace her, enjoying the way her body shifted under his touch. He thought he heard a tap at the door, but he ignored it, surrendering himself to the intoxicating scent of his wife.

The tap came again, too loud to be ignored this time. With a sigh, Finduilas slid down next to Denethor. "What is it?" he called irritably. The door opened, and Boromir sidled sleepily into the bedchamber. "I thought you and your brother went to bed hours ago," Denethor said.

The nine-year-old dipped his head shyly, aware that he had interrupted something important. "Faramir threw up," he reported.

Denethor fell back on the pillow with a groan, silently lamenting the ruin of the evening. Finduilas rose and went to the door. Boromir looked up at her gratefully. "I am sorry to wake you, Mama, but he was crying for you."

"Then I will go to him." She turned back to Denethor. "I will return when he is asleep again." Quickly, she slipped out the door. Boromir stayed, leaning awkwardly against the doorframe.

"What about you, big boy?" Denethor asked. "Will you not go to your brother?"

Boromir shrugged. "It smells nasty in there," he said. "If you do not mind, I think I will wait here with you until Mama comes back."

"I do not mind." Boromir scampered over to the fireplace and curled up next to the glowing embers. Denethor hauled himself out of bed and came to sit with his son. Boromir laughed at the creaking of his father's joints as he lowered himself to the floor. "Laugh now," Denethor grumbled good-naturedly. "When you are my age, it will not seem so funny."

Father and son sat companionably for a while, enjoying the hypnotic glow of the fireplace. "Was it a good Yule feast, Papa?" Boromir asked.

"It was. The best we have had in a long while."

"Can Faramir and I sit up for it next year?"

Denethor chuckled. "You may sit up, for you will be a great big boy of ten. Faramir will have to wait until he is ten as well."

"I will save him a treat from the feast."

"You are a good big brother."

Boromir smiled and cuddled close to his father. Denethor held him close, regretting that such moments were becoming rarer with his older child.

Finduilas returned two hours later with a night nurse, who bore sleeping Boromir back to the nursery. Wearily, Finduilas climbed into bed with Denethor. "It is as I feared," she said. "Faramir has once again caught this year's influenza."

Denethor groaned. Every time a cold or influenza swept through the Citadel, four-year-old Faramir caught it without fail. He was amazed that the child had not died yet; he seemed to be constantly coughing, his nose perpetually runny. Boromir was, on the whole, a much healthier child. He was very rarely sick, and was usually back on his feet after only a day or so of sniffles. Denethor wondered why, if he must bear the burden of an extra, unnecessary son, he must be saddled with such a sickly child. "Faramir is always ill," he grumbled.

"He has not yet learned how to be healthy," Finduilas murmured. "Give him time. Boromir learned his letters late, but he learned them in the end. Faramir will learn to be healthy."

Denethor sometimes wondered if that was in fact the case, but there was no denying that Faramir at least had some skills at being sick. He weathered his latest influenza well, and after the first few days it was clear that he would recover fully in a week or so. Boromir proved to be a great source of aid. He was constantly running in and out of the nursery, inventing little games and toys to amuse Faramir during his convalescence.

A week after Faramir had first fallen sick, Denethor and Finduilas sat together in their chambers sipping slowly at mugs of hot mulled wine. "I am glad that Faramir is improving," Finduilas said. "He was a very unhappy child for a few days."

"You took good care of him," Denethor said. "It has worn you out, I think."

"Caring for a sick child is not easy," Finduilas said, and there was something of a bite in her tone.

"You do it well," Denethor said soothingly. "You should have a reward." He set his mug down on the floor and moved to stand behind his wife's chair. Slowly, he massaged her shoulders, kneading muscles knotted up with care and tension. Finduilas began to relax into his touch.

"Mmm," she murmured. "That feels good." Denethor strengthened his massage, enjoying his ability to give his wife such simple yet profound pleasure. Finduilas took another sip of her wine. Denethor began to imagine the means by which to change this pleasure into another, more active, kind of pleasure. Both the Steward and the Lady were engrossed in their peaceful world and did not hear the pounding little footsteps outside their door. The thump of a body flinging the door open startled them, and they whirled around to see Faramir standing there, clutching his favorite blue pillow.

"Boromir threw up," he said.

Denethor sat by his older son's sickbed, his face drawn and pale with worry. His tough, active, blooming big boy had finally succumbed to the season's influenza, and he had fallen hard. Even Denethor, who knew next to nothing about children's illnesses, could see that Boromir was much sicker than Faramir had been. He lay half-asleep, burning with fever. Finduilas and the nurses kept him packed in cold towels, which they changed every hour in an effort to lower his temperature. Sometimes Boromir would cry for water, and he would wake briefly when given a drink.

Denethor presided over his council meetings and official duties with grim efficiency. He no longer spent any leisure hours in the company of his lords cracking nuts and telling stories. Whenever duty did not immediately call, he hurried to the nursery to resume his vigil over his beloved firstborn.

"I am thirsty," Boromir cried weakly. Denethor reached for a cup of cool water and held it to his son's lips. Boromir drank greedily, then squinted up at his father. "Where is Faramir?" he asked.

"I do not know. Presumably, he is playing in another room."

"Is he well?"

Denethor frowned. "He is as well as can be expected," he said. "He has just recovered from the illness that you have, and he is still weak." Boromir shivered, and Denethor tucked the quilt closer around him.

"I had a dream, Papa," Boromir murmured. "I dreamed that Faramir was attacked by a great big flying black shadow. It frightened me."

"You have a high fever. It is natural that you should have strange visions. But they are only fever dreams, Boromir. They are not real."

"They are still frightening." Boromir dozed off again. Denethor caught the arm of the nurse who was collecting the discarded towels.

"Why is he so sick?" he asked her. "He is stronger than his brother. He has never been so ill before. What is wrong with him?"

"Sometimes it is this way," the nurse said. "There are children who are bursting with health, who never suffer illness. When illness finally does strike them, they fall faster and harder than the children who are ill more often."

"Will he recover?"

"Only the One knows for sure. He is young, strong, and was quite healthy before this. It is as good a chance as any."

Denethor found no comfort in the nurse's appraisal. He dabbed grimly at Boromir's brow with a damp cloth, when the whining cry of a smaller child intruded upon his grief. He turned around and glared at the door. Faramir stood there, his blue pillow in one hand and a little wooden sword in the other.

"Play with Boromir!" he demanded.

"He is asleep," Denethor said shortly. Another nurse appeared and took Faramir by the sword hand.

"You must not disturb your brother now," she said. "Boromir is sick, and he must sleep so that he will become well again and able to play with you." She led Faramir away as Denethor turned his attention back to Boromir.

Slowly, Boromir began to recover. His fever finally broke, and he stayed awake longer at a stretch. When he was able to sit up in bed, Finduilas finally decreed that he was well enough to receive short visits from his brother. Faramir squealed with delight whenever he was allowed into Boromir's room. He would hop up on the bed and sit enraptured as Boromir told him stories.

Now that Boromir was out of danger, Denethor encouraged Finduilas to relax, insisting that the nurses could care for Boromir while Finduilas recovered her strength. Finduilas readily agreed, and decided to devote an entire day to the art of relaxation. She woke at an indecently late hour, and Denethor brought her breakfast on a tray. While she ate, Denethor arranged for a bathing tub to be prepared with huge copper kettles full of steaming, lavender-scented water. Finduilas sank into the water with a long sigh.

"Ah," she said. "This smells beautiful. I love my children a great deal, as any mother ought, but I think I have had my fill of the smells of their sickrooms." She took a little of the slimy soft soap and began to wash herself. Denethor came to sit beside her. He took some of the soap in his own hands and began to wash his wife's hair. He made sure to rub the soap deeply into her scalp, and he was rewarded by her purrs of happiness.

When the Lady was clean, she dressed herself in a loose house gown and sat down with her quilting basket. She enjoyed making intricate geometrical shapes with bright scraps of fabric, and at the moment was hard at work on a pair of nine-patch pillow shams. Though winter was still chill outside, she opened a window. It had been a long time since she had had the luxury of a full, hot bath, and she felt that she had stayed in the water longer than was good for her. She had grown accustomed to quick, lukewarm sponge baths while caring for her sick children, and the long soak in hot water had overheated her.

The cold winter air did feel good, and as Finduilas sat next to the window, she felt a strange desire to sit still forever, never moving again. It seemed that she could feel the weight of the air pressing down upon her body; every small movement was a trial. She noticed that her head hurt, probably from the cold air, but she could not find it within herself to reach up and close the window again.

She must have dozed off, for the next she knew, Denethor was standing over her, shaking her shoulders. "You must have been weary," he said. "You fell asleep over your sewing. Come, we shall take tea and cakes and talk about nothing in particular." Denethor offered his arm, and Finduilas took it. When she rose from her chair, the world spun about her, and she staggered. Vaguely, she felt Denethor's arm around her, and then a wave of nausea boiled up inside of her. She tore herself free of her husband's arm and just managed to pull the chamber pot out from under the bed in time. Denethor dropped to his knees beside her and held her hair as she was wretchedly sick.

" . . . and then the fair lady turned around and pushed the evil knight into the lake," Boromir said. Faramir listened, wide-eyed, to his brother's bedtime story. "And the knight screamed and screamed for help, but the lady laughed at him. 'You have killed six ladies, but the seventh has killed you!' she cried. And then she got on her horse and rode home to her Mama and her Papa, safe and sound."

Faramir smiled. "I am glad the pretty lady was safe," he said. He hugged his blue pillow and smiled. Boromir tucked the quilt under his brother's chin and ruffled his hair. Faramir wrinkled his nose. "Will Mama come and give me a kiss goodnight?" he asked.

"I told you already," Boromir said. "Mama is sick. She has our influenza, and she cannot come to you. You will just have to make do with me putting you to bed for a while."

"Want Papa."

Boromir sighed. He, too, wished that his father would come and help him take care of Faramir while their mother was ill. But in the week since Finduilas had fallen sick, Denethor had shown little interest in anything other than working and caring for her. He would play chess with Boromir if Boromir approached him, but he never offered a game, and he did not speak to Faramir at all. Boromir felt that this was not right, but he could not say why he felt that way. Adults had their reasons, after all, and it was not the place of little boys to question their father's behavior, especially when their father was the Steward.

"Papa is busy," Boromir told his brother. "But if you give me a goodnight kiss, I will pass it on to him with your compliments." Faramir giggled at the big words and kissed Boromir goodnight. Boromir took up the bedside candle and went out into the corridor to deliver the kiss to Denethor.

As soon as he left the nursery, he heard a commotion. Curious, he walked toward the sound. Adult voices cried "Way! Way for the Lady!" and Boromir flattened himself against the wall.

The Warden of the Houses of Healing swept past, leading two footmen of the Citadel who bore a litter between them. Finduilas lay on the litter, covered in quilts, silent and still. Denethor strode at her side. Suddenly, Boromir jumped forward and grasped at his father's sleeve. Denethor looked down but did not stop. Boromir trotted along, suddenly fearful.

"Papa, where is Mama going?" he asked.

"Your Mama is going to the Houses of Healing," Denethor said. "You should go to bed. I will come see you in the morning." He detached Boromir's hand from his sleeve, and the little procession continued down the corridor. Boromir watched them go, stunned and confused. He did not understand why his mama was being taken away in the night, but he felt that something very bad was about to happen.

The fortnight that followed surpassed even Boromir's worst imaginings. Daily life in the Citadel nearly ground to a halt as the Steward sat by his Lady's side in the Houses of Healing. Boromir and Faramir rarely saw their father, and when he did manage to tear himself away from Finduilas long enough to visit them, he was irritable and distracted. The nurses cared for the boys, but they, too, seemed distant, and they refused to answer any questions about what had become of Finduilas.

Boromir tried to concentrate on his lessons, but found that numbers and letters danced around in his head, taunting him, devoid of meaning. His tutor was patient but relentless, insisting that Boromir read the lays and do the sums, no matter how long it took to concentrate. His military lessons were easier, and Boromir threw himself into the sparring, wrestling and riding with an intensity that alarmed his masters. After he clumsily bloodied another boy's nose with a blunted training sword, the weapons master drew him aside.

"Do not let your personal grief cloud your thinking," he said. "I know that you grieve for your mother, but you must concentrate. In a real battle, there will be no time for sorrow. Put it aside and feel it later." He gave Boromir a friendly pat on the shoulder and went back to the training field. Boromir stared after him, even more confused. He had not known that he was supposed to be grieving, and the knowledge worried him even more. He wondered what was happening to his mother that he would need to grieve.

Even Faramir was a source of worry for Boromir. He clung to his big brother whenever they were together, and he began to suck his thumb again, even though Boromir had teased him out of that behavior when he had learned to talk. Boromir considered trying again to break Faramir of the habit, and then decided that it was not worth the effort. If Faramir had his thumb in his mouth, he could not ask Boromir questions about their mother. Boromir never knew the answers, and the questions all settled into a cold lump in his stomach.

One night, Boromir awoke to find Denethor shaking him gently. "Wake up, big boy," his father said. "Put on trousers and shoes and a warm cloak. I will rouse your brother."

"Where are we going?" Boromir asked sleepily, following Denethor into Faramir's room as he pulled on trousers underneath his sleep shirt. Denethor lifted Faramir out of bed and searched around for the smaller boy's clothes.

"We are going to the Houses of Healing," he said.

"In the middle of the night?"

"Your Mama has asked to see you."

It felt strange to be walking through the streets of the City at midnight. Boromir's breath was cloudy, and the stars glittered in the cold night air. Denethor walked silently and grimly beside him, carrying Faramir. There were no guards with them; none were needed. The streets were deserted, cold and still. Boromir wondered if perhaps he was dreaming.

Inside the Houses of Healing, it was warm and quiet. Denethor took the boys to a small room where oil lamps glowed softly and the sharp smell of breath-easing herbs filled the air. There was a bed in the room, and someone was lying on it. Denethor set Faramir down and nudged the boys to the bed. Faramir held Boromir's hand as they approached it.

The figure in the bed had their mother's face, but she had grown small and shrunken, as if she had withered away. She wore a nightgown of white linen, which blended with the bedclothes, and for a moment, Boromir wondered if she had become part of the bed. At the sound of her children's footsteps, Finduilas opened her dark, shadowed eyes and smiled at them.

"Here they are," she said, her voice thin and raspy. "Here are my two big boys, my two babies. Come see me." She held out one impossibly thin arm, and Faramir climbed up on the bed. Boromir knelt beside it, and she stroked his hair with a claw-like hand. "I think that I will not see you again," she said. "You must be brave, good boys, and I will watch over you if I may. Remember that I love you always, with all my heart."

Utterly baffled, but conscious of the importance of the moment, Boromir leaned in and kissed his mother. "I love you, too, Mama," he said.

"Love you Mama," Faramir echoed. Finduilas gave another weak smile, and then a healer led the boys away to cots in another room where they were to spend the rest of the night.

When Boromir woke the next morning, he knew immediately that something was wrong. Faramir's cot was empty. Boromir got up, wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, and walked through the unfamiliar rooms looking for his brother. He found Faramir sitting huddled by a doorway, and he heard strange, rough noises coming from the room beyond. Faramir scrambled to his feet when Boromir approached and slipped his hand into his brother's. Hand in hand, the two boys ventured into the room.

Boromir recognized it as the room where they had seen their mother the night before. But this morning, the bed was stripped bare of linen, and their mother was gone. Denethor sat in a chair by the bed, his shoulders shaking as he wept. Neither child could remember having seen their father weeping before, and they stared silently for a while.

It was Faramir who broke the spell. "Where is Mama?" he asked. Denethor lifted his tear-stained face and looked at his sons, his eyes red and swollen.

"Your Mama is dead," he said to Faramir. "You will not see her again."

"I want Mama!" Faramir insisted.

"Why is Mama dead?" Boromir asked stupidly. Part of his mind insisted that it could not be true, that his mama could not have been that ill. Had he and Faramir not survived the same illness? Denethor continued to gaze blearily at Faramir.

"She nursed you when you were ill," he said tonelessly. "She caught your influenza, and it has killed her. You will never see her again."

"I want Mama!" Faramir repeated, and the demand turned into a long, wailing cry. Denethor sat stunned, unable to move to comfort the child. Boromir began to shake all over. The strange, empty look on his father's face as he stared at Faramir frightened him almost as much as the news that his mother had taken sick and died. Quickly, he threw his arms around Faramir and buried his face in his little brother's hair. He turned away from his father, and safe from the awful gaze, he began to weep both for his mother and for his father.