"Message call!"

The announcement caused a flurry of activity in the garrison at Pelargir. Any soldier who could walk, hobble or hop converged upon the messenger, and the excited cries of the bedridden ones filled the air. The arrival of dispatches from Minas Tirith was always welcome, but after their hard-fought victory in the latest skirmish with the increasingly restive Haradrim, the Fifth Company of Gondor's army considered message call to be the best reward of all.

"Faramir, will you pick up my letters, too?" Beregond asked. He had broken his leg rather badly during the fight, and the camp healer had ordered him to remain on his cot for at least a week. He would most likely be sent back to Minas Tirith with the next supply transport. Faramir squeezed his friend's shoulder.

"Of course I will," he said. "And I will even refrain from reading them before I give them to you!"

Beregond grimaced happily. "Always a true friend. Now, go fetch those letters!"

Faramir joined the crowd milling around the pile of fruit crates on which the messenger stood reading off names. The soldiers passed the letters back through the crowd, and soon Faramir had collected three letters, two for himself and one for Beregond. One of his letters was from Boromir, while the other bore the official seal of the Steward. Burning with curiosity about what his father might have to say to him that required such formality, Faramir nearly opened that message on the spot. But then he remembered that Beregond would be waiting for his own news, and he jogged off toward the healers' building.

"We are both lucky, you and I," he said, dropping Beregond's letter on his chest. Beregond examined the seal.

"This is from a public scribe's office," he said. "I think it is from my wife. I wonder what could have driven her to such expense."

"True love?" Faramir smirked. Beregond had been married just six months before the Fifth Company had been deployed to Pelargir, and his wife regularly sent him boxes of treats with the supply wagons.

"That, or a death in the family," Beregond said. "It will be something important, at any rate, to warrant the expense of a public scribe." He broke the seal and began to read the letter. Suddenly, he choked. Faramir was by his side in an instant.

"What is it?" he asked. "Who has died? Should I summon the healer?" When Beregond made no answer, Faramir gave him a slap on the back. It seemed to rouse Beregond from his stupor, and he lay back on his cot with a dazed, silly grin spreading over his face.

"No one has died," he said. "I am to be a father this winter."

"Already?" Faramir asked. "Why, Beregond, that is wonderful news. Congratulations!"

Beregond was counting on his fingers. "It must have been just before we were deployed," he said. "We have been here just over two months, and I remember --"

"Wine," Faramir said. "There must be some good wine left from the last supply transport. Such news must be celebrated." Beregond nodded and turned his attention back to his letter as Faramir went to raid the supply tent.

It was only after the entire Fifth Company had gathered to drink a health to Beregond, his wife, and their future child that Faramir had a chance to sneak outside and open his letters. He opened the official one first. In his father's firm script, he read:

For a moment, Faramir stared at the notice in shock. He could not remember doing anything recently that he considered especially noteworthy, but evidently his captain had thought otherwise. A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his reverie, and he looked up to see that his captain was standing before him.

"So you got the notice, I see," he said. "Well, Lieutenant Faramir, it is a promotion that is long overdue. We in the Fifth Company will miss your presence sorely, for I doubt that you will be re-assigned here. But you have earned this promotion, and more, by your service here."

"Thank you, sir," Faramir said, a little dazedly. The captain nodded to him.

"I will go now and leave you some privacy for your other letter," he said. "Is it from your sweetheart?"

"From my brother."

"That is just as good. Congratulations, Lieutenant." The captain walked away, and Faramir broke the seal on Boromir's letter.

Faramir looked from one letter to the other and felt a slow grin spread itself across his face. He ran back to the healers' building to share his own news with Beregond.

Two days later, the empty supply transport trundled through the streets of Minas Tirith. Faramir and Beregond sat together in the back of one of the wagons. "We are nearly at the supply depot," Beregond said. "I suppose this is good-bye. I will be staying here until this leg of mine is healed, but you will be going off to a new Company entirely."

"It is strange to think about," Faramir admitted. "I will not be there to hear the news of your child's birth."

"Do not fear," Beregond said. "Likely I will be so overjoyed when that event actually happens that I will throw caution to the winds. I will send letters to everyone I know, and hang the expense."

"Good," said Faramir. "You will be the first of my friends to become a father, and I will want to know everything about it."

The wagon had reached the depot, and two supply clerks came running to help Beregond out and onto a stretcher. "Take care of yourself at your new posting, Faramir," he called as he was manhandled out of the wagon. "Remember, one of the joys of being a Lieutenant is that you may delegate responsibility on occasion."

"I will remember," Faramir laughed, and he climbed out of the wagon and headed for the Citadel.

Boromir, flanked by two adjutants, met him at the door and drew him into a great, bear-like embrace. "Welcome home, Lieutenant Little Brother," he said. Releasing Faramir, he held him at arm's length and surveyed him critically. "You look well," he decided. "The sun of Pelargir has given you some color. What happened to your arm?"

Faramir glanced at the bandage around his bicep. "A Southron soldier with a scimitar happened to it," he said. "Fortunately, I happened to him immediately afterwards, and that particular soldier will never happen to anyone ever again."

Boromir frowned. "A battle? With the Haradrim? Doubtless I will be receiving many dispatches on the subject shortly."

With an apologetic smile, Faramir fished a letter out of one of the pockets of his traveling cloak. "From my captain."

"Ah well," Boromir sighed. "I had hoped to cease my work early tonight to spend the evening with you. I see that it is not to be. I will have to work through the dinner hour. If you will be content to dine alone, I will come to your suite later in the evening, and we may have a real visit then." One of the adjutants coughed discreetly. Boromir nodded to him and signaled to a valet. "I must return to my duties, Faramir," he said. "Go to your chambers, rest, bathe, and have the rest of the afternoon for liberty. I will see you later this evening."

Faramir did as requested, luxuriating in his bath and then curling up, still damp, for a nap in his own sun-warmed bed. When he woke, he spent some time playing his favorite melodies on his old viol, gradually working the stiffness out of his fingers. He became so absorbed in his music that he did not notice as the sky gradually darkened. A knock at his door attracted his attention, and he looked up to see a kitchen runner bearing a laden tray.

"Lord Boromir ordered that this be sent to you," the kitchen runner explained. "He regrets that he is not able to join you, and the Lord Denethor . . . "

"Yes?" Faramir prompted. "What about the Lord Denethor?"

The runner's face was studiously blank. "The Lord Denethor is in his study and does not wish to be disturbed. He will not come down to dine tonight."

Faramir sighed. "Very well. Thank you for telling me. You may go now." The kitchen runner bowed and departed, and Faramir ate his meat and vegetables alone in his chamber.

He did not remain alone for long. Shortly after he had finished his meal, another knock came at his door, and Boromir entered bearing a bottle of wine and two mugs. He held Faramir long in an embrace. "It is good to look upon your face once more, Faramir," he said thickly, then dropped into a chair and gazed pensively at the fire. Faramir poured the wine and handed one mug to his brother.

"It is good to be home," he said. "Let us now relax and enjoy each other's company." Boromir gave a small, half-hearted smile, and Faramir moved to kneel at his feet. "Something is troubling you, Boromir. You seem . . . subdued."

"It is nothing."

"And I am the High King of the North Kingdom," Faramir snorted. "All day, you have been the Captain of the White Tower, and I have been a Lieutenant in your command. But now, at this hour, you are my older brother, and you are troubled. Will you not confide in me?"

Boromir dropped his head into his hands. After a moment, he looked up at the ceiling, then at Faramir. "Did you know," he said, "that Gondor is the lone power that stands between the world and eternal crushing darkness? At least, that appears to be what Father would have us believe. According to the Steward, Gondor stands alone as the last bastion of Light against Shadow, and must stem the tide all by her lonesome. And I, as Captain General of the army, must direct this exercise."

"But surely we must have allies in this fight!" Faramir said. "Rohan, at least, will come to our aid if we call. And there are other people in the world apart from ourselves. Surely this matter concerns us all."

"You know this," Boromir said. "But Father either cannot or will not look beyond our own borders for aid. Already the darkness threatens us a little more each day. Your captain wrote to me that the Haradrim have recently formed an alliance with the Corsairs of Umbar, which is how they were able to sail up the river to attack you in Pelargir. That is another garrison which will need strengthening. I do not know how much longer Osgiliath and Cair Andros will hold, but I must send more troops to each. And these troops do not spring fully formed from the earth. That is one reason that I called you home, Faramir. I must distribute my officers with care, so that each man's skill may be used to its fullest extent. Tomorrow I will have one of my adjutants evaluate your skills so that I may best determine where you should be posted."

"If you know all this to be true, can you not at least talk to Father?" Faramir suggested. "He would listen to you in military matters, I know that. He respects you and respects your judgement."

"However, at the end of the day, he is the Ruling Steward, and he will decide the course that Gondor will take," Boromir said. "We have discussed the matter, and Father will not ally himself with any other nation, for to do so would be to show weakness to the Enemy."

"Are those Father's words or your own?"

Boromir closed his eyes as if he were in pain. "I am no longer certain, little brother," he said, and his voice was raw and thick with weariness. Faramir reached up and clasped his brother's hands. Boromir bent over in his chair, and Faramir found himself massaging Boromir's tensely knotted shoulders and whispering the same encouragements that Boromir had whispered to him when they were both younger.

The next day, Faramir ran, rode, shot at targets, and climbed through obstacle courses all under the watchful eyes of one of Boromir's most trusted adjutants. When he was not concentrating on a tricky exercise, he wondered where his father was. He had not seen Denethor at all since he had come home. It was not unusual for Boromir to be the only one to meet him at the door, but Denethor usually made an appearance at some point during his visits, if only to debrief him. After Faramir had completed yet another round at the archery butts, he turned to the adjutant. "Where does my father keep himself today?" he asked. "I had hoped to see him upon my return home."

The adjutant did not look up from the notes he was writing about Faramir's performance. "The Lord Denethor is engaged with matters of state, and will not be disturbed for a junior officer," he said.

Faramir stared at the man. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it away. "Lord Denethor could not have said that. You jest."

The adjutant's calm expression never wavered. "I do not jest, Lieutenant Faramir. Captain Boromir visited Lord Denethor in his chambers the night before your arrival, and those were his words to me upon his return."

"I see." Something salty stung in his eyes, and Faramir blinked it away. It was sweat, he told himself. It was only sweat from the exertions of the day.

Boromir deliberated over the notes that evening, and did not come to visit Faramir. Faramir spent the early part of the evening visiting with his friend Beregond in the Houses of Healing, where Beregond's broken leg had been set and his other battle wounds tended. He did not see Boromir again until the middle of the afternoon, when he was summoned to his brother's office.

"It was a hard decision," Boromir said without preamble. "You have a wide and varied set of skills, and there are many units which could make use of them. After some thought, I have decided to post you to the Rangers of Ithilien." Faramir blinked in surprise, but he remained silent. Boromir caught the expression and smiled. "It is a dangerous assignment, but one in which I think you will do well. Your skills with the bow will be best used there, as will your extraordinary talent for stealth. The current captain is wise and learned in the ways of the Wild, and you will learn much from him. Indeed, I hope that you do; he has been captain of the Rangers for many years, but age is slowly overtaking him. I am posting you to Ithilien with the thought to groom you to take his place when you are ready."

"I am honored. I am barely made a lieutenant, and already you plan for my captaincy."

Boromir gave the first real smile Faramir had seen on him since he arrived in Minas Tirith. "Foresight is a great military tactic. That is why I am Captain of the White Tower at the tender age of thirty. The next transport to Ithilien is in a week. Will you be ready then, or would you prefer some extra leave to prepare yourself?"

"A week will be sufficient. That is," Faramir added quickly, "if we might spend some of that week together."

"As much time as I can spare," Boromir promised. "You are a great comfort to me, and as my adjutant took pains to point out this morning, that is as great a skill as your archery, and as needful."

Faramir spent his leave reading and playing music, two things he loved to do, but which were difficult for a soldier in the field. Boromir visited with him most evenings, and he made sure to visit Beregond twice more. "You will write to me when your child arrives?"

"I promise," Beregond said. "But you must promise to visit on your first leave after he is born."

"I would not miss it for all the oranges in Harad."

When Boromir came by his chambers on the eve of his departure for Ithilien, Faramir steeled himself. "Boromir," he said. "Will you come with me to Father's chambers? I will depart before sunrise tomorrow, and I would bid him farewell tonight."

Boromir looked at Faramir sharply. "Have you seen Father at all during this visit?" he asked. Faramir shook his head.

"He is always busy, too busy to see a junior officer. But I do not wish to leave without bidding my father farewell."

Boromir nodded but did not speak. He led the way through the corridors and up the stairs of the tower to Denethor's private office. The door was shut, but Boromir gave a grimace that was almost a smile. "We may have a chance," he said. "There is nothing evil emanating from that office today." Faramir wondered at that statement, but Boromir had already knocked at the door.

"Who is it?" came Denethor's voice.

"It is Boromir."

There was a scraping noise, and then the door opened. Denethor stood in the doorway and regarded his two sons. Faramir was struck by how much Denethor had aged since he had last been home. There was more gray in his father's hair, and several more lines had appeared in his already careworn face. "What is this about?" he asked. Faramir took a deep breath.

"I am leaving for Ithilien tomorrow, Father," he said. "I will be assuming the lieutenancy of that company, and I will not be home again for several months. I wished to bid you farewell now, as I must leave before dawn tomorrow."

"You have been reassigned and you felt the need to see me personally about it?" Denethor said. There was an edge in his voice that Faramir could not identify. "I do not see that this was necessary. I do not give personal farewells to every officer in my army who is going on an assignment, much less to newly promoted junior officers. I expect that you will do your job and that you will do it with a reasonable degree of competence."

"But, Father --"

"Good night." And Denethor shut the door in Faramir's face.

Faramir felt numb all over, as if he had been punched in the stomach. His legs wobbled like jelly, and he could do nothing more than stare stupidly at the door. After a shocked silence, Boromir put his arm around Faramir's shoulders and steered him down the stairs and back to his suite. He settled Faramir in a chair, then stood staring at the fire. Finally, Faramir began to feel again. He looked up to see Boromir's sad eyes upon him. "I am sorry," he said.

"No," Boromir said. "There is nothing for you to be sorry for. You merely did what any son would do for a father. It is I who feel sorry, for both you and Father. I do not know what to do any more, Faramir. I cannot heal this rift that has grown up between you and Father. I regret it deeply. I have always regretted it. But there is nothing I can do. I cannot force him to acknowledge you; no one can do that. All I can do is what I have ever done, and that is to love you both."

"Oh, Boromir, I am glad that you are my brother." Faramir rose from his chair, and Boromir folded him into a great, warm embrace. Faramir swallowed hard and managed not to cry.

"You should go to bed now," Boromir said at last. "You will have to leave early in the morning."

Faramir saddled Beauty and left for Ithilien in the gray light just before dawn. Two other soldiers, Damrod and Anborn, had also been assigned to the Rangers, and the three were to travel together. As he left Minas Tirith, Faramir twisted around in the saddle for one last look. Boromir stood alone on the wall. He blew a great blast on his horn. Faramir waved, and felt warm all over, even in the chill of the morning.

"Look who has arrived!" a voice cried. "It is Lieutenant Faramir!" Rangers melted out of the forest, and one moved to take Beauty's reins. Faramir's face lit up as he recognized the man.

"Mablung! Do you know, I had almost forgotten that you were with this unit!"

Mablung grinned at him. "And you are to be my lieutenant. What a strange world we live in. I think Boromir assigned you to us so that I might look after you for him. Come! I will show you our current camp. I think you will enjoy this." Faramir sat back and looked at the lush woods around him as Mablung led Beauty along the hidden trail. "Consider this your initiation into our company, Lieutenant," Mablung said cheerfully. "No outsider may know of this route, but you may look upon it with open eyes."

The beauty of the fortress behind the waterfall nearly took Faramir's breath away. The Rangers made him welcome and showed him around the cavern, giving him a dry, half-hidden nook in which to stash his bedroll. He and Damrod and Anborn were subjected to a rapid recitation of all the names of the Rangers, with a joking threat that they would be expected to recite the names back after dinner.

The last surprise of the day came when the old captain emerged from his quarters. "Men," he said, "we have a special guest dining with us tonight. He has traveled far on an errand of great urgency, searching for one of the servants of the Enemy. Tonight he will dine with us." The curtain over the back portion of the cave parted, and there was someone Faramir had not seen in many years.

"Mithrandir!" he cried. The old wizard smiled at him, and for a moment, Faramir was ten years old again, learning the most fascinating things about the world.

"Welcome to your new home, Lieutenant," Mithrandir said. "Come, let us dine."

The dinner was surprisingly good for field rations, but when it was over, all of Faramir's energy seemed to vanish. The day had been long and full, but now the excitement of Henneth Annûn and meeting the Rangers had faded. Faramir excused himself from the table and went outside, where he sat swinging his legs over a rock ledge and thought miserably about his father.

He did not know how long he sat there, but at last he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Mithrandir settling down beside him. "You are troubled," the wizard observed.

Faramir found that he could no longer hold himself in check. In a flood of angry tears, he poured out the story of his disastrous farewell to Denethor. "And then he shut the door. My own father shut the door in my face! He has never done that before. I do not know what I shall do, Mithrandir. I no longer have a home. He has shut me out of the Citadel; it is Boromir's home now, and I know he will always welcome me, but I will always be a guest there where I grew up. Ithilien is lovely, but I have only just arrived, and I do not know the place. I have no home, Mithrandir! I have no home any more!"

Mithrandir let Faramir weep for a while. At last, Faramir sat up, flushed and embarrassed. "Do not regret your tears," Mithrandir said. "You have lost something that was dear to you, and you are right to grieve. You may mourn for the loss of your home and for the insult that was given you, but do not hold onto your anger forever. I know something of the hearts of Men, Faramir, and I will tell you that your father still loves you, though he cannot see that now. For the present, there is little you can do. You cannot force your father to give you his affection, and I do not think you would want his regard if you could force it from him.

"You cannot storm Denethor's fortress and take his heart by force. However, you may wait for him at the gates. Even the most guarded heart must emerge at last, and he will come, if you wait. Never stop loving your father, Faramir. Eventually, he will come back to you, but you must keep your faith. In the meantime, enjoy the love you do have. For you are indeed loved, Faramir of Gondor. You are the world to your brother. And he in his wisdom has assigned you here. This company will accept you into their brotherhood, and they will make a home for you here, if only you will allow them time to do so. You will never be without a home."

Mithrandir put an arm around Faramir's shoulders. And even though Faramir was twenty-four years old and an officer, he relaxed and let himself be comforted by the embrace. He leaned his head against Mithrandir's shoulder and looked around, trying to see these woods as his home.