The solemn procession moved quietly from the Great Hall towards the Silent Street. The Courtyard, filled to the edge of the parapet with the peoples of Gondor, stood in soundless grief. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth led the bier, carried by four men. Though Captain's Ciramir and Húrin held their heads high, they shook slightly from the sobs that tore at their bodies, as they carried their part of the burden; Théoden King and Éomund walked on the other side, their tears no less bitter than their companions. Indis followed behind, stiff and tall. Théodred walked alongside his friend's brother; Listöwel held Faramir's hand.

If Indis had looked up, she would have seen that the city seemed to move, as winds from the Pelennor whipped the white banners of the Steward's House, the House of Húrin, that flew from every parapet, every window in Minas Tirith. Some mourners even held tiny, white banners in their hands. Muffled drums beat their sorrow, echoing the calls of the silver trumpets as the procession entered Rath Dínen. A flight of black swans flew overhead, as if even the birds and beasts of Gondor mourned. The peregrine that gracefully flew through the air round about the Citadel sat in their nests, their proud heads hidden under their wings, their cries silent.

They laid the boy gently on a marble slab. Mourners filed past. The andfangol had prepared a new tomb. Indis had bitterly complained; she wanted to lay the lad next to his father, in the same tomb, but Prince Imrahil had overridden her. His nephew had been the Ruling Steward, though not yet named, and therefore required his own vault.

As the last of the mourners left and only those close to the Stewards remained, Faramir turned to Indis. "Might I lie next to Boromir for a moment?" Tears streamed down his little face, but Indis' heart had fled to some dark place; she did not hear nor see him.

Éomund stepped forward. "Faramir, the embalmers' arts have changed the substance of your brother's body." He understood the lad's request, but… He quailed at the thought of what he was about to say and shivered before he spoke again. "Faramir. It is not Boromir who lies before us; it is a cold and hard piece of flesh. Boromir dwells in some far off land with your father and your mother."

"I still want to lie next to him," the boy said stubbournly, his chin quivering. "I do not care if he is dead. I do not care if he is cold and hard. I need to touch him one more time; to lie next to him, as I did when I was a child and frightened." The tears came more fully and the sobs became louder and near frantic. "I am frightened and alone. I need Boromir!" He ran to the slab and tried to climb up, but the sides of the marble were slick.

Éomund went to his side, lifted him gently, and placed him next to his brother. "You are not alone, Faramir," he whispered as he kissed the boy's forehead. He laid his own hand upon Boromir's arm, kissed the cold brow tenderly, and stepped back.

Faramir encircled Boromir's waist with his arm and laid his head on his brother's shoulder. All who saw broke into fresh sobs, men and women alike trying to help the child bear his grief by joining their own sorrow with his. The child's shoulders shook as grief whipped through him, consuming him.

Listöwel moved forward as if to stop this, but Éomund put his hand out and pulled her to him. "He cannot endure this sorrow, Éomund," she cried. "Please, he will lose the will to live himself. Please, Éomund, remove him, now."

He saw the wisdom in her words and stepped to the boy. "Faramir," he spoke quietly. “It is time." He noted the shaking of the boy's head. "Aye, Faramir. It is time." He tried to help the lad move, but the child's arms grasped the body tighter and wails rent the cold, silent air of the City of the Dead.

Indis' head shot up; the cries dragged her from the safety she had so desperately sought. She gasped in horror at the sight before her. Quickly moving towards Faramir, she covered his body with hers. "Melethron nîn," she whispered. "Thy brother must be put to rest. Thou dost him ill to linger here. Lasto beth nîn. Boromir loved thee, Faramir." She remembered how much Denethor, after Finduilas died, had hated the old speech; and now she understood it. Memories of pain and suffering and sorrow from ages untold filled her tongue as it spoke the words. But Faramir was beyond the speech of men. "Tolo hi. Estelio nin." She lifted the boy off Boromir's body; he let his arms loose their hold on his brother. She turned, still holding the boy's shuddering body, and walked to the door.

The others followed; the only sounds in the Silent Street were hushed sobs.

~*~

"I thought it wise to wait until Lord Faramir's coming of age for the ceremony to confirm the title of Steward, but too much has happened in these last days. The ceremony must be held within the week," Indis said quietly.

Murmurs were heard around the Council table. She waited. Captain Húrin stood. "I have not been privy to your thoughts, daughter of Ecthelion. You will place Lord Faramir as Steward?"

"I will." She was grateful to him. She knew he had used her title as Ecthelion's daughter to remind the Council who it was that spoke before them.

Her eyes were hard, like unto Ecthelion's, Captain Húrin thought. He was sure others of the Council would see the same light in them as he did. Not oft would any dare to cross Ecthelion. He wondered if the same would be true of his daughter.

"As eldest of the line of Húrin, I declare Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. On the morrow," she had made up her mind as she stared out at the faces before her, "I will hand the Rod to Faramir."

"You would hear no arguments?" Lord Inlach of Lamedon gasped out. Sickly and old, he had struggled to come to this meeting. Knowing its full import, he had ordered that he be brought on a pallet. He struggled to sit upright.

She understood him and took no umbrage from his question. The people of Lamedon were fiercely independent - and fiercely loyal. "There is nothing to argue. Lord Faramir is the rightful Heir."

"He is very young," the old man said.

"There have been Kings who were almost as young. The blood of Númenor flows through him. He is a direct descendant of Mardil Voronwë. Who has a better claim?"

None spoke, but she noted the sideways glances shared by some of the Lords. "Tell me this," her voice shook in anger, "who did you question when Amandil took the Rod? What standard did you use to judge him worthy?"

Captain Húrin smiled as he noted the fidgeting of some of the men before him. She had spoken the truth. Those who had supported Amandil should fear for their lives, he thought furiously. He knew Indis would discover who had helped the traitor. At best, they would be removed from the Council; at worst, they could be held traitors themselves and hanged.

"I will see you in the Great Hall tomorrow at the ninth bell. And – I will expect your complete support of the rightful Steward of Gondor, Faramir of the House of Húrin."

~*~

"What further would you have me do, Master?"

"Nothing, Galmod. For the moment. Gondor and Rohan are stronger than I first supposed. But I have time," the dark, thick laughter frightened his servant. "I have so much time. Fools will not foil my plans. Wretched men. Someday, they will bow to me. If they still live."

Ádrogen