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)