Dedication

"Dead Steward's Gift is dedicated to my beloved black cat ZouZou (1990-2007) who died shortly after I finished the third chapter of the story.

Chapter One: A Stranger Calls

The Steward of Gondor afixed his seal to the scroll containing this week's governmental status report. He hoped that the king would appreciate the report's level of detail and not be put to sleep by it. Unfortunately, much would likely happen between the scroll's sealing and its eventual delivery into the hands of Aragorn Elessar at his headquarters in Fornost. Two months at least would have passed.

Next, the Steward sealed the weekly letter to his beloved and struggled to cope with his longing for her. Six months had passed since the Lady of Rohan rode off for her home in Meduseld. Letters between Gondor and Rohan travelled by ships down the Anduin and seldom took more than a week to arrive. Eowyn's letters were frequent and optimistic. A lively correspondence had sprung up between the two of them. Surviving another six months without her was his greatest challenge. The responsibilites of being Steward at this moment seemed less difficult, for all that Faramir was charged with running Gondor's new government while Aragorn set up a similar organization for Arnor in the North.

As he put his latest communiques into the parfleche for the postal carrier, Faramir heard the slightest scuff of footsteps on the tile floor. Someone had entered his office unnannounced. The Steward moved his hand to the concealed drawer at the side of his desk that held his hunting knife. He looked up slowly. The intruder was a terrifying figure, an extraordarily tall man of powerful but knotted physique. His long grey hair and gnarled face indicated one nearing 70. He lurched toward Faramir, dragging a stiff left leg. For a moment, Faramir felt fear, the same abject fear he had once felt as a child for this man, the still imposing former Captain of the Tower Guard, now long retired.

Faramir's fingers rested on the handle of the hidden drawer. He let out a slow breath as he spoke the name, "Gorthol, son of Narmacil. No wonder the Guards did not detain you. Why, it must be ten years and more since I last saw you. A chair for Captain Gorthol and tankard of ale for us both," Faramir called out an order to his own Tower Guards, who stood faithfully just outside the door to the Steward's chamber.

Gorthol's tough old features were criss crossed by ancient lines. A recent knife scar descended from his ear down the neck into the collar of his grey wool cotehardie, grotesquely marring the once formidably handsome features. Gorthol's seen recent action, Faramir easily perceived, and perhaps more than the hoary old fellow ever experienced in all his years as the Steward's shadow.

When Gorthol was comfortably settled, ale in hand, he cleared his throat and spoke in a raspy voice, "Lord Faramir, I have here a package that I was charged by your father to deliver in the event of his death." Just the mention of his father by the man sworn to protect him made Faramir's stomach churn uneasily.

"I would have given it to you sooner, but..," and here Gorthol's eyes lowered to the floor, "I was injured, as you can see. A bunch of us old Lamedoners tried to defend Calembel from a rogue band of Corsairs who'd sailed up the Ringlo towards us. That was around the time Minas Tirith was beseiged, so we later found out."

"Even those who had long-ago retired fought to defend their lands," Faramir remarked and shook his head slowly.

"Aye," Gorthol grinned. "I do not have the strength of my prime, when I defended Lord Denethor. Still, I felled several of those cursed pirates before they lamed me. Unfortunately, it's taken months for my leg to heal enough to endure a ride by wain to Minas Tirith. And I admit I haven't thought of this package in awhile. My Lord Denethor put it in my keeping before I retired. It's sat in an old chest along with my Guardsman's uniforms and arms. I truly forgot about it." He reached into the pack strapped across his fur lined cloak and withdrew a leather envelope. It was fastened by a string and sealed with the same insignia on the onyx ring that Faramir now wore.

"Do you know what it is?" Faramir spoke slowly as he took the envelope.

"No. Your father didn't confide in me that much," Gorthol said. "Though I've always had my suspicions as to what it's about. I plainly recall that my Lord Steward insisted again and again that Lord Boromir was not to know about it. In fact, if you died before your father and Boromir survived, my lord ordered me to destroy it. I believe it's part of your inheritence, Lord Faramir."

A wave of grief momentarily interfered with Faramir's thoughts. Then he clenched his teeth, struggling to keep any indication of loss from spilling over to his face. So many months had elapsed since their deaths. Much would never be finished between Faramir, his brother, and especially his father.

To Gorthol, Faramir simply said, "Curious." He gazed at the envelope for a moment, and resolved not to look at it until the time he could give the contents his undivided attention. Then he gently steered Gorthol's conversation to his many years of retirement as one of Lamedon's genteel farmers.

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The remainder of Faramir's day was long and lonely. When he finally left the Citadel for his townhouse on the sixth level of the city, he wondered about the well-being of his absent friends and loved ones. Beregond, son of Baranor, was off in Ithilien forming up the White Company. Uncle Imrahil and Aunt Idris were still in Dol Amroth, setting their holdings in order before moving to Minas Tirith. And then there was Eowyn. Did Rohan enjoy the blaze of color and brilliant harvest that characterized this past October? When Faramir awoke this past morning, frost gently covered the leaves on the bushes in the townhouse garden.

After a light dinner, he armed himself with a blazing lantern and climbed the steps to his bedroom on the second floor. The last embers in the lighted brazier near the ceiling glowed faintly. Faramir put his lantern on the bedside table so that he could read. The remaining corners of the chilly bedroom were dark and unfathomable.

He removed his clothes and donned a worn nightshirt for comfort against the cold. Then he slid into bed and drew the fur covers up to his waist. He placed the leather envelope that Gorthol had given him atop the furs. Faramir propped the pillows behind his back so he could sit up comfortably. Then he broke the envelope's seal and loosed the strings.

Inside was a small piece of parchment, in remarkable condition considering that it was dated SR July, 3004. Faramir immediately recognized his father's tight, well-formed script:


Faramir, my son, if you are reading this then I am no doubt dead, and Boromir has succeeded me. This letter contains matters of utmost secrecy. Do not divulge its contents to anyone, especially Boromir.

For a land to survive, it must be ruled by a leader of great strength or a leader of great intellect. Your beloved mother gave me two sons. To my son of great strength goes the Steward's office, for he is my heir and none in Gondor match his military prowess. To you, my son of great intellect, I leave this gift for the protection of Gondor. It is the most powerful tool remaining to us from ancient Numenor. You already know what it is. I have perceived it.

The paper shook in Faramir's hands.

He remembered the incident that occured when he was still a student, perhaps 13. Then people first whispered of lights flickering and thundering noises eminating from a room on the top floor of the Tower of Ecthelion. The servants were wary of that floor. Several told Faramir that they were permitted to clean only the hall on the tope story of the tower. The door to the only room on the floor was always locked against their entry.

Boromir dismissed their talk as silly ghost tales. But Faramir was curious and more than a little afraid. One night he crept from the Steward's house to see if there was any truth to the servant's stories.

It was long past midnight, when he reached the White Tower. From the plaza below he saw the intermittent flashes of light eminating from the large windows at the building's summit. Eager to discover the source of this mystery, Faramir climbed the ten flights of stairs to the top floor, barely noticing that he was out of breath. At the landing, he finally gasped as he faced a set of ancient doors, closed shut against passers by.

Each door was made of a dark pewter and bore the image of a Numenorean ship cast in relief. A Tower Guardsman stood on either side of the imposing doorway. When Faramir reached out his hand to grab a door handle, both guards swiftly crossed their pikes over the door to block his way. One of them was the Captain, Gorthol.

Did Faramir demand that the guards tell him what was going on? Possibly? Did Gorthol apologize for their behavior? Most likely. Faramir DID remember hearing a voice thunder out, "Turn your eyes from me!" He could not forget his father's defiant words: "You will never have Gondor. Not while my arm is strong!"

A small snort and a dim rustle penetrated the cold shadows of the damp bedroom. The ancient parchment drifted from his fingers as Faramir raised his head ever so slowly.

Where the top of the bookcase should be he saw two gold eyes blink before a small shadow leaped beyond the blackness. The heavy creature pounced on Faramir's chest; small claws like tiny needles pierced through his rough nightshirt. Faramir's heart socked against his ribcage. The animal plunged off the bed back into the darkness. For a second, Faramir lay still, waiting for his pounding heart to calm, watching tiny spots of blood form on his shirt. Then he shook his head and tapped the bed furs twice. Once again he'd been attacked by an oversized kitten.

In response to Faramir's command, the sleek black animal leaped into bed and collapsed at Faramir's side. "Tomorrow I will clip your claws, Cirri," Faramir warned half-heartedly With one hand engaged in stroking Cirri's velvety belly, he picked up the parchment and continued reading:

You will find the sphere on the top floor of the Tower in the cast iron box bearing the figures of Isildur and Anarion. The smaller key unlocks the box. The larger key is for the double doors. Gorthol has a duplicate.

Faramir quickly grabbed the leather envelope and turned it upside down. Two wrought iron keys fell onto the furs. Denethor was correct in his assumption. Faramir had long suspected that his father had used the legendary Anor stone. Then he continued reading:

If I have been harsh to you, my son, please forgive me. I know how the gift of farsight can also be a curse. Your farsight is strong. You will need it to guide the stone. But be wary. The Anor stone was meant for two-way communication. I have discovered that at least two more stones exist, and one at least has fellen into the hands of the Enemy. Do not let your eyes drift into his land for more than a moment. He will try to seize your mind and control it. Beware my son and be wary. You have my blessing. Your father, Denethor, son of Ecthelion.

Faramir's entire body shook. Nine months after his death, the source of Denethor's final madness was finally confirmed. Faramir curled up against Cirri, letting the cat's gentle purring bring him back to reality.

The Dark Lord was gone, but the Anor stone might still exist. Tomorrow evening, Faramir resolved to open the locked tower room. Could the stone still be used? Was it cursed? Tomorrow evening, he would find out.

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Author's Note

"Dead Steward's Gift" is set in the world of my other tales archived here at Stories of Arda. My stories take place in what i call, with tongue in cheek, the Steffverse. It is an amalgam of movieverse with gaps filled from canon; gaps in canon that I've filled with Tolkien characters as played by Jackson's actors; and original Fourth Age stuff like "Dead Steward's Gift." Because of its subject matter, "Dead Steward's Gift" has to assume that Denethor's death occurred as portrayed in the Jackson films. Otherwise, the story wouldn't work. However, my main inspiration was the essay "The Palantiri" in Tolkien's "Unfinished Tales" and my urge to write a scarey tale for Halloween.