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Lords of Gondor  by Linaewen

Imrahil sat in Denethor's antechamber with his head in his hands, only looking up when he heard the scrape of footsteps near by -- it was Dūrlin bringing a tray of food and drink.  Imrahil smiled in spite of himself.

"I have been told many times by both Boromir and Faramir that your meals work wonders for the weary warrior, and that plying food is your way of influencing the battle."

"I do what I can," replied Dūrlin.  "It has been more than a few years since I myself stood on the battlefield, but I remember well the strength that is needed, and what it takes to renew that strength daily in order to be able to face adversity."  He lifted a thick piece of bread and spread it with a generous helping of fruit preserves.  "You have faced great adversity today, not to mention despair and a bad shock; food will restore you so you can face what comes next.  Eat this first, I have found that something sweet is best after such an experience."

Imrahil took the bread, then hesitated.  "What of the young Halfling, who now attends Denethor as his Lord?  He performs his duty admirably, even now standing at attendance in the inner chamber; yet, he, too, must be full of fear and despair, seeing Faramir so wounded.  He does not know Faramir well, but he was close to Boromir, I hear, and that would surely cause him to care for the welfare of Boromir's brother."

"It is so," Dūrlin replied, shaking his head.  "He is saddened by Faramir's wounding, and no doubt afraid for Faramir's life -- for not only does he care for him as Boromir's brother, but they have had some converse together, and he esteems him highly in spite of having only recently met him.  But fear not!  I bade him eat and drink a little, though he was loath to do so against orders.  He takes his duties most seriously!  I will keep my eye on him, to make certain he remains well and is not too often alone."

"That is well," Imrahil answered, reassured.  He motioned Dūrlin to sit beside him."You also have had a shock, I know, and look as if you, too, need restoring.  Please join me, you have brought enough food here for the two of us.  It will comfort me to have someone with me as I try to make sense of all that has happened today."

"I am honored to serve you in any way I can, Prince Imrahil."  Dūrlin sat and reached for bread and preserves.  "Speak of what is on your heart if you wish, or remain silent: whichever is most helpful to you in your distress.  I am here to listen and support you, and to gain comfort for myself as well."

Imrahil was silent for a time as he ate and drank.  Dūrlin watched him with concern, waiting patiently.

"You know much of what has transpired, I am certain," Imrahil said at last.  "But perhaps you do not know all that your heart desires to know.  Therefore I will speak of this day from the beginning as I saw it unfold so that you are informed of all that has led up to our current sorrow.  

"Faramir was sent by the Lord Steward to defend the Rammas and the River passage.  He was, as I feared, overmatched, and his retreat became a rout.  The field of Pelennor was already overrun by the enemy, and Faramir could not lead his remnant through without battle.  Horsemen of the enemy were there, followed by innumerable Orcs and a horde of fierce Southrons.  As few as they were, and wounded, they might have held true to their course and made it safely to the gate, but for the Nazgūl.  The men could not bear that terror, and their will was broken.  Even Faramir could not hold them in place."

"You witnessed this?" Dūrlin asked quietly.

"The lord Denethor had prepared a sortie to bring Faramir's troops safely into the City should the retreat from the Rammas approach the walls; I was there to lead it, hidden in the shadow of the outside Gate, awaiting the signal.  Even I felt the fear that blanketed the Pelennor at the arrival of those dreadful creatures!  But when the signal came to advance, we threw our fear aside and rode to Faramir's aid.  Mithrandir went before us, and that was well, for his power was needed to turn back the Nazgūl and allow the company to find their courage once more.  We drove the enemy back long enough for the men to gather once more and make their way to City.  But Faramir..."

Imrahil's voice wavered briefly, and he sighed deeply.

"Yes, Faramir... " Dūrlin repeated.  "You came too late, then?"

"We were too late to prevent his wounding, but at least we prevented his death at the hands of the Southrons after he had fallen.  Yet I fear his wound is deadly!  It seems likely to me that it came from a dart of the Nazgūl as it flew overhead. Faramir was holding at bay a mounted Southron so that his men could flee, and he was open to such an attack.  I came too late to defend him, I could only bear his wounded body to his father.  Alas!"

"Alas!" Dūrlin echoed.  "I know the tale from here, all too well.  I helped make a bed for Faramir in my lord's chamber, and tended him somewhat, until I was sent from the room and the Steward ascended the Tower.  Truly, I fear for him as much as for Faramir; I cannot read his mood at all.  Where has he gone, I wonder?  What errand does he have that takes him away from his son's side, so sorely wounded?"

"I know not," answered Imrahil heavily.  "I, too, sense a strange mood in him.  They did not part on good terms, I fear.  Perhaps he regrets sending his son away to undertake such a hopeless task -- though regret is not a word I would often associate with my brother, the Steward!"

"No, he is not one to regret his decisions, made with confidence after much thought and the gathering of knowledge.  Yet it is possible that even the most decisive of men who commands even his sons without regret will reach that point where he breaks.  Boromir has not returned, and he deems him lost forever; now he is about to lose Faramir, as well, perhaps.  That is likely how he sees it."

Imrahil gazed at Dūrlin thoughtfully.  "I have heard it said that you believe Boromir will yet return, is this so?"

"I do believe that," Dūrlin replied.  "I cannot say why I believe it so firmly, but it is true.  I have no proof that he lives, but I also have no proof that he is truly dead, and because of that, I refuse to despair.  My heart tells me he is not dead, and may return at any moment, and therefore I have hope."

Dūrlin's glance strayed towards the closed door of Denethor's inner chamber where the wounded Faramir lay, and Imrahil followed his gaze.

"I do not know what to think concerning Boromir," Imrahil said, "but if he does return, may it not be to the news that his brother is lost!"

***

Denethor's hands dropped to his lap and he bowed his head in despair until the cold hard surface of the palantķr pressed against his forehead.  He had come to the Stone once again for guidance, but what it had revealed to him had left him with no hope.

He had searched above all else for Boromir, for any sign that he might yet live, that he might be on his way home -- but he knew in his heart it was hopeless.  No matter how he turned the Stone, he could see nothing but the vast might of Mordor gathering against him.  Northwards, Orcs and evil Men with axes moved across the plains into Anórien.  If they reached the North Gate of the Pelennor and move onwards towards the Great West Road, the Riders of Rohan would be cut off from the City.  If they were even coming!  No word had come from the West, and none of his errand riders had returned.  For all Denethor knew, Théoden had refused the summons.

Cair Andros had fallen and a multitude marched southward to join the immense army that poured out of Mordor and advanced on Gondor from the East.  The palantķr showed a limitless stretch of seething black shapes like a dark sea flowing towards Minas Tirith.  There was no hope for the City against such a force!

Denethor shuddered.  It is obvious the Enemy has obtained the Ring, he thought.  Why else would he empty his land and send his forces with such abandon?  The whole might of Mordor is being thrown at us, and we cannot stand against it!  How?  How did he obtain it?  I cannot say, but it must be so... there is no other answer... If the Ring is back on the Black Hand, then we are lost.  Lost!  There is nothing we can do against him that will not result in horrible death...  Why did I send Faramir into such a hopeless situation?  What is the point of defense if the Ring has been found?  All is lost...

Denethor rose slowly, stiffly, and covered the palantķr once more with its cloth.  Little use the Stone had been to him in the end, when he needed it most.  The wisdom and vision he had gained from it in the past which had aided him in determining the course of his City and his people had all been for naught.  In the end, he had failed -- failed the free peoples of the West, failed Gondor, failed his people, failed even his own sons.  He had sent them to their deaths when there had never been any hope of success against a mighty Enemy.

"I shall go to Faramir and wait with him until the end," Denethor said to the empty room.  "At least he will not be alone during his final moments.  Perhaps... perhaps we might even leave this world together..."

***

Imrahil had returned to his men, in order to prepare them for the battle that was surely coming.  Dūrlin returned to Faramir's side, tending him as best he could.  The wound he had received had been cleansed and wrapped, but Faramir was beginning to burn with fever, and Dūrlin was concerned.

"Dūrlin, sir?"  Pippin spoke from the doorway where he stood at attention, awaiting Denethor's return.  "Faramir doesn't look well, does he?  Should we call healers to come?  Not that you don't best know how to tend him, I didn't mean that..."  He stammered in embarrassment.

"You are right," Dūrlin agreed.  "He is not well.  I fear he has a fever now.  I have some knowledge of healing, of course, and I have seen Faramir through many a fever and illness, but this is beyond me.  He should be in the Houses of Healing.  But I cannot move him without the consent of his father.  Perhaps when he returns, I can convince him to have Faramir moved there."

"Where has the Lord Denethor gone?" Pippin wondered.  "He just disappeared without saying a word.  Is he all right?"

"I do not know, Pippin," Dūrlin sighed.  "I fear he is not all right.  What father would be, in such a situation?  We must wait for him to return, and then we shall see how he fares, perhaps."

They did not wait long.  The door of the chamber opened, and Denethor entered.  Dūrlin and Pippin stared at him, aghast at the change they saw.  The stern, proud man in command of the City was gone, replaced by a broken, defeated old man.  Denethor looked back at them, his gaze unseeing.  After a moment, he moved slowly on past to a chair set beside Faramir's bed.  He sat down beside him without speaking a word, staring at his son's face with bleak, empty eyes and a face as grey as death.





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