Minas Tirith, September 3018 T.A. 

When he came to the dining chamber that night, his son was reading intently.  Yet the fame of the Ithilien Rangers was not an empty boast: though Denethor made no noise as he entered, Faramir looked up. 

Faramir stood upright, gave him a bow, and remained standing until Denethor took his seat. 

“What are you reading?” he asked. 

“The Laws and Customs of the Eldar,” said Faramir. 

Denethor nodded.  Others may wonder how a captain of Gondor could find the time, or the appetite, for such an irrelevant matter when the threat of the Enemy loomed so near.  But he understood how reading and pondering something so far removed from one’s daily concerns could provide a respite for one’s mind. 

They talked for a while about the naming custom of the Eldar, and about some Quenya words which they thought had the most beautiful sound.  They indulged in this pedantic conversation as they ate the soup and the vegetable dish. 

As they had the meat, Faramir reported about the latest developments in Ithilien, Osgiliath and Cair Andros. 

All the dishes tonight were Faramir’s favourite, Denethor observed.  The Steward’s household was run by faithful servants who took his sons as their boys.  He only needed to inform his housekeeper that Boromir or Faramir was coming home, and all their favourite dishes would appear without fail. 

After the discussion on the border’s defence, they fell silent until Faramir spoke again.  

“Where do you think Boromir is now, Father? It has been three months since he departed.  Somewhere around Greyflood, perhaps?” 

“Tharbad,” Denethor said, with more conviction than what any careful reckoning could give. 

He returned Faramir’s questioning gaze with a glare. 

They held each other’s gaze for a time, then Faramir nodded, as one who agreed to save an argument for another time. 

“Would you like to see the stars later, Father?” 

“Not tonight.  Some reports came from the Southern fiefs today and I have not read them.” 

“Would you let me help you, then?” 

“You have ridden far today, you should rest.” 

There was gratitude in Faramir’s eyes, before he looked down, as he often did when he did not wish to show his emotion.  It rather annoyed Denethor that Faramir should be so touched with this simple expression of care.  What does Faramir think he is, a cold master who does not care about his son’s wellbeing? 

After they finished supper, as Faramir bade him good night and sought his leave, Denethor said, “Rest for a while.  If sleep does not come yet, come to my study.” 

His son nodded and they left the dining chamber. 

... 

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door of the Steward’s study. 

He answered and Faramir entered, now dressed in a simple tunic and trousers.  He looked younger when he was simply dressed, but most ladies would likely prefer him in his armour or formal garb, Denethor mused. 

Faramir sat opposite Denethor and looked at the pile of reports on the desk. 

“I will take Lamedon and Lebennin?” 

Denethor nodded and handed him some blank parchments and a quill. 

For some time, they read in silence.  Since he was thirteen, Faramir had often summarized and commented on the lengthy reports and many letters addressed to the Steward, to save the Steward’s precious time.  This practice had started when Denethor found out that Faramir, rather lonely after Boromir left for the army, spent most of his free time in the Archives of Minas Tirith. 

Thinking that his son’s time and mind should be put to better use than translating the Akallabeth into Westron and Rohirric (which Denethor would not have begrudged him, if they were not preparing for war), Denethor assigned that task to Faramir.   

Faramir was overjoyed to be his father’s personal scribe (an honour not bestowed upon, nor ever desired by, Boromir), and Denethor was glad to have more time for his other duties.  He was also pleased that his intuition that Faramir would be suitable for the task was proven right. 

As Faramir grew, he learned to include his concerns and recommendations in each summary.  Before long, the written summaries and the evening discussions at the Steward’s study had become a routine both of them looked forward to, even in later years when their discussions often turned into debates. 

After Faramir joined the army, he continued this task whenever he returned home.  When he had only a few days in the City, they would simply sit together at Denethor’s study and Faramir would tell Denethor the gist of the reports instead of writing them down.   

Sometimes Boromir joined them, and Denethor always discussed important matters with his heir, but this routine—this sitting together and debating—was something shared between Denethor and Faramir. 

After Faramir became a Captain, Denethor put a stop to the routine.  A Captain had enough duties and worries, and Denethor asked Faramir to rest when he was home.   

“Go to the Archives and indulge yourself,” Denethor said once, which earned him a look of gratitude and surprise from Faramir. 

Another knock sounded at the door, and a servant came bearing an ornate pitcher and two cups.  A faint, pleasant aroma of honey and wine filled the room.   

Faramir poured some for Denethor and himself, and sipped the sweet drink as he perused the letter from Angbor, Lord of Lamedon.  

“As we expected, Lamedon may only be able to send a quarter of their force, if at all, as many are needed for defence against the Corsairs.  The Corsairs have about thirty fleets ready to attack Pelargir anytime,” Faramir said. 

“They have more than thirty, and Harad can easily send thousands of men to further reinforce the attack on the southern fiefs,” Denethor replied, and he spoke as one who not only thought, but knew. 

Faramir put down his cup and looked at his father.  Denethor met Faramir’s gaze with a glare that brooked no discord.  But this time Faramir was undeterred. 

“Father,” he began cautiously, “you told me before that one of the palantiri was preserved in this very tower.  I had not given much credence to the tales of lightning seen at the window of the high chamber, but now I must risk your displeasure by asking: did you use the palantir?” 

That was the first time Faramir asked Denethor directly about this, though several times prior Faramir had inquired about what happened to the Seeing Stones, and subtly entreated him not to tread unknown waters. 

“I do not need to report my actions to you, Faramir.” 

“Pardon me if I take that as an affirmative answer, Father.” 

“You may think what you will, as you have always done.” 

“I think what I will, aye, that much I admit; yet in my deeds I have always obeyed you, this you know.  But about the palantir, it does not matter what I think.  What matters is this: on what authority did you use it, Sire?” 

Denethor had expected a stronger argument from his son.  He told him as much. 

“It was written in the Annals that even Kings Eärnur and Eärnil dared not use it, let alone the Stewards,” replied Faramir. 

“Even the kings! Let alone the Stewards! So that is what disturbed you, that I, a mere chamberlain, dared to do what the exalted kings dared not?” 

His outburst surprised Faramir, and even to himself it sounded more bitter than he intended.  But he continued, “Kings Eärnur and Eärnil, and the Ruling Stewards, refrained from using the Anor Stone because they suspected that the Ithil Stone was in the Enemy’s hands and they did not wish to risk an encounter with him, not because they did not have authority to do so.  I read the Annals, too! 

“As I said, I do not have to report, let alone justify, my actions to you, but lest you should think I am unable to answer you, listen well!  The Ruling Stewards rule in the name of the king.  Until the king returns, the Ruling Steward is the Lord of Gondor, and holds the authority as the king’s vicegerent. 

“So, Lord Faramir, on what authority did I use the Anor Stone? On the authority of the King, in whose name I hold rod and rule! 

“And you, being well-versed in lore, surely must have read that the Stones only respond well to those with authority to use them?  Need I say that the Anor Stone responded to me?” 

Faramir was silent.  Then he said, “I seek your pardon, Sire.  I, a captain of Gondor, was wrong to question the authority of my lord, who rules in the name of the king.  But that question was not my only concern, and a son is surely not wrong in his concerns for his father. 

“You said that after Minas Ithil fell to the Enemy, the kings and stewards did not wish to risk any encounter with him.  Why would you risk that peril, Father?” 

“Need I remind you we are already in peril?” 

“But if the Dark Lord knows the mind of the Lord of Gondor, that is a darker peril.” 

“I know how to guard my mind.  And do you think I would have done this, had there been any other way to defend Gondor?” 

“Father, you are the highest representation of Númenor that I have ever known.  But the Enemy is a Maia; what chance do you have, does any king of Gondor have, when even the kings of Númenor fell under his sway?” 

“Have you any better suggestions for our defence, then? Or do you propose we accept our fate, dwindle and perish?” 

“We will fight to the end, and perish if that be our doom.  But I would not have my father conquered by the Enemy even before our City is assailed by his minions.” 

“Have you so little regard for the courage and might of Men?  Ever your heart turns to wizards and Elves.  But it was Húrin Thalion, a Man, who was unconquered by Morgoth, a Vala, of whom our Enemy was but a lieutenant.” 

“Unconquered, but at what cost, Father?” 

“I do not count the cost when it comes to Gondor.  Had I done so, I would have resigned the Stewardship and lived with your mother at Dol Amroth, and perhaps could have saved her life.” 

The grave faces of both men softened at the mention of their shared love and loss. 

Then Faramir came to Denethor’s side and knelt beside him. 

“Father,” he said pleadingly, “I am afraid for you, I am afraid of losing you.  Do not use it again, I beg you.” 

Faramir’s plea reminded Denethor of the little boy who used to come to his father when he could not sleep. 

He felt a desire to embrace his son, but he settled for patting his shoulder instead.   

“I use it rarely, and with utmost carefulness.  Do not worry overmuch.  Think of your duties instead.” 

Faramir seemed to wish to speak further, to extract a promise from Denethor never to use the palantir again, but a captain of Gondor knew when to fight and when to retreat. He nodded and stood up.   

“It would not be the same as what the palantir can show, I know, but use the Ithilien Rangers to scout more information.  Think of Boromir and me, Father, who have nobody else but you.” 

Denethor was silent.  He did not make a promise unless he was sure he could keep it.  His gaze drifted to the picture on the wall next to him, and he sighed. 

Faramir followed his gaze.  They were silent for some time, the father seated, the son standing, both thinking of the lady who had left them so soon. 

“In some ways, it is a mercy that Mother is not here.  For her, I mean.  How she would worry for Boromir and me, and most of all for you, Father.” 

Denethor did not reply. 

Faramir returned to his seat and they returned to the reports.  They read, discussed the news from the fiefs, debated some matters, but of the palantir they did not speak anymore. 

Finally, Denethor said, “Let us call it a night.”   

Then—he himself was not sure why—he spoke again.  

“When the Council chose Boromir to go to Imladris, some said that he should go as the hardier of you two.  I gave the errand to him not for that reason.” 

Faramir waited for him to continue. 

“When it comes to travelling in unfamiliar lands, you are not less hardy than he is.  You would not have lost your horse, I think.” 

Faramir looked at him with gratitude, then as he comprehended that Denethor spoke of what he had seen, his eyes widened.  

“Lost his horse? He has to continue his journey on foot, then, poor Boromir!  But he is otherwise unharmed?”   

Then he checked himself.  “Nay, do not answer, Father.  For I, who pleaded with you not to use the palantir, shall not wish to enjoy the assurance the vision brings.” 

Then he bowed, bade his father good night, and left the study. 

... 

A few nights later, Faramir sat alone in a room on the second-highest level of the White Tower.  This was one of his favoured places to be alone.  The room was unlike any others, for its ceiling had a part that could be opened to allow some lore-masters to observe the moon and stars.  The Observatory, the masters called this room. 

Faramir was to leave for Osgiliath in the morrow and his heart was heavy.  How else could one’s heart be, when one’s brother was far away, one’s father grew distant, and one’s land was threatened by a much stronger force?   

And yet he also felt a strange calmness, almost resembling peace.  The stars will remain unchanged, he thought, though we all should perish who sang about them.   

Not for the first time, he considered what might befall him and his city.  Most likely he would fall in battle; he had always prepared for that.  Perhaps he would have to endure a long siege before meeting his end in a last stand; he was prepared for that, too.  Or perhaps after a long siege, his father would command them to escape; that would not be the first time the Men of the West had to escape from their land, and a hidden path through the mighty Mount Mindolluin had been prepared by his foresighted ancestors. 

The worst doom, he thought, would be to witness Minas Tirith’s falling into ruins and he enslaved by the Enemy.  He could only hope that, if that came to pass, he would find the strength to endure to the end.  And he had reason to hope: did not the blood of the valiant, long-enduring Men of Beleriand run in his veins? 

As for another hope, the hope that his city would not fail, that the Enemy would be vanquished, it had taken more and more exertion of will to bend his heart and mind towards that hope. 

Sometimes he envied the little children, who could effortlessly have hope without reason.  Other times, he envied the very old, who would not have to endure much longer. 

With a grim smile, he gathered his book and cloak and left the room.  As he descended the stairs, he heard footsteps behind him.  He looked up to see his father a few steps above. 

Denethor seemed dazed, it appeared that he did not even see Faramir. 

“Father?” 

Denethor startled.  “Faramir? What are you doing here so late at night?” 

Before Faramir could answer, Denethor swayed and had to hold on to the wall to steady himself. 

“Father!” Faramir rushed to Denethor’s side and supported him. “Sit down, Father,” he said decisively.  To his dismay, his stern and proud father quietly complied. 

They sat side by side on a step until Denethor finally said, “Let us go down.”  His voice had resumed its usual commanding tone, which brought Faramir some relief.   

As they descended the stairs, Faramir cautiously placed his arm on Denethor’s shoulders.  He felt a mixture of dismay and joy when Denethor did not pull away. 

Upon reaching the Steward’s residence, Denethor straightened and bade Faramir to go to his own chamber and rest.  But when Faramir insisted on accompanying him to the Steward’s chamber, he did not refuse.   

Faramir had a servant bring warm honey water to the Steward’s chamber.  Then he remained there as Denethor removed his cloak, sat on a chair and drank the warm beverage.   

Denethor’s face was pale, and he looked at Faramir with an expression that Faramir had never seen in his father’s face before.  Was it remorse? A tinge of guilt? Denethor? 

“I do not make a promise which I cannot keep,” Denethor said without preamble. 

Faramir nodded.  He understood that this was the closest thing to apology that Denethor would offer.  When he had seen his father on the stair, he had immediately known that Denethor had used the palantir again, despite Faramir’s plea only a few nights before.  Disappointment and sadness stirred within him, but he directed his mind to worry about his father instead.  

“Does this happen every time, Father?” he asked, his voice less gentle than usual.  And yet you still use it again and again? he wished to scream. 

“Nay.” 

He wished to embrace his father, to shake him and beg him never to use the Seeing Stone again, but he stood there dumbly instead.   

His father’s white hair had thinned and there were more wrinkles in the weary face than Faramir remembered.  When had his father become so old?  How had Faramir, whom many praised as perceptive and caring, failed to notice? 

Again, without preamble Denethor spoke, “When Boromir returns, things will be better and I will not need to use the palantir often.”  He said it with an almost childlike trust. 

Faramir nodded.  “Aye, things will be better when Boromir returns.”  He felt a stab of hurt but chose not to dwell on it. 

“You should have—” Denethor said, but then he checked himself. 

Faramir nodded.  I should have gone in his stead, so that he could have remained by your side. 

The expression of remorse and guilt returned to Denethor’s countenance.  He seemed to search for words, before finally saying, “You are far nobler than I have ever been, Faramir.” 

Faramir was left wondering what his father meant by this, for Denethor did not say anymore.   

Then his father closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he had regained his composure. 

“Go and rest, Faramir, you have to depart early in the morrow.  I am well now,” he said in an even voice. 

Faramir straightened and composed himself.  Had he seen himself in a mirror, he would have been surprised to see how alike his expression was to his father’s.  He nodded, bade his father good night, gave him a perfect bow and left the chamber. 

He thought he would not be able to sleep that night, but sleep came, and with it the dream of Númenor being engulfed by the Sea. 

When he woke from the dream, he thought that what made the end of Númenor terrible was knowing that they had lost the grace of the Valar.  For to perish in the embracing wave of the Sea was not such a bad doom.

... 

Before he left for Osgiliath, his father summoned him to the Steward’s study.  That morning, Denethor appeared well, the dark circles under his eyes the only trace of what had happened last night.   

“Let me assure you I am well, Faramir, for I would not have you leave with more worries than what you already have to bear.” 

Faramir nodded.  “I will do my duty well, Sire; rest assured of that.” 

Then Denethor placed his hands on Faramir’s shoulders and kissed his forehead.  It was a common gesture of blessing and farewell among the people of Gondor, and Denethor did not do it more affectionately than his wont.  But somehow this simple act broke Faramir’s restraint.   

To the end of his days, he could never articulate what compelled him then, for before he knew it, he had embraced his father tightly, as a little child might before parting. 

“Father, Father!” he said.  And the eloquent Lord Faramir could say nothing else but to call on his father. 

Perhaps a strange power was indeed at work that morning, for behold! Denethor returned the embrace. 

Many things rushed over in Faramir’s heart, but he did not wish to disturb the precious, fleeting moment with spoken words.  He closed his eyes and savoured his father’s embrace. 

After a moment, he drew back slightly, still holding onto Denethor, so that they could see each other. 

It was rightly said that Lord Denethor and Lord Faramir read men’s heart shrewdly.  That morning, as their eyes met, each understood what the other did not utter. 

I do not mind that you favour Boromir more. Forgive me for displeasing you in many matters, but I do not begrudge you your displeasure.  That you live and are well, that is enough for me. 

Foolish boy, I would have felt better, and so would you, if you sometimes swore at me, instead of being so noble and understanding all the time. 

Faramir laughed at that.   

Then—not because he wished to, but because he must—he let go of his father’s arms, straightened himself and bowed deeply.   

Denethor nodded.   

“May the light shine on you, Faramir, Gondor needs you.” 

“I will, Father.  And may the light protect you, whom Gondor needs even more.” 

...