Minas Tirith, 30 February 3019 T.A. 

Denethor sat in the Steward’s chair at the Hall of the Tower.  He had been sitting there since before the third hour.  His first audience that day had been with a guard who presented him the shards of Boromir’s horn, found by watchers of Gondor near the Mouth of Entwash.  After that, Húrin of the Keys had instructed the guards that the Lord Steward would have no more audiences that day. 

Denethor looked at the cloven horn on his lap.  How long had it been since then?  He remembered dismissing the guard, asking Húrin to send scouts for any news of Boromir, and dispatching a swift rider to Faramir in Osgiliath.  He did not remember hearing the bell signalling the hour. 

The sound of approaching footsteps drew his attention.  To his surprise, Faramir walked towards him.  How could his son have reached the City so swiftly?  Or had Denethor lost count of days and hours?   

Faramir knelt before the Steward’s chair and tentatively rested his hand on Denethor’s knee.  Without a word, Denethor placed his hand over Faramir’s and closed his eyes.  Faramir gently enclosed Denethor’s hand between his own. 

Then Faramir rose and stepped closer.  He wrapped his arms around Denethor—cautiously at first, as if bracing for rejection; then boldly, as he encountered none.  Faramir held him as if he were a child in need of protection and Faramir the protector. 

Despite himself, Denethor felt the warmth of his son’s embrace seep into his heart, a fleeting comfort amidst the cold grief.  He sighed. 

They lingered for a moment before Faramir stepped back, and Denethor opened his eyes.  

“What brings you here, Faramir?  The messenger could not have reached you; I dispatched them only this morning.” 

Faramir viewed Boromir’s cloven horn at Denethor’s lap.  Grief clouded his face, but not surprise. 

He took a seat beside Denethor, then he answered, “I had a dream last night, a waking dream you could call it.  I saw—” 

“Dream!” Denethor’s eyes suddenly flashed. “If only you had not had the dream, Boromir would have been here.” 

Faramir was stunned by Denethor’s harsh words.  There was disbelief in his eyes, he must have wondered how his father could think that, let alone say it. 

Denethor sighed.  His heart was heavy enough with grief and creeping despair, must he also be troubled with remorse?  “Ignore my outburst, the dream came to Boromir as well.  Tell me what you saw.” 

Faramir told him he saw Boromir in a strange, beautiful boat on the Anduin, arrayed as if for a funeral, his face peaceful and noble. 

“He looked more peaceful than I have ever seen him,” Faramir said.  “Boromir has died; I knew this in my heart.” 

That morning Húrin had tried to console Denethor that the broken horn did not necessarily signify Boromir’s death, but Denethor knew his eldest son would not return to him.  And now Faramir confirmed his dread. 

“So that was why you rode here—to bear the ill tidings to me.” 

Faramir nodded.  “Did you receive the horn this morning?” 

Denethor nodded. 

“Go and have your meal.  You must have started early and ridden without a break.” 

“You have not had your meal either,” Faramir remarked, and only then Denethor noticed a tray of food and drink on a low table next to him.  He did not recall a servant setting up the meal. 

Faramir called a servant to clear away the untouched food and bring fresh provisions for Denethor and him. 

They ate in silence, finishing the meal in no time. 

“Go and rest,” Denethor said.  “See me again before supper.” 

“Please come with me to rest, Father.  Or we can go to your study if you prefer.” 

Denethor shook his head.  “I am waiting for news.” 

Faramir regarded him, then he rose. 

“I will speak with Lord Húrin about the mourning and funeral.” 

Denethor nodded slowly.  Faramir bowed and left the Hall. 

... 

Later that day, scouts arrived with urgent news—not of Boromir, but of a host of Haradrim marching northward.  To Mordor, no doubt, and thence to march with the Host of Mordor to assail Minas Tirith. 

Denethor and Faramir discussed this over supper and afterwards.  Grief pushed aside to make way for duty, the Steward and his son (his heir now) planned their action.  After supper, Húrin of the Keys and the captains of the guard joined them. 

The first decision was obvious: Faramir should lead Gondor’s soldiers to ambush the Haradrim and prevent them from reaching Mordor.  Their discussion was on the details: how many men Faramir should bring (all of the Company of Ithilien), when they should depart (in the morrow, for war does not wait for mourning), where the best place to ambush was (somewhere in North Ithilien, the exact location to be determined by Faramir). 

After the eastern part of Osgiliath fell to the Enemy a few months prior, Faramir had sent some of the Rangers of Ithilien to strengthen the defence at Osgiliath, which sorely needed reinforcement after the fateful battle.  Fast riders had been dispatched that evening, with a message to Faramir’s lieutenants in Osgiliath and in Ithilien, urging them to prepare the Rangers for movement. 

In the morning, Faramir would depart for Osgiliath, then lead the Rangers thence to Cair Andros, where they would spend the night before continuing their way to North Ithilien. 

Throughout the discourse, Denethor’s eyes met Faramir’s several times.  He knew that inwardly Faramir sighed as he did: how they envied the farmers and shepherds that night!  For those happy folks—who dared call them lowly?—would surely be given time to properly mourn their deceased loved ones. 

That night, after Húrin and the captains left, Denethor said to Faramir, “Let us take a stroll.” 

They walked side by side, past the door of the White Tower, past the fountain and the Dead Tree, to the edge of the massive rock that divided Minas Tirith in the middle.  

There by the parapet wall they stood side by side, in silence and shared grief. 

The air was still cold but already filled with the whispers of spring.  A cool breeze swept through, carrying with it the sweet scent of budding flowers, the stirrings of new life. 

The moon was bright, casting a silvery light across the stone pavement.  The night was peaceful and quiet, attended by familiar sounds: the soft rustle of leaves, the chirping of crickets, and the occasional hoot of owls. 

Strangely, Denethor found himself saddened, instead of comforted, by the signs of spring and the loveliness of the City.  Minas Tirith looked so beautiful that night, blissfully ignorant that her prince had departed, never to return to her. 

“Have you ever attended the burial of common folks?” Denethor asked Faramir. 

“Aye, I attended the burials of some of my men, whose bodies we managed to bring home to their families.” 

“Tonight, do you not envy them?  They may weep, wail if they so desire, embrace their kin, refuse to eat, drown in their sorrows.” 

Faramir smiled faintly.  He gazed afar, to the dark sky beyond the Pelennor fields.  “The lords may weep, too, Father," he replied. “Yet I agree; we do not have the luxury of drowning in sorrows. 

“What do you think has befallen Boromir, Father?  His countenance was peaceful, yet his horn lies broken.” 

Denethor gazed at the stars.  “The strange boat that you described was likely Elven-made.  I believe Boromir found Imladris, and perhaps even travelled past another Elven realm. 

“The cloven horn was found near the place where Entwash joined the Anduin.  And Boromir was laid in a boat, which you saw upon the Anduin.  Perhaps he fell in battle, and his companions entrusted him to the Great River, which flows to his city.” 

“Perhaps they were fleeing and had no chance to bury him properly,” Faramir said.  “Or they wished to return his body to his city.” 

Denethor nodded, turning his eyes eastward.  “Your mother used to love standing here, for she felt as if she were on the prow of a ship.  But near the end, she would not come here.  She averted her eyes from the Shadow.” 

If she had been here tonight, Denethor mused, she would have embraced him and they would have wept together.  And she would have embraced Faramir, and told him that she was heartbroken, but grateful and consoled that she still had him. 

They remained there for some time, mostly in silence, but they also spoke of Boromir and the impending battles. 

Denethor told Faramir that the next day, he would send a fast rider to Rohan, bringing the Red Arrow. 

“The Red Arrow,” Faramir repeated slowly, almost reverently.  “What a time we live in, Father!  When was the last time it was used? In the days of Túrin II?” 

"Aye, in 2885,” Denethor said, “Rohan fulfilled the Oath of Eorl, and the King of Rohan lost two sons in one battle.” 

He grimaced.  Would that fate be his as well? He had lost one son; another was riding to battle in the morning. 

He turned to Faramir and found his son looking at him with understanding.  “I will do my best to return, Father,” Faramir said. 

Denethor nodded.  They both knew that one’s best was sometimes not enough, and they had always been prepared for death in battle. 

He forced his mind to turn away from the thought of losing his son.  “Rohan will come, if they remember our bond of old,” he said, “but even if they do, there remains but a little hope for Minas Tirith.” 

He continued bitterly, “Unless other help unlooked for may come from Elves or Men, but I do not think any will come.” 

“Or unless the King should return,” Faramir added, “though what could even a mighty king do, against such a formidable Enemy?” 

Denethor wondered how his son could speak of the king’s return so lightly to him, the Steward who was mourning the death of his heir.   

“How could you say that, Faramir?” he said coldly. “Do you wish to supplant your father?” 

Faramir turned to him, surprise and sadness mingling in his face.  “Supplant? How could you say such a thing, Father?  It was but a manner of speaking of matters that are nigh impossible, much like you have said of help unlooked for from Elves or Men.”   

Denethor regarded him. Faramir returned his gaze steadily, proudly declaring, as it were, that he had naught to hide from his father and lord.  Yea, his second son concealed naught from him, Denethor admitted.  Faramir's allegiance was with him, but his heart was not Denethor’s to command. 

“You are my heir now, be more guarded in your words, even if you would not do so in your heart and mind.” 

A flicker of disappointment flashed in Faramir’s eyes, but he restrained himself.  “I will, Father.” 

They returned to their silence, until Faramir spoke, “Shall we return, Father? We need to keep our strength.” 

“You are right, let us seek rest while we may,” Denethor replied. “Tomorrow’s need will be sterner.” 

They walked back, past the fountain and the Dead Tree, towards the White Tower.  They entered the White Tower, climbed the stairs to the Steward’s residence, and retreated to their respective chambers. 

... 

The next morning, Faramir found the dining chamber empty.  The Lord Steward had his morning meal delivered to his chamber, a servant informed him.  Denethor never did that unless he was severely unwell, which had happened but thrice in all of Faramir’s years. 

When he reached his father’s chamber, Faramir found Denethor still in bed.  He looked weary, but he sat up as Faramir entered. 

“Father?” 

“Faramir.  Is it time? Are you ready to depart?” Denethor asked, his voice hoarse. 

“I still have a few hours,” Faramir said.  “Has a healer seen you, Father?” 

“There is nothing for him to see.  I need some rest, that is all.” 

Faramir surveyed his father and thought hard, reckoning the distance, the travelling time, the time they would need to scour Ithilien before the ambush, the speed of the Haradrim. 

“I can still overtake the Haradrim even if I ride tomorrow, we only need to move more swiftly and—” He checked himself. 

“Nay, I must leave today.”  

Denethor gave him a faint smile.  “Aye, you must leave today, for you cannot afford to weary your men before battle.  You would have to depart even if I were on my way to the Hall of Mandos.  That is my lot, and yours, my son.” 

Faramir looked at Denethor and nodded. “What I would not give to stay here with my father, though!” 

“Gondor, that is what you would not give.” 

Again, Faramir nodded. 

“You will be Steward after me, Faramir.  There must be no faltering, you understand?” 

Faramir looked at him steadily.  “I will not falter, Father.” 

Denethor nodded. 

“If there is time, try to get some rest.  You cannot afford getting ill.” 

Faramir reclined slightly, leaning against the back of his chair. 

“I will sit here if you do not mind.  I will be quiet.” 

Or we could do as the common folks do; embrace and weep together.   

But neither of them spoke the words. 

“Make yourself comfortable, then.  Lie on the couch.” 

Two hours later, Faramir and his men gathered at the Hall of the Tower, seeking the Steward’s leave before they depart.  Ten men from the Company of Ithilien came with Faramir from Osgiliath the day before, and they would return thither with him.  Since Boromir left to seek Imladris, Denethor had ordered that Faramir bring more guards with him when he journeyed. 

His men would never have guessed that the Steward was grieving and unwell, Faramir thought.  What they saw was their Lord Steward standing erect, issuing commands that the Haradrim contingent should never reach Mordor. They would admire his strength and resolution, that he did not let the grief over his eldest son’s death conquer him.   

The Lord Steward, that was what Denethor was to them.  Most of the men had little recollection of the days before Denethor became the Steward.   

Faramir thought of his father’s face when he held Boromir’s cloven horn, of the grieving father resting in bed that morning, and he felt a surge of love and pride in his heart.   

What a privilege it was, to see the man and not only the rod, to witness his weariness and worries, and moreover, to be that man’s son and share his burden, though but a little. 

Faramir raised his sword in salute to his lord and father.  Then he gave the command and they marched out of the Hall.   

Rest in peace, Brother.  I will fight for your part, too.  Gondor shall not perish, not while I still have breath. 

...