One morning, Faramir, the Steward of Gondor, and Húrin, the Warden of the Keys of Minas Tirith, made their way to the mansion of the dead stewards. 

“I am going to the Hallows.  Come, Lord Húrin, so you can hand over my father’s ashes to me,” Faramir had said earlier to the older man. 

Minas Tirith was no longer under threat, Faramir was fully healed, and he had made his decision regarding the King.  He had even found love amidst the grief.  It was time to face the memory of his father. 

It was a cold morning, colder than what one expected, now that spring was turning to summer. There was a heavy rain the night before, and that morning the sky was covered with clouds.  The sun peeked out only to retreat again behind the clouds, as if Arien had yet to decide whether to show herself in full splendour that day. 

Faramir and Húrin now approached the door in the rear wall of the sixth circle, beyond which went the road leading to the resting place of the dead kings and stewards.  The new porter opened the door. 

“Has anyone arranged the pension for the late porter’s family?”  Faramir asked. 

“I have not had chance to do so, my lord,” said Húrin. “Should I include his name in the list of guards who fell in the siege?” 

“I will take care of that,” said Faramir. 

They continued their walk in silence, until they stopped a stone throw away from the Hallow of the Stewards. 

From outside, only the broken dome gave signs of the destruction inside. Made of solid stones, the front and side walls stood proud, unbent and unbroken.   

As Faramir looked up, he saw that metal plates and thick sheets had been placed over the gaping hole in the dome, to protect the resting place of the Stewards from the elements. 

Upon entering, Faramir could see that considerable clearing had been done.  Lord Húrin must have been busy while he was recovering in the Houses of Healing.  Despite the clearing, the inside of the building bore witness to the terrible event of a few weeks prior.  Burnt smell lingered in the air, and many parts of the walls and ceiling were blackened.  Faramir saw cracks, some large enough to cause concern.  

Húrin must have seen him surveying the cracks on the walls, for he assured Faramir that the chief stonemason had checked the building and declared it safe.  “It was fortunate there was rain that morning, which dampened the fire,” Húrin said. 

Faramir nodded and asked him to arrange for the stonemason to see him in the next few days. 

Aside from the cracks, soot, and the burnt smell, the House was as Faramir remembered it.  It exuded a quiet peace, with dim light coming through the windows high in the walls.  He had feared there would be an air of malice in the place, but was relieved to find none. The House remained the peaceful place where he had found solace many times after the death of his mother. 

He noticed a bird nest at the hole in the dome above, in a small gap between the thick sheets.  This sign of life brought a smile to his lips. 

As they stepped further inside, he saw that the sleeping forms of some Stewards and their ladies were blackened and cracked from their encounter with the fire and smoke.  Finduilas’ likeness, the closest to Denethor’s table, was charred in the middle; yet by some mercy, her face was untouched.  Faramir gently brushed away some soot from his mother’s folded hands.   

Next to Finduilas’ table stood a bare marble table; the reason for their visit.  On the bare table lay two locked chests, one slightly smaller than the other.  

“Which one contains the ashes?” Faramir asked. 

“The larger one,” replied Húrin.  “The debris from the broken dome were mixed with the ashes, but we have separated them as best we could.” 

He produced two keys and offered them to Faramir.  Faramir touched the larger chest reverently, unlocked it and lifted its lid. 

Inside the chest he saw ashes and something wrapped in a rich sable cloth with the silver embroidery.  Bones, by the shape of it.  Faramir looked inquiringly at Húrin. 

“There were some bones; for while the rain did not completely quench the fire, it must have hastened its end,” Húrin said. “I beg you, my lord, do not uncover them.”  

Húrin was not one to show much expression in his voice or face, but Faramir had known him all his life, and he stood near enough to see that Húrin was nearly crying. 

“How can I thank you, Lord Húrin?  You must have wrapped them yourself, if I know you.” 

“He was my lord,” Húrin said simply. 

Faramir nodded gratefully, moved that another person had loved his father enough to care for his bones after his gruesome death.  

He closed the chest and turned to the smaller one.  Inside lay remnants of a chain mail, several large parts which had survived the fire, though deformed.  There were also the golden knob and broken pieces of the Steward’s rod, the blade of a knife without the hilt, partly-melted metal pieces that resembled a buckle.  Lastly, at the corner of the chest sat an orb shrouded in a thick sable cloth.  The cloth was tightly bundled to prevent one from removing it by accident. 

“The palantir, why is it here?” 

Húrin hesitated before answering.  “The late Steward held it till the end.” 

This was news to Faramir.  He had heard that his father had used the palantir that night, but not that his father had brought it with him to the House of the Stewards. 

“Do you know why he brought it here?” 

Húrin shook his head.  “What I heard was that Lord Denethor saw things in the palantir which made him despair.  The Enemy’s doing, no doubt.  Mithrandir bade me cover the orb and let nobody touch it.” 

Faramir glanced at the covered orb.  It was what Denethor had seen—what the Enemy had chosen to show him—that had plunged him to despair and led him to end his life in such a terrible way.  And Faramir had suspected earlier that using the palantir would imperil his father. 

Why, then, had he not pressed his father harder?  Why had he chosen to be gentle that night when they argued about the Seeing Stone?  Gentleness may be repaid with death, his father had said.  Why should his gentleness be repaid with his father’s death, instead of his own? 

As Isildur had boldly stolen a fruit of the White Tree of Númenor and brought its sapling to Gondor, Faramir should have stolen the wretched orb and hurled it from the pinnacle of the Tower.  Had he done so, perhaps his father would have been alive! 

He felt an urge to smash the Seeing Stone against the wall, to watch it shatter into pieces.  But he suspected that hurling it against the wall might not destroy it: had it not survived the fire?  And what good would it do?  If anything, the darkness that remained inside the orb might sully the hallowed place. 

He took a deep breath.  Then he told Húrin, softly but firmly, that he would like to have some time alone with his father’s remains. 

After a moment hesitation, Húrin patted his shoulder, bowed, and left the chamber. 

Standing alone in the quiet place, Faramir could well imagine his father’s last moments.  The thought that nothing else mattered, the conviction that darkness had won and day would not come again, the crackling of firewood, the smell of burning flesh, the unbearable heat—but how could he say unbearable?  Someone had borne it.   

Had his father screamed in agony, or had his pride kept him silent?   

Despite the cool weather outside, he felt cold sweat in his palms and his neck.  He shook his head, resolutely banishing the image from his mind. 

His gaze returned to the palantir, to the sad remnants inside the chest, to the other chest which contained the ashes—and the bones, so terrible that a kind man had wrapped it to spare him the sight!—then, to the next marble coffin where his mother’s body lay within.  He wept.   

Long and bitterly he wept, railing against the unfairness of it all.   

His father had spent all his life defending Gondor.  Why had he perished when Gondor’s deliverance was so close at hand?

If only Faramir could have returned safely to the City!  Perhaps his father would have found the strength to endure. 

But as the tempest in his mind subsided, Faramir thought again.  

If Father had survived the siege and lived to see the King’s return, what might have ensued?   

The coming of the King might have plunged his father into despair as well, Faramir realized.  It was the lesser evil—dared he call it a mercy?—that his father had succumbed to despair through the Enemy’s cunning rather than through the coming of the righteous King. 

But even if his father had to die, why had he not chosen an end in battle?  Why the fire?  

Because of his son—beloved after all—with whom he wished to meet death side by side. 

“Your father loves you and would remember it ere the end,” Mithrandir had said to Faramir.   

If only his father had not remembered!  If only he had scorned Faramir for failing to defend Osgiliath, deeming him unworthy of his tears, let alone his life! 

That could not be right, a voice spoke in his heart.  Certainly it was better—nay, it was right—to have loved, to have felt remorse for one’s wrongs, though grievous, even if it led to death; than to continue living with nothing but pride and scorn in one’s heart. 

The birds that had made their home in the wreckage of the dome chose that very moment to chirp.  Or perhaps they had been chirping all along, but only now Faramir heard them.  Despite himself, he felt less bitter. 

He heard footsteps behind him.  It was Húrin, returning out of concern for his lord.  As Húrin approached, Faramir sensed that the older man wished to offer him comfort, but was unsure if it would be welcomed. 

Faramir closed the distance between them, and Húrin gathered him in his arms.  In return, Faramir wrapped his arms tightly around Húrin’s back. 

“I have known him since I was a young soldier,” Húrin said as he stepped back.  “He was my Captain, my Captain General, my lord Steward.  What he had done for Gondor shall not be erased by one act of despair.” 

“Certainly not.  You and I will see to that,” Faramir replied. 

Faramir thought of the faithful and quiet service Húrin had rendered to his father, and now to him.  He thought of the blood that had been spilled in Rath Dinen and in this hallowed place—the porter’s and the two household servants’—to save his life.  He thought of Beregond, who had made himself a slayer out of love for him.  He thought of his father, who had somehow deemed Faramir’s life so precious that he had lost his will to live upon seeing Faramir at death’s door. 

So he said to himself, almost audibly. Your father loved you; leave it at that.  Some people have died so you could live; live even more worthily. 

After a long silence, Húrin spoke again, “All will be well, Faramir.” 

Faramir gave Húrin a faint smile.  “All is even now well, Lord Húrin.” 

Húrin regarded him, then bowed, a gesture of respect and relief. 

Faramir took the palantir out of the chest, placed it on the floor, and closed the chest. 

“Please instruct the sculptor to make Father’s likeness, Lord Húrin.” 

“I have done so,” said Húrin. 

“We will place the ashes and the remnants inside the stone table.  As for the palantir, we will keep it at the White Tower.  Let it lie there until its rightful owner returns and decides what to do with it.  I would not have it in my father’s resting place.” 

Húrin nodded. 

Faramir spoke again, “I had thought to commend the ashes into the Anduin, as Boromir’s body was.  But now that I am here, it does not seem right to place a Steward’s remains anywhere else.” 

Húrin placed a hand on Faramir’s arm.  “And if I may add, Faramir, though he loved Boromir greatly, it was not with Boromir that he wished to meet death side by side.” 

Faramir surveyed the row of tables containing the bodies of the Stewards.  One day, he would lie here, beside his father, just as Denethor had intended on that bleak night. 

Faramir smiled grimly and nodded in agreement. 

He arranged the two chests neatly at the centre of the stone table, then stepped back.  Standing between his mother’s and father’s tables, he bowed solemnly.  Then he turned and together they left the House of the Stewards. 

... 

When Faramir returned to the White Tower, he went to his study—which was his father’s until a few weeks prior—and began sorting his father’s notes and letters.  He had put off this task, feeling that it would be like intruding into Denethor’s private chamber, and he had a notion that seeing his father’s handwriting might reduce him to tears.  But now he felt ready even for the tears.  

A set of notes on the lands and heirlooms of the House of Húrin caught his attention.  He perused them with growing wonder. 

“Not everything must go to the heir,” Boromir had quipped many years ago.  How right he was.  Their father had said nothing at the time, but the notes in Faramir’s hands spoke volumes. 

There, in his father’s neat handwriting, was meticulously recorded which personal belongings of the House of Húrin were to pass to him after Denethor’s death. 

He saw that the list had been prepared thoughtfully.  For while most items rightfully went to the heir, and the monetary value of the items given to the second son was only a small fraction of the total wealth of the House of Húrin, the items listed ‘For Faramir’ were the things he treasured, which Denethor must have known that Faramir treasured. 

Denethor had left him the orchards at Lossarnach, where Faramir had spent many happy vacations.  And a farmland in the Pelennor Fields, overlooking the Anduin.   

In the list of their family’s heirlooms, he found written ‘For Faramir, to be given in celebration of his wedding, or upon my passing.’  A shield and a long bow bestowed upon Steward Húrin by King Minardil, and a sword which had belonged to Steward Cirion. 

Then there were the jewels.  Only a few were given to him, but what a few.  Finduilas’ betrothal ring, and her set of tiara, necklace and ring, crafted following an ancient picture of the Nauglamir.   

As for the library, Denethor had left almost all to him, save for some books and tomes which Denethor insisted every Steward must read and master. 

The letters exchanged between Denethor and Finduilas, and some of Finduilas’ paintings and needlework. 

Faramir stopped reading and pondered.  His father had loved him in his own fashion, he knew that.  Yet he had not expected his father to leave such specific instructions concerning him, let alone consider his preferences in deciding the inheritance.  What else did he not know about his father? 

He wondered what his father would have done, had he known Faramir had accepted Aragorn’s claim.  Would he have torn the notes to shreds in his fury?  It was a wonder that Denethor had not done so already, given his displeasure over Faramir’s decision to let the Ring go.  But of course, there had been no time for that—the siege had begun shortly after. 

He smiled wryly to himself.  Nothing could be gained from dwelling on what might have been.  His father had loved him; he would leave it at that.  His father, mother and brother were gone; but they had loved him, and he would cherish the memory of their life together. 

Another hopeful thought came to him.  Tomorrow he would seek Lady Éowyn and told her that he loved her.  It mattered not whether she returned his love (though he rather thought she did), for he would be content loving her from afar. 

He lived, and he would live well. 

... 

Author's notes:

The next chapter (Epilogue) contains some mild descriptions of marital intimacy.  I have put a pop-up warning which asked readers to confirm they are adults. However, I believe the content is mild enough (and tasteful, I hope) that it can be read by older teenagers without causing undue concern.