Untitled - BoG-Archive

Table of Contents
Introduction by Cressida and Lilan..………………………………………………….3
About the Contributors………………………………………………………………...4
Home and Away by Acacea……………………………………………………….8
The brothers share a quiet interlude before Boromir returns to his troop.
An Ill-Conceived Notion by Illwynd……………………….…………………..11
Boromir falls ill, Orcs attack, and all in all it is an interesting night.
Love by Gwyneth…………………………………………………………………18
Faramir is wondering about his brother who has been meeting a lady quite often lately.
Could Boromir have fallen in love? What actually is love? The brothers’ conversation
about love.
Grief by Gwyneth………………………………………………...………………21
Boromir has suffered from a great loss. Is Faramir able to help him to cope with his grief?
The brothers’ conversation concerning grief.
Sea Food by Annmarwalk………………………………………………………..27
An early morning excursion with his nephews doesn’t turn out quite as Uncle Imrahil had
planned.
Rumours and Memories by Astara……………………………………………..29
Rumours can hurt if you don’t remember the truth.
Journeys in High Places by Illwynd……………………………………………33
In which Boromir and Faramir, both born in the shadow of the White Mountains, cross
them for the first time…
Leaves on the Wind by Nancy Brooke………………………………………….53
Letters from Faramir to Boromir before the last defense of Osgiliath.
The Unkindest Cut of All by SueB……………………………………………..60
On a beautiful summer afternoon, twelve-year-old Boromir and seven-year-old Faramir
would rather have fun than obey their governess' orders to get their hair cut. Their plan to
get around the order, however, does not quite go as they had hoped.
1

‘This much I learned, or guessed’ by Nesta…………………………………...76
How did Faramir find out that Isildur took somewhat from the hand of the Unnamed, why
did Faramir dismiss this as a matter that concerned only the seekers after ancient learning,
and what did Boromir think about all that book-bashing? Find the answers here.
Exploring the Wild by EdorasLass……………………………………………...84
Young Boromir and Faramir have an expedition in the woods. Thanks to Annmarwalk for
beta!
My Beloved by Athelas63………………………………………………………..96
Boromir had a heart for war, but surely there was someone he loved back in Minas Tirith...
someone who grieved for him when he was gone...
A Story of One Flood by Lilan…………………………………………………102
Events come flooding in as our favourite brothers come to Dol Amroth for a bit…
An Unexpected Visit by Cressida……………………………………………..120
Mithrandir arrives in Minas Tirith just in time to spend Mettarë with the Steward's
family.
Illustrations
Cover Art by Enednoviel
– bookverse; – movieverse
“Boromir Rarely Became Ill…” by Kasiopea………………………………..12
The temptation of drawing Boromir in bed was simply irresistible. ☺
Boys at Play by Khorazîr……………………………………………………….83
After doing several sketches for a scene that included the two brothers with both their
faces visible, and some kind of interaction, I finally decided upon this one, which
shows them during a friendly duel. It seemed the most dynamic, and yet left room to
concentrate on their expressions. I tried to give Boromir a bolder, more offensive
stance which seems to reflect his character, while Faramir is in a defensive position –
unless you count the leg so comfortably placed behind his brother’s… ;). The drawing
was done in pencil on hot-pressed watercolour paper.
Disclaimer:
Middle-Earth belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs; we just borrow some of his characters and
places. Our fanfiction and fan art are not intended as infringement of copyright laws. We receive
no profit from this collection or its distribution.
2

Introduction
by Cressida and Lilan, editors
Welcome to Brothers of Gondor, a collection of fanfiction and fan art devoted
to Boromir and Faramir. The pieces in this collection were created by members
and friends of the Brothers of Gondor forum (www.menofgondor.com/forum/), a
message board dedicated to discussion of J.R.R. Tolkien's work with a particular
focus on the characters of Gondor.
To a very considerable extent, this project owes its existence to the three
volumes of The Noble Steward’s Chronicles with their focus on Denethor. Seeing a
lot of much-appreciated and very positive feedback and noticing several
suggestions to expand our scope of central characters (as well as having some
experience), we decided to attempt another release of the same kind.
This collection includes both new and previously released works,
bookverse and movieverse. The only requirement was that each story must
feature both brothers in some way.
3

About the Contributors
Acacea
I discovered LOTR fanfic three years ago and have been happily immersed in
reading and writing in the fandom since then; predominantly the Steward's
family. I've always loved Faramir - he was such a fascinating character, who
brought his own twist into the tale, and in so little space had so much depth.
Annmarwalk
Annmarwalk has been reading, rereading, and enjoying The Lord of the Rings for
over thirty-five years. She wrote her first piece of fanfiction in July, 2004. Having
a deep-seated fear of actually being required to come up with a plot, she mainly
writes drabbles and ficlets featuring the Steward's elder son. Most of her stories
are archived at Stories of Arda, though she does maintain a spectacularly
uninteresting LiveJournal.
Astara
In real life, I'm a middle-aged housewife from Germany with a Ph.D. and too
much imagination. I've thought up stories and written them down since I was in
elementary school. But it took Peter Jackson’s interpretation of The Lord of the
Rings to arouse my curiosity about the Professor’s work and make me write
(bookverse) fanfiction about Gondor’s First Family.
Athelas63
Athelas63 fell in love with the sons of Gondor thanks to Peter Jackson initially
and then went to the source and fell in love with them all over again via Tolkien!
Brave, noble, honorable and handsome men. What's not to love? She has
swooned for them ever since, despite being married and having children. Writing
fanfiction helps keep her sane. (although her husband might disagree)
Cressida
I am a university administration worker in Illinois, USA. I first read The Lord of the
Rings shortly before the movies came out and was immediately intrigued by the
complex characters and relationships in the Stewards’ family. I firmly believe that
they are characters Shakespeare would have been proud to create—although I’m
aware that Tolkien wouldn’t necessarily have considered that a compliment!
4

EdorasLass
I've been writing LOTR fanfic for about a year and a half. I've written about every
race in Middle Earth, but I tend to favour the Rohirrim, and am equally fond of
certain Gondorians. You can find my stories at FF.net, Stories of Arda, and
HASA.
Enednoviel
I am a 30-something married woman living in a small village right in the middle
of Germany. I have studied Art History and English. It was at university when I
had my first encounter with Tolkien. Tolkien's The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings
were on the students’ “to read” list and I ended up with The Hobbit being one of
my exam topics. Faramir has always been one of my favourite characters in the
book, but Peter Jackson’s movies really drew me even deeper into the world of
the Gondorians. I’m not much of a writer (though I have written some fanfics),
I’m more into drawing and the three Gondorians are one of my favourite themes.
Gwyneth
I am a 15-year-old girl from Bavaria, Germany, who attends a humanities school,
which means studying Latin and Ancient Greek, which are the most spectacular
attributes of mine I can think of.
I fell for The Lord of the Rings after watching the movies, which I dearly love,
though I like the books I got to know after it a lot, as well. When writing my
fanfiction, I like to think of a mix of book and movie, with most backgrounds and
characterizations from the books, but some aspects and most people’s looks from
the movies. ☺
I am one of those who are in love with the First Family, too. My favourite LotR
character has always been Boromir, and while giving more attention to all LotR
and mainly the Stewards, I begun to hold his brother and father in high regard
too. Meanwhile, I like them all very much, Boromir, Faramir and Denethor,
though Boromir and Denethor (in connection with Finduilas) are my very
favourite.
Furthermore, I have to apologize for possible grammatical/linguistic mistakes. I
have been studying English for three years now, so I am far away from a native
speaker’s level. Here are my special thanks to Lilan, who agreed to proofread and
correct my stories. (So actually it is not very likely that there will be that many
mistakes, thanks to her.)
5

Illwynd
Illwynd is very strange, makes bad puns, and always gets confused over whether
she lives in California or Gondor. She also enjoys writing about herself in the
third person for "About the Author" blurbs.
Kasiopea
My full name is Catherine Karina Chmiel. I live in the old part of Warsaw, in my
apartment among the trees. I work as a freelance illustrator, sometimes I also
teach history of art and drawing. I have a university degree in philosophy, and
zoology is my second hobby. I am especially interested in horses, rabbits and
small birds.
My friends often call me "Kas" (short version of Kasiopea) or "Rabbit". I am an
active member of Aiglos editors' team. It is a Polish magazine, a Tolkienist
almanac, our pride. I am a member of Forum Tolkienowskie, the best Polish forum
ever, and I also sing in the Dziura Maglora ensemble (the name of the band could
be translated as Maglor's Hole). I am very interested in fanfiction and I write
stories myself. My longest story is entitled Son of Gondor and it is about Boromir,
of course. I have also written a series of stories about sons of Feanor, one of those
fanfics was translated and published in the Special English edition of Aiglos.
Khorazîr
An illustrator, graphic designer and art teacher by profession, Khorazîr
discovered the world of JRR Tolkien in the early 1990ies, and ever since has
dedicated most of her creative energy to the depiction of scenes and characters
from the books – with a noticeable focus on her favourite character Faramir. In
her illustrations, she attempts to keep as faithful to the written word as possible,
and to visualise Middle-earth in a realistic while still painterly manner. She also
writes bookverse fanfiction from time to time (not being a great friend of PJ’s take
on LotR), mostly featuring Denethor’s younger son. Both her artwork and her
writing can be found at her website at www.anke.edoras-art.de
Lilan
I am a teacher of English from Ukraine. I haven’t been fascinated with The Lord of
the Rings for that long (only about three years, and before that was convinced it
was not my kind of reading at all). But my devotion is true! In particular where it
concerns the Stewards of Gondor. In fact, it is Faramir who holds my heart in his
keeping, but the rest of his family are not bad either!
6

Nancy Brooke
Like many I first came to the Lord of the Rings trilogy at about ten years old
having exhausted the Chronicles of Narnia, and never really left. Always looking
to expand the fantasy experience, I began reading fanfic around seven years ago,
and writing it soon after.
My stories center primarily around Boromir. To me he has always been the most
compelling character: his flaws endearingly human, his pride and valor
absolutely magnetic, his story - in many ways - that of all Middle Earth
struggling between the old order and the new.
I am forty-two years old, married, and the mother of a five-year-old girl. We live
in the Mid-Atlantic region of the United States.
Nancy Brooke is a pen name.
Nesta
Nesta is a Faramir fanatic of long standing, but has a soft spot for Boromir as
well. If she lived in Middle-Earth it would be in Minas Tirith and as close to
Faramir's house as possible, unless she got evicted for swooning whenever she
saw him and so cluttering the place up. Meanwhile, she lives in hope, and in the
vicinity of Cambridge, UK. She'd write Faramir fanfics for a living if it were
possible, but since it isn't, she does technical translating and writes Faramir
fanfics to keep herself sane.
SueB
Sue B. is a long-time Lord of the Rings fan and a recent convert to the charms of
the Brothers of Gondor. She has found the relationship between Boromir and
Faramir quite intriguing and fun to explore, and was inspired by both Tolkien's
work and the performances of Sean Bean and David Wenham in the recent movie
adaptation. In this piece, she takes a look at the brothers when they were still
quite young and carefree, before the dark shadows of war began to fully impact
their lives.
In addition to the Lord of the Rings universe, Sue has also written many tales
based on the CBS TV series The Magnificent Seven.
7

Home and Away
by Acacea
Boromir had always liked this little courtyard by the walls tucked in a
quiet, sun-drenched nook behind the stables, away from the bustle of the city,
accessible only through a narrow path overgrown with grass and wildflowers.
It was paved with dulled white stones, and bordered by a narrow strip of
wild grass. An old lemon tree stood in one corner, its laden branches hanging
over the walls; and a small stone bench placed beneath it for anyone wishing to
enjoy the view in comfort. He and Faramir had often sat here on warm
afternoons, watching the plains and the river, a winding band of silver with tiny
boats bobbing up and down it. If one leaned out a little and tried, as Faramir was
doing at that moment, one could see all the way down to the quays, and even the
hazy green land across the river.
It was just the place he wanted to be right now.
He had to leave the next day to join his troop at Pelargir, after a fortnight
on furlough. He was not meant to be home this early in the year but he had
received a nasty cut to his sword arm at Osgiliath, and had been ordered to
report to the healers in the city. Much as he had relished the time spent at home,
he found he was anxious to rejoin his troop. Yet at the same time he felt unhappy
at leaving behind his younger brother who seemed so much older now than the
last time he’d seen him. With Faramir set to join the rangers in a year’s time,
Boromir suddenly felt very unsure of how often they could spend time together
like this again.
He had completed his duties for the day. He had risen early, packed away
most of his things, then breakfasted with his father so that they could discuss the
situation with the corsairs yet again. Then he had written out all of the myriad
reports his father seemed to want before he left, working swiftly yet
meticulously. The time was well spent for it had left him free to spend the
afternoon here with Faramir. They had had very little time together on this visit,
first with the healers cooping him up, and then the situation in Pelargir
necessitating endless meetings with his father and the council.
They had brought food with them; it was late in the afternoon and they
were both famished. Boromir had brushed away the ripened lemons that had
fallen on the bench and placed the food there. There was warm, soft bread
straight from the kitchens, newly churned butter, fresh, crumbly cheese, a pot full
of orange-scented, golden honey and a basket of plump red and green apples.
8

They talked a little while eating, exchanging bits of information, most of it
trivial, but nevertheless entertaining. Faramir spoke about the new books he’d
read and of all the far-off places that were described in them, strange lands where
high mountains swept towards the sky, barren deserts stretched for endless
miles. Boromir told him of what he’d heard of Pelargir, and how some of the
houses there were built on arches in the water.
“It all sounds fascinating,” Faramir said wistfully after a while. They had
finished the honeyed bread and the cheese and were eating the apples now.
“It is,” Boromir agreed slowly.
“I miss you when you’re gone,” Faramir said softly, and munched his
apple thoughtfully.
“I miss you too,” Boromir replied quietly, and slung an arm around the
smaller boy’s shoulders, “But I need to go. I need to rejoin my troop.”
“I know you have to go, that it’s your duty. You’re protecting the city,”
Faramir said quietly, “But I wish I could go with you.”
He did not miss the glance Faramir darted towards his arm.
“I’d like to see these places,” Faramir added.
He would be going to Ithilien the next year to join the rangers; both of them
knew that. He was a skilled swordsman but a better archer. He tended to be
impatient at times, but being in the rangers would take care of that. Boromir had
seen them at work, and marvelled at the quiet, meticulous manner in which they
did their work. Faramir had been quite excited about it the last time Boromir had
come on his furlough some months back. He had been poring through texts,
maps, poems, lays, even old harvest songs – learning everything he could about
Ithilien.
The rangers would surely suit Faramir well; Boromir thought, as his
younger brother doggedly spoke of wishing to see new places. That Faramir
wished to see new places, he did not doubt; nor did he doubt what it was Faramir
actually worried about.
“You will,” he said simply.
They cleared up what was left of their small meal in silence, each lost in his
own thoughts.
9
Faramir sat in Boromir’s room later in the evening, watching him finish his
packing.
When Boromir was done, he sat down next to the younger boy.

“I have something for you,” he said quietly.
“What is it?” Faramir asked curiously, and Boromir knew he was
wondering why he hadn’t given it to him when he’d arrived. He pulled out a
leather bound book from his pack, and handed it to his brother.
Faramir opened it curiously; and then began to leaf through the pages
eagerly intently studying the sketches that covered each sheet.
Boromir had taken to drawing to while away time, using the charcoal left
over from the cooking fires. There were sketches of his men, of their horses, of the
places they had been to; there were buildings, trees, flowers, boats in tiny
dockyards with waves lapping against them, an old wood cabin up in a hillock,
strange flowers unlike those that grew in the city. There had also been maps, but
those he had removed and kept aside.
Faramir leafed through each page in awe, exclaiming now and then at
some fascinating sight, which he would then ask Boromir to explain.
“It’s beautiful,” Faramir said finally, after they had gone through all the
sketches.
“It is for you,” Boromir told him, “So you can know what all these places
look like. From now on, whenever I send my despatches, you’ll be able to
imagine just where I am.”
“That will be nice,” Faramir said softly, “To picture you there.”
Boromir smiled and ruffled Faramir’s hair.
“I’ll still miss you though,” Faramir mumbled.
“I know. And I’ll miss you,” Boromir said softly.
He drew a new sketch that night; of the small courtyard with the lemon
tree and two boys standing at the walls. When it was done, he placed it in the
pouch that contained his maps.
10

An Ill-Conceived Notion
by Illwynd
Author’s Note: This story was inspired by an incident from the life of Gen. Roy S.
Geiger, USMC.
Boromir rarely became ill, but he had certainly managed it this time. It had
come on suddenly; this past morn he had felt fine, perhaps a little weary. Now,
his head swam with fever, his skin oozed chill sweat, his stomach roiled and his
limbs felt weak. He slept fitfully on the camp bed as the waxing moon rose.
The company was too far afield to safely send him – even horsed and with
escort—to the City, or even to any of the villages nearer by where there might be
a healer, at least until daylight. Orcs had been testing the borders sporadically,
some worming their way into Gondor in small groups that hid during the sun’s
brightness, but crept out at night to terrorize the villagers. All the companies in
the area had to keep a sharp eye at night to spot them, if indeed they were not
spotted first themselves. And just hours ago, a messenger had come from Ithilien.
The man was one of Faramir’s Rangers, and he warned that a larger group of
Orcs had been spotted, heading for the river, at nightfall. There would be a major
attack tonight.
Boromir had been reluctantly convinced by Hallas, his second-incommand,
to remain at the camp with a small number of men, so that the rest
could fight this battle without worrying for the safety of their nearly deliriously
ill Captain. Truly, he was too ill to fight, Hallas had said; he could sit this one out.
At the time, he had grudgingly agreed, and had fallen back heavily onto the piled
blankets. He was asleep before the large part of the company had left the camp.
Now he woke just as suddenly. He still felt as if he were burning and
freezing at once, as if trolls were tapping out a tattoo on his skull, as if many
small lizards were panicking in his belly. He made a face; his mouth tasted as if
something had crawled into it and died. Worst of all, he grumbled to himself,
what was he doing here while there was a battle occurring in his vicinity? His
men were fighting, he should be with them, ill or no!
With some effort he tossed aside the blankets that covered him, and sat up.
The world spun, but only briefly. Not far from him a handful of men were
gathered around a small, well-shielded fire, munching something saved from the
evening’s ration, and talking quietly. He cleared his throat of the mucus that had
gathered there.
11

“Boromir rarely became ill…” by Kasiopea
12

“Gailon, have you any liquor in your pack? Something strong that would
make for good medicine? Do not tell me you have drunk it all already?”
The man addressed scrunched up his face. “If I let everyone know I had it,
there would be none left by now,” he said, but obligingly stood, and dug into the
pack he had been using as a seat. After some searching he drew out a small silver
bottle, and handed it solemnly to his Captain. Boromir tossed away the remains
of the foul-tasting tea that Hallas had insisted would make him feel better, and
filled the emptied cup. The liquor warmed his throat, and soon he was feeling
much better…
An hour later, of the seven men who had stayed behind, two were standing
guard a little distance away from the camp, four had drifted asleep around the
fading embers of the fire… and one, after struggling to pull on maille and belt,
walked out into the darkness, sword in hand, tottering slightly.
13
Ciryandil, son of Calmacil, stalked through the undergrowth and around
the scattered bushes, quietly and carefully in the dark. Night battles were more
dangerous, but the men of Gondor’s armies tried to counteract their enemies'
natural advantage with more skillful maneuvers; these night battles were nearly
choreographed, and although this one had been thrown together in a hurry, years
of training did their work. He could not see or hear any others near him, but he
knew they were there.
As he moved into position, the part of his mind that was not occupied with
the job at hand wandered. He was a young man, and had only been part of this
company for a little over a year now. He was very proud to have been placed
here, serving under the son of the Steward. His father, Calmacil, had served
under Lord Denethor as a young man, and still spoke of those days with pride
and a fierce loyalty. His father’s eyes shone when he would chance to see the
Steward, and he would, when plied with enough ale, tell stories of battles he had
fought as part of Lord Denethor’s company. And now he, Ciryandil, was a
member of the company led by Lord Boromir, Denethor’s son! He had resolved
to do honor to the family history (which included others who had served and
fought under previous Stewards’ sons) and this year had been one of the happiest
of his short life, despite battles and hardships.
He had, when he had first met his Captain, acted like one who knows he is
in the presence of a living legend, as indeed he was. Boromir had a reputation for
being a fierce and formidable swordsman, a brilliant strategist, and an exacting
commander; he had been called the best Man in Gondor, and Ciryandil suspected

this was true. He had found himself sweating, unable to find words even to
introduce himself. Boromir had not seemed to notice, but had only complimented
his abilities, saying that his trainer had recommended him highly, and welcomed
him to the company. Some of the older men had grinned, though, and he had
learned later that his was not an uncommon reaction for new troops, but that it
always passed quickly. Boromir’s straightforward and amiable manner made it
difficult to be nervous in his presence, no matter how much one tried to be. He
revered his Captain all the more for it.
A sudden noise behind him broke him out of his thoughts; careless footfalls
crunched twigs and leaves, branches rustled as they were pushed aside hastily.
None of the men would be so reckless! He turned swiftly towards the movement,
sword at the ready, and tried to pierce the darkness with his eyes. He could not
have been more surprised at what he saw.
It was Lord Boromir.
He let his sword drop along with his jaw. “Captain,” he breathed in a
whisper, “what in Arda are you doing here?”
“There are Orcs nearby. There will be a battle. Therefore I am here,”
Boromir said with a shrug, and not nearly as quietly as he should have, then
squinted at him in the darkness. “Ciryandil? Tell me, which strategy did Hallas
choose? How near is the enemy now?”
“They should be just over the ridge by now,” he said with a gesture, “and
we are using tinco formation… but, my lord, you are not well enough to fight!
You should return to the camp!”
“No, I feel fine now… truly, Ciryandil, do not worry!” He swayed as he
said it. Ciryandil took a quick step closer, to steady him if necessary, and caught a
whiff of the liquor on his Captain’s breath. Gailon’s liquor, he supposed.
Everyone in the company knew of it, but only spoke of it in quiet jests.
“Even if you, as Captain of this company, bid me not to worry about you, I
still would do. Please, let me take you back to the camp…”
“No,” Boromir cut him off. “We will continue on towards the enemy. We
will be needed in this battle.” He looked towards the ridge, with blurred fire in
his eyes, and Ciryandil knew that there was no argument he could give that
would change his Captain’s mind. The best he could do, he supposed, was to try
to delay their progress, and watch over him as best he could.
With Ciryandil beside him, Boromir had steadied and quickly gone into the
familiar role of careful, skilled soldier, though it cost him more effort than usual.
They had crept slowly and quietly towards the ridge, and even more slowly and
silently up it. Though he did not one bit like leading his Captain towards a battle
14

in this condition, Ciryandil could not disobey his orders, and secretly cherished
the feeling of being there with him; it was a story he would tell his grandchildren
one day, he felt certain. At least, he thought with a gulp, if things didn’t go ill
when the signal came to attack. He was glad they were at the edge of the lúva,
where the fighting should be less…
At last they had crested the ridge, crept most of the way down the far side,
and waited, crouched in the undergrowth. Within a long throw’s distance, the
glamhoth could be heard, nearing the pass between forest and hill. The signal
would come soon… and just then, the two men heard a birdcall-like whistle…
from behind them. It was not the signal to attack. It was a Ranger signal, and one
that Ciryandil was not familiar with. Boromir’s eyes widened, though. Even
dazed as he was, he recognized it. Before either had a chance to turn, the general
attack call came, repeated along the lines until it had been heard by all. The small
force at the top of the lúva, placed there as bait, had been seen, and the battle had
begun. In rapid succession, the glamhoth rushed forward in attack just as they had
hoped, the archers in the forest and on the heights gave a series of volleys, and
the night stillness was shattered as over a hundred swordsmen came forth from
the bottom of the hill and from the far forest in ambush.
Boromir had recognized the call, but it didn’t stop him from what he felt he
must do. When the battle-roar began, no fog in his mind or ache in his limbs
could stop him. He charged out of the brush… or rather, he tried to. Something
was holding him back. For a moment, he flailed wildly, trying to free himself,
then something knocked his sword from his grip, and suddenly he was lying flat
on his back on the ground.
He drew breath to swear, and found himself blinking up at Faramir, who
was swearing quite well enough for the both of them.
“Brother, you are truly the most foolhardy, troublesome, asinine ass in all
of Gondor’s armies! What in Arda were you thinking?” Faramir spoke a few
more choice words about his brother’s stupidity and hardheadedness, words that
should have withered flowers for leagues around, then subsided. “I take it you
are feeling somewhat better?”
“Faramir…” Boromir said, still blinking, “why are you here? You were… in
Ithilien… your messenger…”
“Yes, I know. And he returned and told me that my brother was laid up,
terribly ill. I worried, and,” he cleared his throat, “when I arrived at your camp,
you were not there, and your men were in a panic. Particularly Gailon. I made
the reasonable assumption, and it is a good thing for you that I did.”
“I would have been fine,” Boromir muttered, and struggled to sit up.
15

“Perhaps. But it is a risk you don’t need to take. Hallas has things well in
hand,” he said, and offered Boromir his.
Ciryandil had watched all of this with a curious mixture of shock, relief,
and fear. He had recognized Lord Faramir from the few occasions that the two
Captains’ companies had met. The shock had come from his sudden appearance
from the darkness. The relief stemmed from knowing that Faramir would be able
to stop his brother where Ciryandil could not. The fear… well, it occurred to him
now that, orders or no, Faramir would not be pleased with him.
Many people considered Faramir to be the less formidable of the two
brothers, but Ciryandil had always been somewhat daunted by him. He
seemed… less approachable, loftier somehow, and he reminded him of stories his
father had told about Lord Denethor, about the power in the man’s gaze. He had
to force himself, now, to speak.
“My lords… shall I…?” he gestured hesitantly toward the battle.
Faramir shook his head. “No, come with us. I suspect I may need help in
getting him back to your encampment.” Boromir was already leaning on his
brother as he stood, but he nodded assent at this.
With some difficulty, the three wove their way back to the other side of the
ridge, leaving the noise of the ongoing battle behind them. The camp was still far,
and Boromir grew more and more weary, until he was supported by Faramir on
one side and Ciryandil on the other. Occasionally he would mutter something
unintelligible, but other than that, they walked in silence. By the time they
reached the camp, Ciryandil was nearly quivering with fear of repercussion.
As they neared the camp, Gailon and the others rushed out to meet them.
There was a brief flurry of motion and chatter as they all tried to assist at once,
but then they saw that their Captain was merely half-asleep and not wounded,
and gave way for Faramir to bring his brother back to the bed he had left so
abruptly, hours ago.
And there by his side Faramir stayed until sunrise. Ciryandil stood nearby.
When Boromir had fallen fully asleep, he said in a halting voice, “Lord Faramir, I
am glad you found us when you did… I could not…”
“I know, lad, don’t look so frightened. When my brother gets an idea in his
head, it is hard to deter him, even when he is not fever-addled. You are not to
blame, and after all, no harm was done,” Faramir said softly.
Gailon chose that moment to approach. “Does that also mean I am not to
blame, my lord?” he said with a self-deprecating grin.
“You, Gailon, should have known better,” Faramir replied, one eyebrow
arched, but with a half-smile and a sparkle in his eyes.
16

The rest of the night passed without incident, except for two things.
Perhaps two hours after the three had returned, the rest of the company filtered
back, weary but victorious.
Then, a short while later, just before sunrise, Boromir opened his eyes again
to find Faramir still watching over him. “Little brother, can we perhaps not tell
Father about this?” he asked in a weak voice.
“Perhaps,” replied Faramir, chuckling. “But only if you will promise not to
give me a night like that ever again!”
“You needn’t worry about that,” Boromir said, smiling faintly at his
brother, then sighed and fell back asleep.
17
“And that, my daughter, is the tale of the night I spent with both of
Denethor’s sons.”
“And the Faramir in the story is our Steward now?” the young girl asked
dubiously.
“Yes, he is. He is a great man,” Ciryandil said, his eyes shining with pride
and fierce loyalty. “And his brother was also.”
Elvish terms:
lúva is the Quenya name of the “bow” of a Tengwar character, and here
means the wraparound arm of an ambush.
tinco is the Quenya name of a Tengwar character that resembles an unclosed
“P”
glamhoth is Sindarin for “Orc-host”

Love
by Gwyneth
A tall man entered the room that was lit by the fire’s warm shine and sank
into a chair near the fireplace.
The person sitting in another dark-red armchair let a worn-looking book
drop onto his lap and watched his brother, who had closed his eyes for an
instant.
“Reading again?” Boromir asked casually.
A faint smile appeared on Faramir’s face. “Always, you know.”
He paused and they sat quietly for some time, neither of them saying
anything. They both watched the flames flickering within their man-made home
until Faramir spoke again.
“And where have you been the whole evening?”
“In the gardens,” Boromir slowly answered.
The younger one lifted his head, looking into his brother’s tired face.
“Alone?”
”No,” came the not-very-detailed answer.
”You have been out not alone quite often lately,” Faramir remarked.
”Quick noticing you are, dear brother.” There was the hint of a laugh in
Boromir’s voice.
”But I am right, am I not?” Faramir wouldn’t give up.
”Yes, certainly, you are right.”
”Then you are still not tired of meeting her?”
”Of course not,” Boromir said defensively.
“Well, I assumed that,” Faramir returned, smiling.
”Aye, and why are you grinning in such a foolish manner now? Is there
something wrong?”
“Oh, no, I just wondered what was so special about this woman to make
you not wish to meet other women besides her anymore. I remember you being
ever very eager to spend time with more women than just one.” Faramir kept
smiling with a knowing look in his eyes.
Boromir looked annoyedly at him. “Maybe, but what is the matter with it?”
he snapped.
”Do not get angry, brother. Remember it is me. You do not have to justify
or to hide anything from me,” Faramir said softly.
18

Boromir was already about to give a heated answer, but then he changed
his mind and closed his mouth again. He glanced at Faramir, then watched his
own hands.
“All right, all right, you are right. I have been meeting her quite often
lately. I have wondered myself about it, but I do not know what’s happening
either. It is just – I feel good with her. I like meeting her. Like it very much.” He
stopped, searching for some reaction in his brother’s face.
The latter now looked more serious as he spoke again. “You like her very
much, do you not?”
“I do. She is really special. So very gentle-hearted, though passionate too.
And she listens to what I say. She is truly interested in it. She does not just listen
to be polite. And she can be very amusing, you know. You should have seen her
talking about that – “ He broke off at the look in Faramir’s eyes.
”What is it?” Faramir asked.
Boromir hesitated. “Nothing – you just looked at me in a somehow strange
way…”
”Did I? Well, I was just considering if … if you might have fallen in love
with her,” he said in a low voice.
His brother looked at him in surprise. “You think that?”
”Well, yes, indeed. It is the way you are talking about her. You seem to be
relaxed when you are telling what she is like and how she acts. And happy
somehow.”
“You are the first to notice that.” Boromir was obviously irritated by his
brother’s statement, for he seemed not to know what to say.
”Maybe I simply know you better than others do. I am your brother. So –
what do you say? Have you fallen in love with her?”
”I – I do not know. Love … that is a strange thing, is it not?” Boromir was
slightly absent-minded.
“You may be right. It is something very vague.”
”Indeed. And no one can tell you how it has to feel … “
”I know,” Faramir said understandingly. “Listen, if you want to know
what I think about it, I can tell you that I have loved few people in my life – you
are one of those of course, Father as well. I think I loved Mother too.” His eyes
darkened, though the fire’s light was reflected in them. “Therefore I may not be
the ideal person to ask, but although these experiences are so few, there is one
thing I know. Love is a great word that is used for many kinds of affection, but
what is behind it is definitively greater. And it does not help to think much about
it – it just has to be there. And my opinion is that you will know when it is there.”
19

Boromir eyed his brother closely.
“Why are you so wise sometimes, Faramir? I would really like to know
where you get these thoughts from.”
“That is not important now, is it?”
”It is. What should I do without a brother like you giving me wise advice?”
”Well, I am sure you would find another solution.” Faramir’s smiling
expression turned serious again. “Now – is it there? Do you know if there is
something there for her?”
Boromir remained silent for a few moments, then said in a stronger voice,
“I have the feeling there is something, yes. I cannot really define what it is, but
something is there, something good. Maybe I should try to find out what it is
exactly.”
Faramir smiled again. “Do it. I am sure she can call herself a lucky woman
if she is able to cause you these feelings, although they are still undefined.”
”Thank you, brother.” Now Boromir smiled too. “I would really not know
what to do if I had not you to talk about such things. And I shall tell you one
thing, I really believe that the person who is able to cause you such feelings is
even luckier. I am sure you will find this person soon too.”
“And until that day there are you and Father,” Faramir added.
”Of course we are there. And we shall be there still when you have found
someone, I hope.”
20

Grief
by Gwyneth
The person sitting unmovingly in the hard wooden chair at the bedside
watched the woman in the bed absently. His beloved’s face was deathly pale, her
cheeks were hollow, her lips dry. The thought that she might feel as miserable as
she looked was unbearable. He averted his eyes from her and stared at the door.
He could not look at her; he could not bear it. But he had to look at her; he had to
watch her, every single moment, waiting for her to wake up. He had to bid his
farewell.
21
Faramir was searching for his brother. Where was he? He had been looking for
Boromir in his rooms, in all the Citadel, even in the Gardens and in their favourite
tavern, though it was highly unlikely to find his brother in the Gardens, that close to the
Houses of Healing, or in the tavern, in the middle of the day. Now he was looking for him
in the practice yard. Here he finally found his brother. He was practicing swordplay with
one of his friends. His hits were unusually hard; his partner had to work hard to beat back
the attacks. Boromir was a strong man in general, but this time he was hitting on his
partner’s sword with such massive energy that one could believe he was not fighting with
his friend in a practice yard, but against the enemy on the battlefield.
In the noise of the swords hitting against each other, Faramir called, “Here you
are, brother. I have been searching for you.”
Without stopping his fight, Boromir shouted angrily, “What do you want?”
Faramir remained calm. “To talk to you.”
”Do you not see I am occupied here?” The next hit was even harder.
”This is important.”
When no answer came, Faramir walked over to his brother, taking his arm.
Boromir stopped fighting, but snapped angrily at the younger brother, “Do not
touch me, Faramir!” He shook off Faramir’s arm and was about to continue his practice.
”Boromir! Stop that. You are doing yourself no good. Stop it. We have to talk.”
After a moment of hesitation, Boromir threw his sword to the ground—a highly
unusual action for a man of war who cared very much about his arms, like Boromir was.
”So—what is it?” Boromir asked impatiently, turning to Faramir.
”Let us go somewhere else,” Faramir said.

22
”Sit down,” Faramir said in a slightly commanding tone.
”Do not give me orders!”
”Sit down,” Faramir repeated.
Swearing, Boromir sat down onto the stone bench. “So—what is the matter? And
hurry up, I do not have much time!” he murmured reluctantly.
Faramir sighed quietly before also sitting down on the bench beside his brother.
“That is true. There is not much time left.”
Boromir stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
”You know that. You have to go and see her. Now.” Faramir’s voice was quiet and
gentle, in spite of his authoritative tone.
”Why? I can do that later,” Boromir objected.
”You cannot. If you do not go now, it will be too late. I have talked to the healers,
and so have you. You know she has not much time left.”
”She has time! She will recover, she will not leave me!” Boromir breathed heavily.
Reassuringly, Faramir laid his hand on his brother’s arm. “I know it is hard,
brother. Very hard. But you have to. For her sake. She needs you in these last moments.
And for your sake. You will eternally regret it if you do not bid your farewell to her.”
”But she will not leave me! She must not!” the elder man exclaimed.
”You cannot change what has already happened. Accept the destiny. All you can
do is ease her way. Do you want her to die a lonely death? Do you not want to be by her
side, to let her know she is not alone?”
Boromir’s eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t let them escape, “I … I do not know
how to live without her … I … I love her,” he stammered.
”I know.” Faramir stroked his brother’s arm gently. “I know that you love her.
Everyone can see. And she is lucky to be loved by a person like you.”
”Do not call her lucky! Just do not …” Boromir’s voice broke.
”I am sorry, Boromir. I did not want you to misunderstand me. What I wanted to
say is that she can set out for her last journey with the knowledge that someone will
always love her. And you should go and remind her of that.”
”I just cannot … cannot do it.” Boromir’s shoulders were shaking.
”Please, Boromir, please do it. You know that you will regret it forever if you do
not. Take the chance and say your farewell to your love.”
Faramir knew that he had to leave when no answer came anymore. He arose from
the bench, gave the hunched figure of his brother one last look and left him alone.
Boromir would do what was the only right thing to do, hard as it might be.
Faramir knew it.

23
Boromir averted his eyes from the door, forcing himself to look at her
again. She looked so terribly helpless and alone. But the cruelest thing was that
she was still incredibly beautiful, despite the circumstances. Her hollow cheeks,
her pale skin—all that did not matter. Her beauty was so breaktaking that even
these grievous traces of illness could not do it anything.
She was still so beautiful, and the thought of this beauty vanishing in some
cold tomb was worse than anything else. The image of her fair, feathery body
degrading was too much. Boromir was about to turn his head away again not to
see her beauty any longer, when he saw her eyelids flutter. Very slowly she
managed to open her eyes.
In an instant, Boromir bent down to her, laying his hand gently on her face.
He held back the tears behind his eyelids. She needed him now. He had to stay
strong to ease it for her. ”My love,” he whispered. “You are awake.”
Her words were almost inaudible, yet he knew what she was trying to say.
“Boromir.”
Faramir hastened along the hallways. He had just received the news. He
had to see Boromir.
When he had reached the door to their rooms, he paused for a moment to
steady his breath. Then he turned the handle-knob carefully and entered the
room.
His brother sat in some armchair in front of the fireplace, head buried in his
hands. He did not look up at the sound of the door, but remained in his position.
Faramir slowly sat down in the chair next to Boromir. He did not say anything,
for he knew his brother would speak to him when he was ready.
After a while Boromir lifted his head. There were no traces of tears on his
face. This worried Faramir, but he still said nothing.
”She is gone.” Boromir’s voice was raucous and shaky. “I was with her
when she passed away.” He swallowed hard. “She died with a smile on her lips.”
”She could say her farewell to you. That made her happy at the end,”
Faramir watched his brother intently. “Did you cry for her?”
”No.”
”You should cry for her. You loved her, love her still. You should cry for
your love.”

”Do not tell me what I have to do,” Boromir answered sharply.
Faramir remained silent for a while, considering what to do. He knew that
his brother was not the kind of person to cry when he was sad. He preferred to
turn his sadness into anger.
But this was something important that demanded expressing his grief, not
trying to supress it and turn it into other emotions.
”Please, Boromir. Remember—once you told me Father did not cry after
Mother’s death, and he has never come to terms with it. I do not want the same
happen to you. You must not allow your tears to freeze to a big ice-brick inside
you. She was your love and you lost her. Cry for her.”
“I do not want to! Do you hear me? I do not want to. I never cry. The last
time I did was after Mother’s death and I was a child. I am not a child anymore, I
cannot just burst into tears when something happens. I have to cope with this loss
without tears. You yourself said that I should accept the destiny. This I shall try.”
Faramir knew that Boromir did not truly believe in his harshly spoken
words.
He could not come to terms with this loss without dealing with it, and
moreover he had not accepted it yet. He simply did not want to show how hurt
he was.
Maybe he thought if he did not cry, he would not have to admit that he
was broken-hearted, and then he could make himself believe he really was not.
“Alas, Boromir. Of course you have to accept the destiny, for you cannot
change anything about it. But that does not mean to ignore what happened, to
continue with life as usual. Something terrible has happened to you. Everything
has changed. You have to realize this.
“You loved her. Do you want this love to turn into bitterness? And it will, I
swear. It will, if you try to go on as if nothing had ever happened. You cannot
pretend to cope with it. I can see how great your grief is. Why do you not express
it? I know it would be the right thing, and so do you.” Faramir tried to keep his
voice calm, but in reality he was getting desperate. He was afraid he might not be
able to convince his brother of the importance not of letting his grief consume
him, and if that happened, Boromir would never recover from it.
“You do not know anything. Why are you telling me all this? I do not want
to hear it. You do not have to tell me that I love her. I do know that! I know that!
Do you think that makes it easier?” Boromir’s words were angry, but he tried to
steady his shaking voice without success.
“Boromir I know, it is this love that makes it so hard. She was your love.
You were so happy with her. You wanted to have a family with her. And now
24

she is gone, and all your hopes and wishes are, too. That is the cruelest thing that
can ever happen to a person.”
Boromir seemed not to want to hear his brother’s words, but he could not
ignore them. Now Faramir had finally told him the one true thing that Boromir
had carried inside him all the time. He had found the one person he had loved,
he had wanted to make her a part of his life, had already begun doing it, he had
held wishes and hopes for their future together, and now all this was gone at
once. He could not deny this truth any longer. With this realization dawning on
him, one single tear escaped his eyes. Slowly, it rolled down his cheek, then
vanished. Suddenly more tears followed.
Quickly he turned away from Faramir, trying to fight back his tears.
He did not want to cry. Before, he would have been able to cry. When
Faramir had told him to see her, he had almost cried. When he had been at her
side, he had almost cried. But now—now that everything was over, he did not
want to cry anymore. It would be all for nothing.
Yet all the tears came, the tears he had had to hold back for all this time, the
tears he was not allowed to let out for appearances’ sake, for the sake of strong,
being too occupied, for her sake. All these tears came out of him, though he did
not want them to come.
Faramir slowly walked over to him, laying a hand on his brother’s
shoulder.
At the touch Boromir cringed. “Leave me. Leave me alone, Faramir.”
”No. I will stay.” Now he had finally managed to bring Boromir to the
release he needed, he would not leave him alone.
”Go away!” Boromir exclaimed hoarsely.
Faramir did not say anything, but bent down to his brother, embracing him
tightly. Boromir grew stiff and tried to free himself from Faramir’s arms. “Leave
me, leave me, please, Faramir, leave me alone.” The words he murmured through
his tears were not convincing.
”It is all right, Boromir. You can cry now. I will stay,” Faramir whispered
gently.
Now the last bit of Boromir’s self-control was gone. He was shaking
terribly, and Faramir held him even more tightly.
When he finally tried to speak, his words were hardly audible for his sobs.
“She left me. She left me all alone, and I love her so much. How shall I go on
without her?”
”You are not alone, Boromir. I know it feels as if you are, but I am still with
you. “ Boromir just sobbed, head on his brother’s shoulder.
25

”It is all right, brother, all right, just cry for her. Do not let your grief eat at
you. Cry, it is all right. I am with you. I am by your side.”
With that Faramir finished his words, just holding his grieving brother in
his arms. That was the only thing he could do for him now.
26

Sea Food
by Annmarwalk
Author’s note: I don’t mean to imply that this put them off of seafood altogether;
just anything that would actually wiggle its antennae in their faces ahead of time. That’s
just too much intimacy with a breakfast food.
Imrahil had noticed his nephews gazing with fascination at the fishermen’s
children, dropping their lines off the edge of the quay to snare the crabs lurking
below. Was it their simple lives that the boys envied, he wondered, or their utter
fearlessness in handling those worrisome beasts?
With their Nanny’s collusion, he awoke them in the early morning dark.
“Dress quickly, and come with me,” he whispered, as they rubbed the sleep from
their eyes. They did not question, for had he not always plied them with
wondrous surprises?
Barefoot, they padded through the silent marble halls, out the garden gate,
and down to the beach below. Past the dunes, to the rocky outcrops the boys had
seldom visited, deemed too dangerous for the young and unsure of foot.
In the moonlight the tidal pools glimmered, full of mysterious, fey
creatures. Some, like living flowers, waved their petals as if in time to underwater
music; others, hauling their homes on their backs, crawled purposefully along the
sea-mossy rocks. Fiddler crabs scuttled and scurried away.
“Look,” Imrahil whispered, showing them how to snatch a crab from
behind, avoiding the snapping claws. He pulled a featherweight net sack from his
pocket and slipped the crab inside. “Let’s see how many we can gather, shall we?
Slipping and sliding in the squelchy mud, dancing and chasing each other
with the nippy creatures, they laughed until their bellies ached; but still managed
to fill their sack with lively, jostling crabs.
“That’s plenty, good! Now we just need to collect driftwood for the fire,
and some seaweed to bury them in.”
“Why are we burying them, Uncle? We just caught them.” Boromir was still
breathless with giggling.
“We’ll steam them in the seaweed, and then we’ll have them for our
breakfast.”
Instantly all merriment ceased. “Cook them?” They stared at him, aghast.
Imrahil had certainly not expected that reaction. “Yes, of course. Nice and
fresh, plucked straight from - ”
27

“But they’re alive. They’re alive right now.” Boromir poked the squirmy bag
gingerly with his toe. “You can’t just…”
“But I thought you boys liked steamed crabs. You had them the first day
you were here, remember? You cracked open the claws and - ”
“That was different. Those crabs were supper. These crabs are creatures.”
Faramir looked woeful.
“Very well, then,” Imrahil suppressed a sigh, knowing when to concede
defeat. “But what about our breakfast?”
“There were beach-plum bushes, back there on the dunes. We could have
beach-plums for breakfast…” Faramir was already showing signs of a ranger’s
resourcefulness.
“…and that would tide us over until we got home, and had some real
breakfast.” Boromir always was the pragmatic one.
So they took the sack, full of fine crabs, and spilled them out into the water,
watching as the crabs swam happily away.
“Goodbye, crabs! Have a good life!” Faramir chirped. Imrahil coughed,
choking back his laughter.
They headed back down the beach, stopping to sample the beach-plums
along the way. There weren’t very many, and they weren’t quite ripe.
“I hope there’s some breakfast left,” Faramir said in a small voice. “Beach-
plums don’t really fill you up…”
“I hope Cook has fried some fish,” proclaimed Boromir. “I love a nice, fried
fish for breakfast.”
28

Summer 2990, T.A.
Rumours and Memories
by Astara
The constant sound of chalk scratching on the blackboard made Boromir
look up. If it had been caused by some other child the age of seven, he would not
have bothered, but this was his brother who had already mastered the art of
learning his letters. In fact he admired Faramir’s writing skills; their result looked
always neat, even when using a much used quill on a piece of second-hand
parchment.
“Sorry,” the younger boy said.
Boromir smiled. “Try a fresh piece of chalk,” he suggested, then turned his
attention back to the open book on his desk.
Faramir took his brother’s advice, but the scratching continued. It did not
really help to keep track of Mardil Voronwë’s awfully long-winded thoughts on
how to be a good Steward. Finally Boromir realised he was reading the sentences
without actually understanding the words. It annoyed him, but it was also
somewhat disturbing.
He went over to the other desk. A short glance at the blackboard sufficed to
see that his little brother’s writing was far from being neat. “If I’m distracting
you, I’ll go to my room,” Faramir instantly offered and got up.
Their eyes met. A ray of morning sunlight came through the window and
touched the young boy’s face. The look on it plainly alarmed Boromir.
“What’s wrong?!”
“It’s naught.”
“I don’t believe you! What happened?”
“Naught.”
The Steward’s heir rolled his eyes. “Tell me! Did you hurt yourself? Did
someone else hurt you?” Faramir shook his head.
At least his stubborn little brother did not claim anymore that it was
naught. “What is it, then? The dream?” At irregular intervals, Faramir suffered
from a very vivid and horrible dream. It always left him shaken for hours.
Boromir was well-versed in the history of Gondor and therefore knew that
despite the age-wide gap, his brother witnessed the downfall of Númenor.
Another shake of the head was the answer.
”Are you ill?”
29

“Nay.”
Boromir gave him a look. It was a rather good copy of The Look, the one
their father used on people who displeased him. Still, for Boromir victory was no
certain thing when it came to this kind of battle. Faramir was pretty good at
outstaring him.
Not today, though. He broke eye contact quickly, prefering to investigate
the soft, suede shoes he usually wore inside.
“Hey.” The seven-year old looked up again. “Tell me,” Boromir urged. “It
can’t be so horrible that you can’t tell me, right?”
There was a pause. Then: “Did Father love Mother? And did Mother love
Father, too?”
The older boy was taken aback by question, but recovered quickly. “Of
course! How can you even think they didn’t love each other? She always used to
cheer him up when he became too grim for her liking. And sometimes she made
fun of him, especially when we were in Dol Amroth.” He grinned. “One day they
went on a trip in a small sailing boat, and when they returned to the beach, they
were both completely soaked. I don’t know what exactly happened, but Father
didn’t seem to mind at all. He kept laughing, even when she stuck out her tongue
at him!”
Faramir gasped. “Really?” Well, it was hard imagining anyone getting
away with such behaviour.
“Really.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Oh, you can’t. You were but a babe then.” Then realisation hit him. “You
don’t remember much about Mother, do you?”
“Nay.“ Faramir looked sad. “I’m trying, but it doesn’t work well. I
remember her lying in bed all the time because she was so weak. But before she
fell ill, she made me feel all warm and comfortable. And she had a very beautiful,
deep singing voice. She was beautiful anyway.”
“Aye. And she also liked to play with us.” The rather blank look on his
brother’s face confirmed Boromir’s suspicion. “It’s all right that you don’t
remember much. You were too small,” he tried to assure Faramir.
“But I was five already when she died, and that was only two years ago! I
should remember her better…”
In his mind, Boromir searched frantically for something appropriate to say
in order to ease the distress of his little brother. “Well, like it or not, five is still
very young. And when you’re that young, your memories fade very easily.”
Hopefully, Faramir would believe him.
30

“Is that true?”
“Aye. I read it in a book,” Boromir lied without batting an eye. That he was
meeting the other’s inquiring gaze steadily had the desired effect.
“Oh. That’s good,” Faramir finally said.
There remained one thing Boromir wanted to know. “So, what gave you
the idea that Father and Mother weren’t in love?”
“They said they weren’t,” was the instant reply, and the words came
tumbling from Faramir’s mouth. “One said that Father was cold and heartless
anyway, and the other said no, he did love Mother, or her death wouldn’t have
made him feel so bad. And then the first one said that it was Father’s conscience
because he mistreated her and that she missed the sea and hated our city and got
ill because she was afraid of Father and all that…”
Abruptly, the second son of the Steward fell silent, not so much for lack of
breath as for the older’s mien. Boromir was fuming. “I wish they’d choked on
their words! That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard! Who were they? And
how dare they tell such lies even in your presence?!”
Faramir shrugged. “They didn’t see me. ‘Twas yesterday. I was sitting in
Mother’s garden under the big yew tree — you know, the one next to the fish
pond.”
“Then they must at least work up here in the Citadel.“ Boromir did not like
the idea of such malicious liars being near to his family at all. “You didn’t by any
chance recognize their voices?”
The younger boy shook his head. “Nay.”
Boromir was not surprised. His bright little brother must have been
devastated by the tale and in no state to try finding out the speakers’ identity.
And given his behaviour, Faramir was still in shock today. Boromir felt sorry for
him, particularly as he had so few memories of a happier past to counter such
outrageous lies.
“Those evil idiots were talking a bunch of rubbish. It’s so untrue that it isn’t
even worth thinking more about it. They’re simply wrong,” Boromir declared
with passion. Something told him that he had yet to erase the last doubts from his
brother’s mind. If only he hadn’t asked what had caused them…. He sighed.
“Look, some people just aren’t very good at showing their feelings—”
“Like Father?”
“Exactly! But they do have feelings all the same. You don’t believe he
doesn’t love us, do you?” A vigorous shake of the head was the answer. “Well,
see what I mean? That he isn’t always hugs and smiles even when we’re alone
doesn’t mean he doesn’t love us. You know how withdrawn he can be.”
31

“He was terribly quiet when it was the day of Mother’s death last month,”
Faramir mused.
“Aye. And that isn’t because he has a bad conscience or something, but
because he misses her so much.”
Faramir nodded slowly. With great relief Boromir watched as his brother
turned to climb the chair again. Then he had an idea.
“I can tell you what I remember about Mother, and about her and Father, if
you like,” he offered.
Faramir smiled. “Aye. I’d love that!”
32

Journeys in High Places
by Illwynd
Notes: Many thanks to Cressida, Lilan, roh_wyn, and the Inklettes for their advice
and support.
33
For Gondorians, mountains loomed large. Dark and fearsome mountains to the
east, the majestic heights of the White Mountains in the north, and many smaller peaks
scattered across the land so that nearly anywhere one stood in Gondor, mountains teased
the edges of the horizon. Mountains loomed large in the tales told to children; rumors of
Meneltarma still standing from the sea above Atalantë, or a ghost of a legend of the tall
peak Taniquetil in Valinor. The mountains of Gondor were strong, deep-rooted and fair.
To live in their shadow was to have joy at the sight.
But mountains, however lovely to look upon, are not the kindest of companions…
T.A. 3006
Minas Tirith
Arrayed around the table sat half a dozen men, and all eyes were focused
on the old Ranger Captain who stood at its head. Even in the garb of city folk, he
had a strange, weather-beaten quality to his appearance. It suited his task; he
spoke at length of the season of training and instruction before these men, all of
whom had been named by Lord Denethor as Captains of exceeding quality,
capable of leading a Company of Rangers.
Faramir listened attentively as the man described what they would be
taught; the tactics used by the Ranger companies and the skills of secrecy in the
wilderness. Faramir already had studied as much of these as he could; accounts
of old skirmishes that detailed Ranger methods were abundant in the libraries of
Minas Tirith, and he had read them voraciously. Just as much enthusiasm had he
put into his practice with the bow, principal weapon of the Rangers. He wasn’t
sure when the idea of gaining a Captaincy of the Rangers had come to him, but as
soon as it had he had known for certain that it was there that his skills could be
put to their best use. Denethor had given his grudging acceptance when Faramir

asked him to be named as one of those chosen that season to complete the
training. The Steward knew quite well his younger son’s competence in his
current command, and worried only for the inconvenience of having Faramir
argue with his decisions via messenger from Ithilien, rather than face-to-face; he
had secretly grown fond of their verbal sparring matches.
After a week of instruction and practice maneuvers on the empty fields
south of the Pelennor, the prospective Ranger Captains were allowed a day and a
night in the City to prepare for the next part of their training—a fortnight in
Ithilien to learn all they could of this land that had lain empty, a place of clash
and fray, since before any of these men reached their father’s knees. They had all
studied maps, but there were things and places no map would show.
Faramir had decided to put the day to good use, indulging in the home
comforts that he would miss during the rest of the training, so consequently he
was dozing in his chamber with a full belly by late afternoon. Thus he also
missed seeing his brother’s company returning home, and he was taken by
surprise when he was roused by a tap at the door. Without waiting for a reply,
the door swung open and Boromir strode through. Faramir’s eyes flew open, and
within a moment he was jumping up to embrace his brother.
“Boromir! I didn’t know you would be coming!” Faramir was delighted to
be able to see his brother before he left. Since both had become Captains they
weren’t often both in the city at once, and hardly ever for very long.
“Well, my company wasn’t due any leave for a few more weeks, but when
I heard the news, I pushed it forward a bit.” Boromir said with a shrug.
“News?” Faramir said, momentarily confused.
“That you are to become a Captain of the Rangers! Father mentioned it in
his last message to me.”
“So you came to wish me well?”
“Aye, though I’m sure you’ll do fine. But more than that, I will be going
with you.”
Faramir was surprised… no, he was shocked. “Why? Surely you have no
desire to captain a Ranger company? You will be Captain-General soon enough,
whenever old Orodreth decides to step down. We both know you will be, even at
your age!”
“All the more reason. The Captain-General should be familiar with every
portion of Gondor’s armies. I’ve been meaning to do this for a while, and what
better time than now, when I can do so with you? I can think of no better
companion, particularly on the last portion of the training.”
34

“I know your excuses by now. You must simply have realized that here is a
feat of strength and fortitude for which you are not yet renowned in Gondor.
How could you have not thought of it before?” Faramir laughed.
“You misjudge me; in truth I fear that if I do not accompany you, I will lose
my little brother to Ranger methods. The next thing you know, you would be
telling me that any tactics but ambush and secrecy are poorly thought-out and
reckless, ai!” Boromir chuckled, answering the jibe in kind; the brothers often
argued over tactics as it was. After a contemplative moment, Boromir leaned
close to his brother and said, grinning solicitously, “What I would like to know is
what mountains have to do with the Rangers of Ithilien.”
Faramir answered, “I suppose it is that it is difficult. Those who can cross
the mountains have skill and strength of mind enough, what can they not do?”
“Perhaps true,” Boromir said, sitting down beside his brother on the bed.
“So, now, you will fill me in on what I’ve missed in training thus far?”
35
Two weeks in Ithilien had flown by. The trainees had trekked across the
lands, met many of the Rangers currently stationed there, been shown several
secret places, and had practiced at creeping across the lands unseen and unheard.
All of them had done so before at higher stakes, for all were experienced
warriors, but they pushed themselves ever to improve. They practiced night
maneuvers; Rangers would fight at night more often than others, by necessity or
design, and doing so required great skill and much practice, for the enemy had
the advantage of troops who could see in the darkness better than any man. They
learned many things known only to the Rangers, of which I can tell no more here.
And at last the time came for the final test of their skill. For this they traveled
back across the River, and past the City, and into Anórien, under the shadow of
the White Mountains.
The small encampment of a half dozen tents was set up near a little stand
of trees and a pond fed by a mountain stream. For two days all the men rested
and stored up their strength. By daylight and firelight, there was quiet
conversation and an undercurrent of anticipation.
“I have heard there are three companies of Rangers in need of a Captain,”
one of the younger men, Cirion, said idly to his companions, “two of them newly
formed.”
None of them had yet mentioned this. With the exception of Boromir, all of
these men hoped to be granted one of those Captaincies, yet even if they all

proved themselves worthy, two would return to their former companies emptyhanded.
“I can wait, if it comes to that,” said Hador. “There may be more… in
future years.”
Another, a man named Daeron, sniffed and looked around the loose circle
of men who sat near the fire. “Then you can do so. I have been requesting this for
three years; that is long enough,” he said, with a grim look.
This was typical of Daeron, from what Faramir remembered from the few
occasions that they had met. The man conducted himself with a sort of strenuous
correctness; he was rigid as a dried reed in his insistence on following all of
Gondor’s oldest customs, even those less practical at that time. This had made
him not particularly well-loved by the men under his command, and among the
other Captains the rumor was that he thought too much of himself for too little
reason. Faramir thought of him differently, though. He sensed in the man a
purity of purpose—here was another who loved what the sword protected,
rather than the sword itself.
Coming back to himself, Faramir heard Hador speak. “How can you be
certain you will even pass the test?”
“I cannot be certain, but I know it,” Daeron said smugly.
“Is that a boast I hear, Daeron? I am surprised at you!” Hador laughed. His
manner was the opposite of Daeron’s, though he was no less determined.
“There is no boast in stating the obvious,” Daeron replied, earning him an
elbow in the ribs from Hador.
“Time will tell, my friend.”
36
Each day, a pair of men set off up the mountain, up the long trail. Though
the journey would take several days, they went only lightly burdened, with a
small pack containing the barest necessities. Any competent man can do well
when fully supplied and comfortable, but Rangers did not always have this
luxury; it was their lot to do much with little, and in this, these men would have
to prove their ability.
The brothers were the third and last pair to leave, after Daeron and Hador.
The sun had barely risen when they began, walking swiftly along the grassy path
across rolling fields of long grasses and tiny yellow flowers, and soon
disappearing from sight.

They walked through ever-changing landscapes. Oaks over green-shaded
floor thick with a mould of brown leaves in which little creatures scuttled gave
way to larches and firs. The dark soil at their feet sloped up and became
interspersed with fields of boulders and great stones amongst the trees. They
scrambled over these when no path led around them.
And sometimes the path was clear, but often it was not. It was crossed in
places with other trails unmarked on the one old faded map they had studied of
this mountain. Deer trails, they supposed, after starting down a few when the
way was uncertain. It was plain enough which path was theirs when the other
twisted and turned wildly (though Boromir had briefly and wryly mused that the
deer might have chosen better routes than men had). In other places they caught
sight of old, broken paving stones at their feet, and these were somehow
heartening; men in bygone days had walked here, when the danger of war was
less in Gondor and folk could spend their time on such things as climbing
mountains for the dream of seeing as far and clearly as eagles. And in other
places, no path at all was evident.
They spoke a little bit, cheerfully and on topics of small importance, and
their thoughts dwelt on the road ahead.
Faramir’s thoughts were on many things. When they had begun, he had
noticed most the beauty all around him. There was something enthralling about
being where he had never been before, discovering these old paths as if he were
the first to walk them. Little glimpses of loveliness in the wilds caught his eye—a
vine of blue flowers climbing from the ground to the web of boughs above, a
quick glimpse of the far pale peaks swathed in clouds, a shaft of yellow sunlight
that struck on a hare dashing quickly away from them at the sound of their
footfalls. Even the rustle of the wind, the far-off songs of birds, and the green
scent of leaf and moistness all around stirred him. He had wished that he could
devote his full attention to these things, but that was not his purpose here, he
knew.
But as the time passed, his thoughts began subtly to change. Without
realizing it, he began to slip effortlessly into a different sort of consideration: a
Ranger’s way of thinking. The terrain, growing harder and steeper by the hour,
was neither adversary nor hindrance, but instead was abundant with advantage.
Here was a place where he could easily conceal himself, there a stand of trees on
the hill could be defended by only a handful of Rangers for as long as was
needed. The leaves of that herb could be made into a poultice for aches, and the
underbark of that tree could stanch the bleeding of a wound.
37

But wherever his thought wandered, his effort was focused on one thing:
keeping up with Boromir. This was no easy task, and perhaps no other man
could have done it.
Boromir’s enthusiasm for the crossing of mountains had grown from a
somehow detached interest to a blazing excitement when Thurinir, the old
Ranger Master, had mentioned that while they would only be considered to have
passed the test if they crossed in less than eleven days, no man before had done it
in less than eight.
“Seven,” Boromir had whispered behind tented fingers. “We will do it in
seven.” Determined that it should be so, the pace he had set when they started off
had been like a wind, and had not slacked. He had quickly found great joy in
pitting himself against the mountain. The harder it became, the more he thrilled
at it. His weariness, the ache in his limbs at day’s end, felt much like the end of a
victorious battle, but one without any losses or darkness to dampen his cheer.
38
On the second day, the path climbed more steeply than before, and to one
side the ground fell away into a steep ravine. A trickle of water could be heard
from its depth, though what stream it might join on its course was uncertain.
When they paused to catch their breaths and refresh themselves, Faramir leapt
from rock to rock to a point where he suspected he would be able to look out over
the lands below, and he gasped at the sight. League upon league of deep green
stretched out into the distance, where it faded to the pale green-gold of low
fields. The horizon faded into a pale haze, and the sky above was a perfect
cloudless blue. He gazed out at all this for a long moment, feeling the wind on his
face, then turned away to find Boromir standing a little behind him perched on
another of the boulders. He too looked into the distance.
“Just wait until we are further up; the views from the high places are said
to be magnificent.” Boromir said, clapping a hand to Faramir’s shoulder. “For
now, we should press on.”
The road continued to weave upward, the deep gorge growing yet deeper
upon their right until no sound of water or rustle of leaves could be heard from
its depths. To their left the boulder-strewn hill grew taller until it leapt up to
become a steep slope of stony soil, bare and dark and treacherous-looking.
Behind it the sun was hid and the path grew dim and chill. Though the sky above
was still clear and blue, and the wind still stirred a little, no sounds could be
heard; no small creatures scuttled down in the gorge, no birds sang, no crickets

chirped. It was a silence like of the tomb. Only their breaths and quiet footfalls
broke the silence.
For a while they walked along this gloomy path without speaking, both
hastening forth in the hope of coming to some wider place before darkness fell
truly. Boromir glanced over at his brother. Faramir’s face showed his usual calm
determination, but Boromir suspected it concealed some uneasiness. He felt the
same, but would not have admitted it. He pursed his lips to whistle to drive away
this dreary silence, then remembered how when they were younger he had often
done so, deliberately off-key, until Faramir would plug his ears with his fingers
and give him a scathing look. No, not the best idea just at the moment, he
thought.
At long last he saw sunlight slanting down before them on the path, and
heard small forest noises start again around them. The high slope had again
dropped, dropped down to level ground, and they came then to a little bowl of a
field at the knees of the mountains.
But daylight was waning anyhow.
“We should be able to make it to the far trees before darkness. I dislike the
idea of making our camp here in the open…” Faramir said.
To Boromir it seemed strange to worry over sleeping in the open in such a
place; they were both accustomed to making camp in wide-open fields, though,
he admitted, only with large numbers of men, and scouts watching the lands all
around. But he had no objection to going further before that night’s rest.
Across the field, with a nearly moonless night falling they halted. They
would not risk losing the way so soon into the journey by continuing on in
darkness. There they lay their staves aside, nibbled a little of their store of
waybread in silence, and bedded down on the soft earth at the feet of an old tree.
They fell quickly into sleep.
Late that night when the sliver of moon had long since set, the sky was
grey with clouds. The wind howled, whistled through the high branches, and
sent them creaking. Each cold gust further chilled the cloak-wrapped figures that
slept at the base of the sprawling tree. Rain began to fall, pattering on the leaves
above, and dripping through in heavy drops. Boromir stirred briefly, tugged his
cloak up to cover his face onto which a raindrop had just fallen, and fell back
asleep. The night wore on.
39

When day dawned, the clouds were skimming away above, but the air was
still cold and wet. They awoke shivering; the tree had provided some shelter, but
their cloaks were damp and heavy. Faramir sat up, rubbing his arms to warm
them. Very shortly, their packs were hefted once more and, staves in hand, they
continued along the trail through the forest. The ground was wet and boggy and
swathed in flowing mists, making for treacherous footing as the path grew
steeper.
By midday they had come to the end of the sparse forest. The limbs of the
last trees creaked with a sheen of ice over the frost-patched ground. As they
rested briefly, Faramir began gathering up fallen branches, breaking them over
his knee.
“Do you think we will need that?” Boromir asked, eyeing him. “We would
go faster without the extra burden.”
“That is true, but we don’t know what we will meet higher up, if it is
already so cold here. And we won’t take too much,” Faramir replied.
“You are likely right,” Boromir mused, nodding. “And we would surely
want a fire if we didn’t bring any wood, I guess.”
They also took this last chance to find a trickle of water through a tiny iceladen
streambed and fill their bottles.
They made their way up without marker or trail for many hours, through
places where nothing grew but dark, stunted bushes and sun-blanched clumps of
grass, and over piled stones as big as houses, bounding nimbly from one to the
next. They scrambled up hills of scree, and dark stones the size of fists tumbled
noisily down in their wake. They climbed low cliffs, wedging fingers and feet
into any tiny crack or crevice they could find, as if they were born to it. Boromir
found himself grinning as he was reminded of their secretive exploits of years
ago, climbing the inner walls of the White City to stand upon rooftops and stare
out at the horizon.
The air, already chill, soon became utterly cold. It seemed to carry scents of
winter and ice from above; a hint of blue shadows stood beyond the darker peaks
that loomed above their heads. It does not seem so when one looks at mountains
from afar, but all mountains deceive: when a climber thinks he has reached the
topmost precipice, he often looks out and sees yet another, taller and more
treacherous, beyond it.
Soon they found themselves staring up a long expanse of pure whiteness
that led to the peak. All was cold and colorless, and the sky was pale though the
sun shone brightly enough they had to squint against its light. Their breaths
made plumes of mist. After a little while, footprints could be seen in the thin
40

covering of snow; the ever-blowing winds had not yet wiped away all trace of
previous travelers.
“They must be just ahead of us,” Boromir said, eyeing these tracks. “We
might overtake them.”
Faramir saw his expression and suppressed a laugh. He knew his brother’s
nature well, but he did not share his need to be first in everything he did.
They found themselves walking along a trench between stony walls, with
snow to the top of their boots. Around a bend, they suddenly did come upon
Daeron and Hador. The two men were sitting, resting on a small boulder facing
the south, so that they did not see the brothers for a moment.
“They rest so often that they are overtaken!” Boromir suddenly called out,
laughing. The two men whirled around wide-eyed and jumped up to greet them.
Hador bowed slightly, his hands on his breast. “Mayhap it is so, but there
are leagues to go yet,” he said. “And how fare you?”
“Well enough,” Faramir answered. “And you?”
“Not badly, but for this cold! When I reach the other side, I will petition to
have this testing moved to Belfalas. Much more comfortable weather!” Hador
said, feigning a shiver.
“Don’t mind him; he’s too soft,” Daeron said, glancing sideways at his
companion and smirking.
“Yes, so you keep telling me.”
Boromir and Faramir exchanged an amused look over their banter, and
after only a minute more, the two pairs parted ways; Daeron insisted on finishing
their rest, and Boromir was itching to go forward again.
The brothers trudged on for some time. The snow grew deeper as they
went until they sank up to their knees in it, and they felt as if it clung to their
boots, so slow was their progress. Boromir panted with exertion; his pack had
grown heavy and his head had grown light, but with the cold, he did not want to
stop. At least walking kept him a little warmer than he would have been, he
thought. Then he glanced over to see Faramir nearly stumble, dragging his feet
through the snow as if walking while sleeping, hunched over against the wind.
“We should rest,” Boromir said, pausing to catch his breath. “We spent too
much of our strength away… yonder…” He gestured down the mountain.
“No… it is just the air… too cold, too thin,” Faramir said. “We will grow
used to it…” He was resting his hands on his knees as he tried to keep himself
upright.
“Here, sit… we will rest for just a few minutes… not for too long,” Boromir
said, sinking down into the snow, unable to care about the seeping cold. He had
41

never felt so weary in his life. He shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand,
and did not even realize as he closed them.
He dreamed. In the dream, he clung by his fingertips to the side of a cliff in
the middle of a roaring wind. He felt battered by the wind, and terribly cold.
Somehow he did not know what had become of Faramir—had he fallen? Did he
also cling to the edge, perhaps calling out for help? Boromir was unable to turn
his head to look. He felt the stone against his cheek, and saw only the darkness
around him. Horror had welled up inside him as he had called out his brother’s
name over and over, and heard no reply. Unable to hold on any longer, he had
found himself falling, and awoke with a start. He felt stifled. He struggled to
wakefulness, pushing away the fog in his mind and the remnants of the dream.
He understood, underneath his half-frozen confusion, the terrible situation they
were now in. At least an hour had passed. Night was falling, and he could barely
see Faramir beside him, sunken down into a snow drift with his head on his pack.
Scuffling to his knees, he leaned over his brother. Faramir’s face looked terribly
pale, and he did not stir.
“Faramir,” he said as he lifted his brother’s shoulders from the snow and
drew him close, “awaken, it is too cold…” His teeth chattered and he felt his
lower lip crack painfully as he spoke. His blood tasted of thin salt on his tongue.
He wrapped his cloak around them both and pressed Faramir’s hands between
his own. They were like ice. He pleaded and shook him, and silently condemned
himself for falling asleep and endangering them both. He could not think clearly,
or he might not have been in such a panic—breath misted softly from Faramir’s
mouth: he was only deeply asleep and very chilled.
“I was dreaming of a fire, of being warm… why did you wake me?”
Faramir suddenly asked in a sleepy whisper, without opening his eyes.
“Because we should not have fallen asleep! Up! Up!” Boromir said. His
voice was harsh in the cold, thin air, and his fear made it more so. More softly, he
added “we can make a fire, if you want, but first you must get up.”
The urgency in his brother’s voice cut through the calm of Faramir’s dream,
and he too struggled to wakefulness.
They got to their feet and dusted the snow from themselves. “I thought for
a moment… your hands were so cold… not that mine are much warmer,”
Boromir said with an apologetic grin. “So, do you say it is time for our fire?”
“No… no, we should save it. We should go on for a little, find some sort of
shelter,” Faramir said slowly, flexing his fingers. They seemed to burn a little as
they warmed; he stuck them quickly under his cloak.
42

Several hours later, Boromir sat huddled in his cloak in the dark, shivering
and breathing on his hands. The wind here never stopped, and the snow it blew
against his face pricked like little knives. Three days before, in the gentle breezes
and comparable warmth on the knees of the mountain, he could not have
imagined being so miserable. This was a cold beyond the winters he had known.
But he had to endure it. He sat without moving: Faramir was curled up asleep
against him, sharing his warmth. They had deemed it too dangerous for them
both to sleep in this cold after their first dreadful error. So here he sat, through
half the long night. The darkness was not complete; the moon was still in the sky,
and the snow reflected its silver light, but it did him little good. All that he could
see by it was the blowing whiteness and the darkness of the rock they sheltered
near.
More than half the night actually passed before he woke his brother.
Faramir had been sleeping so soundly, it had seemed a shame to wake him, and
he had waited until he felt he could not last another minute. As soon as Faramir
had assured him several times that he was fully awake, Boromir fell quickly
asleep.
He woke in the first light of morning to find Faramir smiling at him oddly.
“What is it?” he said, stretching and rubbing at his eyes.
“You would not believe what I saw in the darkness, perhaps an hour ago,”
Faramir said.
Boromir looked around worriedly—what could be wandering here? There
were, he had heard, some wolves and other beasts that didn’t mind the cold, and
would even hunt at the mountain peaks, though what they hoped to catch aside
from snow-hares, he wasn’t sure. “What did you see?”
“Daeron and Hador. They are apparently quite determined not to be the
last to make it across the mountain.”
“They were walking at night?” Boromir asked in disbelief.
Faramir nodded. “They claimed they had only just started, and must have
only camped a little way behind us.”
“Well. Then we had better get going also. A race is what they will have, if
they want it!” Boromir said, grinning and getting to his feet.
As they started off again, there was a new peak before them. This time
there was no mistaking it; it was the final summit, and it loomed above them,
jutting into the clouds. A cliff a little ways up could be seen to skirt it and pass
over to the other side. In the crisp morning air it seemed like only a short jaunt
would take them to it.
43

As they walked, Boromir would from time to time glance up with a
worried look. He did not know why he was suddenly uneasy, but the feeling did
not go away. Faramir too began turning his eyes the same direction. By his guess,
Hador and Daeron would likely be at the peak now, or approaching it; their lead
was not so great. And somehow, he too was uneasy.
The feeling still lingered when they reached the top, though for a while
they noticed it less. They had learned to conserve their strength in the deep snow,
and their steady pace took them swiftly upward. And now they were as high up
as they could go without scaling the ice-sheeted cliffs to the uppermost summit.
Faramir called a halt, though there was no need to say it; the view would
have stopped any man in his tracks. They stood side by side looking out to the
south, and it seemed that spread before them was the whole of Gondor. From
that height, nothing of the features of the land could be seen but for the nearer
mountains and hills that seemed so small now. Beyond that there was only an
expanse of green and brown, mottled with blue cloud-shadows, and a far-off
glint of water.
“Do you think… no, that cannot possibly be the sea, can it?” Faramir said
as if to himself. He was utterly entranced. He forgot the cold and the wind and
everything else, and just looked out at this magnificent sight.
“Perhaps a bend in the River?” Boromir answered, shrugging.
After a few moments, Faramir sighed. “It is beautiful. More than I had
dreamed it would be.”
His brother glanced over at him and smiled idly. He agreed, of course.
They were broken out of their reverie by a strange sound. It began softly, as
a deep rumbling in the ground beneath their feet, and in moments it was a roar as
if the mountain was tearing itself apart. From somewhere far off, there came a
sound on the wind of men crying out in terror.
As one, the brothers raced to the far side of the path where it sloped down
again, from whence the sound seemed to come. Some distance to the side and
below, the snow rolled, tumbled, fell as a great swath. At the near edge of the
devastation, perhaps three furloughs away, two small figures could be seen
fleeing, but they moved too slowly. They were overtaken, and disappeared into
the whiteness.
Before the rush of snow even ceased, Boromir and Faramir were running.
The deep snow made the going hard, but somehow they dashed through it
without stumbling, following the path made by the last two men. Their packs
clattered on their backs. They did not stop until they reached the broken, churned
path of the avalanche where the last footsteps stopped.
44

“I cannot spot them; can you see any trace of them?”
Faramir shook his head in response.
“Then we must search… down the hill. They would have been pushed
down more from here.”
“I think you are right. Take care, though; it is said that oftentimes more
snow will tumble after the first, and it may happen at any moment,” Faramir
said, catching his brother’s arm before he started away. “And we must work
quickly for their sakes as well as our own. They will not live long under the
snow, if they still live at all.”
They separated, weaving through the deep tumbled drifts, each poking his
staff far under the snow, seeking with every step, feeling for something other
than hard stone beneath.
Minutes flew by. Faramir was no longer in sight. Would they find either of
the men alive, or find them at all? Boromir wondered. It seemed unlikely, but that
mattered little. They would search the whole mountainside if they must.
Just as he thought this, the end of his staff met something soft. His heart
leapt. Throwing the staff aside he began to dig in the snow frantically. The thin
leather of his gloves did little against the sharp ice fragments and the seeping
cold, and his fingers were soon numbed of all feeling, but he did not notice. He
tore through the snow, tossing it aside in great handfuls. It was thickly packed
and heavy, and by the time he had dug down a couple of feet he was fully
exhausted by the effort, but would not pause even to breathe. At last he stood in
a cleft up to his chest, and the man’s feet were uncovered. As gingerly as he
could, he cleared more snow away and pulled.
He had at last freed the man… but no breath steamed from his mouth, and
the snow beneath him was much too red. Boromir slumped down against the
snow for a moment, his mind blank of any thoughts that he could later
remember. He could hear his heart thudding in his chest as he pulled himself out
of the pit. He felt he was moving slowly, too slowly.
Retracing his steps he sought Faramir, and found him in a flurry of
digging. Wordlessly, he dropped to his knees and helped.
Without pausing, Faramir glanced over at him. “What did you find?” he
asked, already sure of the answer just by the look on Boromir’s face.
“Hador. Beyond any rescue,” Boromir breathed heavily, jaw clenched. “It
would not be right to… bring back what is left of him. We will build him a cairn
of snow, after this.”
They continued digging in silence.
A hand suddenly burst from the snow below them.
45

Faramir gasped and took hold of it. “Daeron! We are here, we will dig you
out.”
He kept his hold on Daeron’s hand as they dug carefully around it, and in
moments they had him uncovered.
The man was dazed. A gash on his brow was bleeding in slow dregs, and
his unfocused eyes flitted back and forth between the two brothers. “Hador…
where is… Hador?” the man said, his breath wheezing and labored.
“Stay still,” said Faramir. “Are you badly wounded?”
“I do not know… my leg aches…” Daeron said.
Carefully, Faramir’s fingers sought for injuries. The man hissed in pain as
Faramir touched his right leg, below the knee. Boromir looked on.
Leaning close to Boromir, Faramir whispered, “It is shattered. He will not
be able to walk alone. And I think that is not his worst injury. Do you see his
eyes? He must have taken a bad knock on the head; I am amazed he can still
speak.”
Just then another rumble was heard. They froze, looking up the slope. High
above, a flicker of movement could be seen, and they did not wait to see more.
Boromir plucked Daeron from the snow, leaving the tattered remains of
Daeron’s pack behind in the hole they had dug. Faramir had already leapt out,
and was casting glances all across the landscape, looking for an escape.
“Go, Faramir! Run! I will follow!”
Faramir dashed westward, the shortest way out of the path of the falling
sweep of snow. The roar grew and grew until it was deafening, and he was sure
that in another moment he would be carried away into the whiteness. He felt that
he was shouting, but could not even hear his own voice. All he could do was
plunge onward through the snow, and hope that Boromir was behind him.
The roaring stopped not a moment too soon, for just as he skidded to a halt,
he saw that the ground fell away steeply before him. He whirled around. Boromir
was only a dozen paces behind him, and slowing to a lope. Behind him, the last
bits of snow still tumbled.
Boromir sank down to his knees immediately, and set Daeron down before
him. The man’s breath still wheezed, but his eyes were no longer open. Boromir,
his face haggard with weariness, looked up at where Faramir stood, and then
looked down at the injured man again.
“Our path is now gone… we will have to find another way down. And you
cannot carry him the whole way.”
Boromir nodded but said nothing.
46

Faramir thought for a moment, then shucked off his cloak, laid it over their
staves, and cut a few lengths from his rope to secure it. Boromir watched until his
breath returned, then quietly set to binding Daeron’s wounds. The cut on his
brow had stopped bleeding, likely from the cold, so the leg first, he thought. One
of the longer sticks of their firewood (which had, thankfully, stayed secured to
his pack as he ran) served well to splint the break. He removed his own cloak and
wrapped the unconscious man in it. Together they lifted him onto the litter,
picked it up, and headed off.
They trekked along for some time seeking for some sort of path downward,
but the mountain offered none. The stretch on which they stood seemed only to
lead either up or back to the treacherous leeward slope from which they had only
just escaped.
Boromir walked behind, and he watched Daeron’s face grow whiter as the
minutes passed. “We need to get down,” he said suddenly, “to someplace where
we can warm him. Our only choice is to go back, and hope that the slope will be
safer now.”
“We should not go back,” Faramir said.
“Then how do you say we get him down from here?” The day was wearing
away at Boromir’s nerves. “Not to mention ourselves!” He was too tired to keep
the edge out of his voice.
“We keep looking,” Faramir said calmly.
Boromir opened his mouth to loudly disagree, but he was cut off by a
whimper.
“Cold…” Daeron stuttered.
They stopped immediately. “Here, try to drink some water. I’ve kept it
under my cloak; it should be a little warm, and it will help,” Faramir said,
crouching down beside him.
Daeron sipped at the water then weakly handed it back. He seemed to have
a hard time keeping his eyes open.
“Are you feeling any better?” Faramir asked.
“My leg still aches… and I’m very cold… but it is not too bad,” Daeron
said, grimacing as he tried to smile.
“Good. We are going to get you down the mountain, now. You’ll be warm
soon. We will build a fire…”
Faramir straightened up and turned to Boromir. His expression was grave.
“All right. We will try it your way. Maybe it will be faster.”
So they turned back the way they had come. Without the panic of the
avalanche bearing down upon them it seemed to take a great deal longer, though
47

it was not really so far. At last they reached the churned snow which hid their
true road.
“Stay to the edges. The snow should be less deep there,” Boromir said as
they started down.
They were able to make their way down in that place, but it was far from
simple. The danger was great, and without their cloaks, the cold seemed to get
into their very bones, slowing their progress further. In places the slope was
steep; difficult enough for one man to walk down, but nearly impossible for two,
carrying another. And the covering of snow did not grow less, but instead
became even deeper in places, so that instead of plunging on through it, one
would wait with Daeron, listening for the slightest rumble that could signal
disaster, while the other forged a path.
A harrowing hour of nervous passage later, they had reached the bottom of
the slope. The path was still nowhere in sight, but they felt they could guess at
the right direction well enough, and indeed the terrain left them few options.
The sky above was darkening over with thick clouds, though there were
still a few hours before nightfall.
“I do not like the look of those clouds,” Boromir said, sniffing at the air.
“And the air smells of a storm.”
Faramir nodded. “Now would be a good time for our fire… and some sort
of shelter.”
Between two huge stones they set up a camp for the night. Somehow the
ground was clear of snow there, and the stones shielded the spot from most of
the wind. Daeron had at last revived, and sat to one side propped up against a
smaller boulder as the brothers reclaimed the materials of the litter and built a
small tent with them. The fire they made near it reflected its heat off the boulders,
and soon all three were huddled around its flickering light, significantly warmed.
For the first time since morning, they were able to rest.
Too soon, a light snow began to fall, and they retreated into their shelter. In
the close quarters the brothers sat near the front of the tent while Daeron lay with
his wounded leg stretched out and gazed at the fire.
“You did not tell me what became of Hador,” he said after a while.
Boromir pressed his hands to his eyes for a moment before answering. The
day’s difficulties had mostly kept his mind from the place where he had left the
unfortunate man. “I found him, under the snow as you were. But he did not
survive the tumult.” The strange thought came to his mind, then, that while the
mountain’s whim had killed Hador (and this, a death with no purpose, seemed to
48

him more terrible than to die in battle), the mountain had also likely given him
his burial.
Daeron nodded, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.
“I am sorry, Daeron,” Faramir said, looking kindly at the wounded man.
He had seen that, though they vexed each other, Daeron and Hador had become
fast friends during the weeks of training. “He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was.” Daeron answered quietly. Seeming to withdraw into
himself, he went on in a monotone, “I try to remember what happened before…
before the snow began to crumble, but it is all a haze. He had just been speaking
of something, I do not remember what, and then we heard it. We ran, but it
moved too quickly. Just before I was swept away, I felt him clutch my hand, but I
could not hold on. We were torn apart. When you found me, I was sure that it
was he…”
Daeron hid his face and wept silently, and neither Boromir nor Faramir
seemed to be able to find any words to comfort him.
As twilight fell, Boromir emerged from the makeshift shelter, and went to
stand near the great stone and gaze out. The view was unimpeded by other
peaks—they were still quite high up. Although the clouds above the mountains
were dark with snow, in the distance the sky was rayed with sunset colors, and
the far fields faded in a warm haze. His thoughts lingered on Daeron’s words, the
helplessness in his voice as he told of Hador’s last moments. The helplessness of
being unable to prevent such a loss… There could be nothing worse, he thought.
He had feared such a thing, in the back of his mind, when he had learned of
Faramir’s intention to join the Rangers, and he feared it again now as he looked
out toward the horizon.
“How long can it last?” he whispered, and only then noticed that Faramir
had come to stand beside him.
Faramir looked askance.
Boromir sighed. He had not meant to voice this thought, and most
particularly not to his little brother. He was glad that the shadow to the east was
hidden behind the mountains, for from his vantage at that moment, their land
looked so… unchangeable. It seemed wrong, impossible, that it might someday
fall under the shadow, but he knew well that it was not just possible, but likely.
“How long can we hold off the dark day that we dread? Will it come during our
lives? Will we be able to protect… all of this?”
He felt Faramir’s hand on his, and heard him say “There is no way to
know. But we will do what we can, if that day comes. That is all we can do.”
49

He turned to his brother and, in an agitation of feeling that he could never
quite explain, quickly pulled him into his embrace. “Yes, yes we will.”
Boromir would never forget that moment. It would later spur him to ever
bolder strategies. He had always favored these, but it seemed senseless after that
moment to act in any other way, or not to strike back at the Enemy with all the
force and fierceness that men could muster. It became his dream to make the
Dark One pay so dearly for his forays that no Orc would dare cross into Gondor,
at least while Boromir, Captain of Gondor, lived. But of that another time.
It was some while after dark that the storm clouds let loose their fury. The
wind howled and beat at the little shelter, and thick wet snowflakes drove down,
illuminated eerily by the lightning. Thunder rumbled and crashed in wrath.
Faramir wondered at all this during his watch—he had never before heard
thunder during a snowstorm. None of the three seemed to sleep for more than a
few minutes at a time for the whole of the night.
When day came, the storm still showed no signs of stopping, though the
thunder had quit. The embers of their fire had sputtered away under the snow,
and their wood was gone. Most unsettling, though, was that Daeron had
worsened in the night. He would open his eyes and seem to take heed when
Boromir or Faramir spoke, but would then slip back into a listless languor.
Faramir, who had been satisfied that Daeron would recover quickly, was
now thrown into doubt. “What should we do? I fear if we wait out the storm, he
will not last. But it is warmer here than it would be, out in the winds…”
“I do not know,” Boromir answered. He had stood outside just a few
minutes before, and had stared upward, trying to get a sense of the sky through
the haze of falling snow, but with little success. He had thought the clouds
seemed less dense, but it might have been a trick of the early light. “But the
longer we wait to decide, the deeper the snow will be if we do go.”
For minutes, neither spoke. The snow fell steadily outside, and all was
quiet. Faramir furrowed his brow and stared downward at nothing, weighing
their options in his thought. Boromir stared out. To him it seemed more and more
that there was but one choice. When at last their eyes met again, it seemed they
had both reached their decision. With a slight nod, they began gathering their
things up and preparing to leave,
When all was made ready and Daeron was again bundled up tight on the
litter, they headed off. In the driving snow, nothing could be seen more than a
few paces in front of them. All they knew of the path was the general direction,
remembered from the night before, and the feel of the ground sloping downward
as they trudged along. Their fingers, clutching the ends of the litter, soon
50

numbed, and their feet, kicking through the snow, ached with cold. Snow settled
on their shoulders and melted there, and it gathered in their hair, to be shaken off
at intervals.
Time stretched as they walked; they might have not gone any distance at
all, so little could they gauge of their progress, but they went on without
stopping. They worried for Daeron; he had not spoken a word in hours. The only
hope they had was that they would be able to get down quickly to some place
where they could get out of the storm, and perhaps make a fire once more.
“After this, I’m sure Ithilien will seem a comfortable and home-like place,”
Boromir said suddenly. His mind had been wandering, lingering on drear
thoughts. It seemed to him better to focus on something other than the cold and
the uncertainty of their descent.
Faramir smiled to himself. “Certainly it will, even more so than it does
already.”
There was a silence as they maneuvered down a steeper slope, carefully
keeping the litter on a level. “I would have liked to have seen it, when Men still
dwelt there in peace,” he continued when they reached the bottom. “It seemed
like a garden, long untended and overgrown, but still with a lingering beauty.”
“Something like that,” Boromir said in answer. In truth he had thought that
any evidence of Men’s labors there was long faded, outside of the secret places
still held by the Rangers and the occasional bit of tumbled old stone.
They forced their way through a deeper drift of snow in silence. At the end
of it, Boromir turned his eyes to the sky again. Though snow still fell, the grey sky
above was indeed growing lighter. “The storm is over!” he said, sighing with
relief.
Through the thinning snowfall, they could see now below them on the
slope, perhaps only a league away, the snow-dusted tops of dark trees. They
could have shouted for joy; they would make it, all three of them.
51
A month had passed since their ordeal on the mountain. Daeron was still in
the Houses of Healing; he had recovered quickly from the blow to the head once
he was warmed again, but the leg would take longer. The brothers had taken to
visiting him there while he recovered.
“I admit I am surprised,” Daeron said one day, “that after everything…
Thurinir has told me that I will be offered a Captaincy among the Rangers—when
I am fully healed, of course.”

“Why does it surprise you? The mountain’s whims are not yours to
command,” Faramir replied gently.
“True, but I did not really complete the task, did I? At least not with my
own feet.” Somehow he was able to chuckle over this now; for some time he had
felt a terrible weight of gratitude toward his rescuers, which had faded only after
many friendly visits. “I was not sure, at first, whether I even wanted the
command any more. But I will accept it. Hador would wish me to, I think,” he
added.
“You will do honor to his memory,” Faramir said, voicing Daeron’s
unspoken thought with calm assurance.
But they could not remain with Daeron long that day, and they soon
excused themselves. The company that Faramir was to lead was ready to return
to Ithilien, and he would be going with them. Boromir, likewise, was preparing to
return with his company to Osgiliath only a few days hence.
When the time came, they stood together before the gates of the City. Their
backs were to the White Mountains, and they gazed eastward. A hint of a smile
was on Faramir’s lips, but Boromir’s look was darker. He wanted to say many
things—on how proud he was of Faramir, the faith he had in him, how much he
worried for him, little pieces of advice that he was sure Faramir already knew—
but he could not find words for any of it. Instead he tousled Faramir’s hair as he
had when they were young, and grinned.
“Take care of yourself, little brother.”
“I will,” Faramir answered solemnly. They embraced, and parted.
Boromir stood watching until Faramir and his men had disappeared along
the road, then walked slowly back into the City.
52

Leaves on the Wind: Signaling Storm
by Nancy Brooke
Author's Notes: This story was originally posted online in response to the Open
Scrolls "Letters from Middle Earth" challenge, but written as a way to think around a
writer's block I was experiencing with a longer story (at last nearing completion)
exploring Boromir's powerful and obsessive nature. Looking for perspective took me all
the way to Ithilien to stand beside Faramir as he gazed back across the plains to his
brother in the White Tower. In trying to communicate with Boromir and tell his story,
these letters came to me.
21 Súlimë, 3018
Boromir –
53
We have arrived, though I will not break protocol to tell you where and
with what company. Suffice it to say all has gone as you intended it should — to
the letter, in truth, so apt in every particular were your plans.
We have made camp unmolested, perhaps even undetected; only time will
tell. Morale is high, supplies sufficiently laid up, and each man has quickly made
himself as comfortable as may be. I could wish myself in no other company
unless it be yours.
In truth, it is not possible I could set you by even if I wished to: the men,
my company, wear your love and training like a badge beneath their cloaks and
want for no greater armor. I see it in every polished sword, every ready bow,
each easy watch, the sorties that return whole and victorious. They do you great
honor, my brother.
I shall strive to do the same, though I cannot help but feel I have somehow
usurped your position in leading this small force from the city while you stay
behind. Yet, how else could it be? You must remain at the head of your army as
you are their strength, even as you alone could captain our father’s unfathomable
reticence and prepare our people for the storm we know must come. Meantime I
will console myself that were you here sleeping rough as you love, in the
company of men you hold dear, you could not be easy playing our hide and seek

– you never were one for games. So, we take our parts, my brother, Swordsman
and Archer. *
The day will come sooner than I would wish when you may ride openly
before the Enemy and he will quake to see it.
But before then I will hope we two may meet again, as I am –
Your loving brother,
Faramir
14 Víressë, 3018
To:
Boromir, Son of Denethor
Dear Brother,
54
Tonight we stay hidden; a perfect moon shines fully on the forest and I
deem we should not venture into it and risk discovery. The men are weary from
much good work, and I am just as glad to find an opportunity for rest.
Our gadfly campaign continues to sting; the Enemy suffers increasing
casualties as we exact a toll for his brazen trespass on our lands. Now he finds his
ways harried, his steps limited and uneasy while, eglerio galu * , we have sustained
few losses, though dear.
But what we have gained in conflict we have lost in impunity. They have
begun to search for us. Large, crashing parties of Orcs range about the forest,
keeping largely to the North and East. But they do more damage to her than to
us; Ithilien will not be coerced and keeps her secrets for those who love her; so we
remain as shadows.
Like you, I sleep little, and my thoughts often turn toward home. So we
must look to one another though the Pelennor lies between; I under the moon
* a reference inspired by Fileg’s wonderful fic “As Truly as The Arrow Flies” accessible here:
http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=286&cid=1149
* Praise good fortune

and you under the sun. It puts me in mind of the rhyme old Istuidhir + drummed
into us as children:
So you are, my brother. And for me:
“First is Anórien, Land of the Sun,
Ever-enduring Guard of the West;
Mighty in strength, crownéd in Stone;
Anárion’s pride, Elendil’s rest.”
“Between Anduin and the mountains
Walks the Moon in Isildur’s realm;
Mother of Stewards, Land of Fountains –
Fair and forsaken Ithilien.”
And so she is.
As I imagine you pacing the stones of Minas Tirith here it is the river which
gives me some measure of peace. I know you will laugh but I will tell you many
nights I almost believe she has words for me, could I understood her
murmurings. Though I and my men sleep in the day, I think we still dream at
night.
Even in the burgeoning spring there is a hush over Ithilien; ghosts walk
here. While the sun’s rays penetrate in broad shafts through the canopy thick
with sycamore, oak and maple leaves the moon makes his presence known to us
in a pervasive silver glow that is startlingly beautiful, though eerie. Still, we are
well sheltered from the constant fume of Orodruin though he is close, and I will
be grateful to the proximity of the Ephel Duath for nothing but that it hides us
from view of that flame-capped peak that ever must be in your sights. Nothing
can shade us from his voice, however, and we hear it rumbling in our dreams
and waking.
I long to walk these paths someday in peace, Boromir. Think you I will
have the chance? So I will hope.
~F~
+ literally ‘Learned man’
The poem is part of a larger work of mine, available here:
http://www.nancybrooke.com/Fief%20Poems/poemintro.htm
55

17 Lótessë, 3018
To:
Boromir, son of Denethor
Captain-General of Gondor -
Sir, the news I must tell you already have imagined: the Enemy is calling
his army to him.
The increasing Easterly and Northern Orc incursions we have so frequently
countered were not so much to hunt us, as to drive our attention from the South
road which this day would have given safe conduct to several companies of Men,
were it not for your incisive caution. Would I had heeded it sooner! What I took
in pride and eagerness as victories for myself and my men were, in truth,
victories for our Enemy despite his losses or, perhaps, because of them – but I
will not imagine such tactics.
My Captain, I have failed you.
The network of watchers and runners you had me root about the forest has
quickly born fruit and we were forewarned of their coming; but not as we should
have been. We met them some several leagues North of the Ancient Crossroads –
Yes, so close – and ambushed them well. Their darkness – dark skin, eyes and
long, plaited hair – marked them as much as did their brightness as they came
arrayed in scarlet robes and much decorated with gold. Southrons, Haradrim: our
ancient enemy. Much about them seems different, Brother, but their blood runs
as red as ours and just as freely, though I will tell you I have never before seen so
much of it spilled in one day, and by my own hand.
And where they travel can the Corsairs be far behind? I will fear for fair
Pelargir to have them so far inland.
Ah! Eglario galu did I write to you last? We may now see the vain haste of
those words – No. I will praise good fortune for every life under my command;
particularly in the light of so many lost this day and the damage done our
Enemy; he may out look from the Black Gate expectantly for allies but none shall
come that way today. But come they will; that we now know.
This missive carries with it a full list of the dead, and my deepest regrets
for the messenger my inexperience has made of you. My dreams fill with the
women who will wake tomorrow to widowhood coming with your knock at their
56

door. Still, I will take comfort, as I know they will, that you, whom they love,
herald the unwanted specter that makes orphans of their sons.
I will no longer wish, as you may, for your presence here among us,
Brother, but pray for the safe passage of the lives we have lost, and thank Good
Fortune anew that you are not among them.
Faramir, Son of Denethor
Captain of Gondor
3 Náerië
Dear Brother,
57
How you have tempered me with your words! Across the leagues I sent
you grief and you return me only strength and love where I looked for scorn and
reproof. So you have earned the place in the hearts of our men, our city, that you
have always had in mine. I will now be hardened again to our purpose.
Orcs are easy to hate in their unnaturalness, seems almost a mercy to return
them to the void; but Men – what excuse can I not make for them in their
desperate ignorance? So the burden of this fight will lie heavy on me, as I know it
does on you. And here I find I would caution you – and in doing so recognize yet
one more gift you have given me – be not so eager to raise your sword yet against
the Enemy. What we do here in Ithilien is but a beginning; it will afford us but
little ground, perhaps, when the storm we both know is coming at last overflows
the Anduin.
And for you – you needn’t tell me of your state, my brother; your words
strain and stretch upon the page even as you must be straining against the lead
placed upon you. Yet I would say to you be patient with our father, and as I write
do not think I cannot perceive the irony in my words. He has always had powers
greater even than the wise of our City to weigh the ever-expanding ripples of
consequence. If he is reticent to unleash you and your forces to a fight yet
undeclared, no matter how fought, no doubt he has reasons, though we may
never know them. Boromir, I fear our father struggles with facets of his rule that
neither you nor I will ever fully comprehend. His silence, always deep as a well,
has deepened these past many months; I worry for him, though I cannot say why.

But I do not wonder that he still keeps you; he has always held you close
and may need his strongest weapon ere the end. Let yourself remember he has
chosen you, by more than birthright, more than blood, and our people look to
you for their strength. As you have lent it me so you will give it them; as you
stand so they will stand. The lords of the Southern Fiefs will answer your call
alone. No doubt Father knows this, as he knows all such subtle things. While they
will heed him out of duty, they will come to you for love – the love you bear for
them and for their land, our land.
Fear not that when the time is right your great army will be loosed upon
our enemies like a great wind to beat back the storm tide; the small damming
work we have done here will be washed away and forgotten. Then I, for one, will
look to ride with you together back into our White City beneath snapping
banners and belling trumpets.
Still, I cannot help but wonder if, when all is done and written we will not
be seen as courting this war, though it is ours through right and time. I fear it will
prove a match made in haste, repented at length. Yet I am resolved, alloyed by
your faith, my brother, to see its consummation.
Your loving brother,
Faramir
22 Náerië
Boromir –
58
I send you this note huddled within my formal request for reinforcements
to assure you I am well, but hard pressed.
Two nights ago in the dark of the moon they came, swarming from every
crevice in the Ephel Duath like rats sensing flood. Our combat has thus far been
like a surgeon’s knife – deep but swift; we could do nothing to staunch such a
flow.
We have fallen back to Osgiliath and hold the city and the Eastern shore.
But we are too few, fewer now, and vulnerable.
If you have received this I may know by moon fall; that you have answered
it to the full measure of our need I can not know soon enough.

The time of our separation is over, Brother; the time of reunion is nigh. I
will look for you on the banks of the Anduin before week’s end.
Come not alone.
It has begun.
~F~
59

The Unkindest Cut of All
by SueB
Author's Note: I have no idea whether Denethor actually had sisters or not. I
thought I read somewhere that he did, but I couldn't find any firm information on
whether Ecthelion II had any children other than Denethor. Apologies if this is not
accurate!
"Come on, little brother! Hurry up!"
As he walked swiftly down the crowded city street, the tall twelve-year-old
glanced behind him, blinking against the bright mid-afternoon summer sun.
Around him swirled the bustle of Minas Tirith citizens, the air filled with the din
of their talk and laughter as they traversed along the avenue of merchants.
Few of these people paid much attention to the handsome young man in
the black and silver livery of a Gondorian cadet as he stopped in his tracks,
peered down the street with a tense look of exasperation, and sternly exclaimed
"Faramir!"
In a few seconds, a slender boy of seven years appeared from among the
throng, his large blue eyes wide and innocent as he trotted up. Like the first boy,
he was somewhat tall for his age, his figure topped off with a large mop of
reddish-gold curls that hung below his shoulders. In one hand he held a stick of
green candy.
"I'm sorry, Boromir," he piped up, running. "I was looking in the window
at the bookseller's."
"You'll have time for that later," chided Boromir, putting one hand on the
child's shoulder before they both started back off at a hurried pace. His tone was
firm but light. "If we don't reach Mistress Darwain's parlor soon, we'll be too late,
and we'll never hear the end of it from Lady Allaneth."
Faramir gave a dramatic sigh of irritation. "Why did our Governess have to
tell us to have our hair cut now? I was almost done with my book!" He began
sucking on the candy stick once more to console himself.
"You know very well," replied the older boy as they worked their way
down the busy thoroughfare. "Father is returning home from Rohan tomorrow,
and she felt we should look our best. Although," he added in a more rueful voice,
"I do agree with you about her timing. I was dearly hoping to try out the new
sword Father gave me."
60

They began to pass through the main market square of the third level.
Bright sunlight splashed across the white buildings, cutting deep shadows across
the glistening surfaces of the ancient stone.
"Besides," continued Boromir as they walked, dragging one black-gloved
hand through his long, straight blonde hair, "I don't believe my hair has grown
too long. Yours, though," here he stopped and looked at the mop of curls
cascading from the head of his brother, "if we don't have your locks trimmed,
people will start to think you're my little sister!" He grinned and gently tugged on
one stray curl.
Faramir laughed and stepped back. "That nice lady at the sweet shop knew
I was a boy!" he protested, and stuck out his tongue at his brother. It was streaked
with the color from the candy. "She even said I was ad...adorable and gave me
this candy."
Boromir grunted, smiling, as they resumed their journey. "That 'lady' is no
older than I am, and she only knew you were a boy because she knows you're my
brother," he said as they walked.
"We wouldn't have to run now if you hadn't spent all that time talking to
her," Faramir observed.
"It wasn't that long," insisted Boromir, only the slightest hint of irritation in
his voice.
Faramir's grin around the candy stick grew wider. "You like her."
His brother glared back at him. "Be still and hurry - you know how busy
Mistress Darwain is, we have to run if we want to have her cut our hair today.
And Rinonan is just a friend."
"Mmm-hmmm," was Faramir's unbelieving response. He was still smiling
widely. "She just gave me the candy to keep me busy so you two could talk all
day. She likes you, too, I could tell. She had that funny look in her eyes, just like
you did."
Boromir stopped in his tracks, turned around, put his hands on his knees,
and bent down so he could look the grinning seven-year-old straight in his blue
eyes.
"You, little brother, are far too smart for your age," he stated, smiling
himself just a little. "One day when you grow up, you'll get that 'funny look'
about a lady as well, and then I shall tease you to distraction. We'll see how you
like *that*!"
Faramir looked at him with his huge blue eyes and laughed a little around
the candy stick.
61

"Now come," Boromir said, standing. They began to walk again. "We've
only a few hours until dinner."
The younger boy sighed again. "Why did Father have to take his groom
with him?" he wondered aloud. "It takes Mistress Darwain forever to cut hair."
"I know," Boromir replied somewhat wearily. "I'm not looking forward to
all those perfumes and pomades she uses, either - a soldier of Gondor such as
myself shouldn't walk around smelling like a rose garden. But the Governess will
know if we don't have this done, so, it must be done. I suppose the books and the
swords will have to wait." He sounded particularly sad by the end of his
statement.
Faramir licked his candy thoughtfully. "Too bad you aren't a barber of
Gondor. Then you could cut our hair yourself."
Silence fell for a few minutes, but it soon became apparent that their
walking had slowed. Boromir's expression became very focused, his green eyes
distant as he thought very hard about something. His steps slowed until he
stopped. Faramir stopped as well, and looked up at his older brother expectantly.
"Well, you know," murmured Boromir intently, "we could."
Faramir bit off the end of his candy stick and chewed on it. "Could what?"
he asked between munches.
Boromir said nothing in response, but turned and began studying
Faramir's hair, carefully lifting a few of the long curled strands. "We just need to
trim this up to-what, about here?" He placed the flat of one hand halfway
between Faramir's ear and his shoulder.
The younger boy shrugged. "Yes, that's how short Father's groom usually
cuts it."
Boromir smiled. "Oh, that'll be simple," he said, and gave Faramir's sleeve a
slight tug as he stood up. "Come on."
"Where?" Faramir sounded rather bewildered.
"To my room," replied his brother. "I've got my kit there, and it's got a pair
of nice sharp scissors in it. I can cut your hair and mine as well, and then you can
go finish your book and I can practice with my new sword. We'll have the whole
rest of the afternoon."
Faramir frowned a little. "Won't the Governess know?"
His brother laughed a little and waved his hand.
"She'll be running her own errands all day, she won't be looking for us
again until suppertime. By then we'll be long finished, and looking so good she'll
never guess we didn't go to Mistress Darwain."
62

"But...have you ever done this before?" Faramir inquired, although there
was a hopeful gleam in his eyes.
Boromir's lip twitched. "Well, no. But I saw the other soldiers cut their hair
in camp. We're just taking a few inches off, right? It won't take any time at all."
The child's eyes lit up at a new thought. "Maybe I'll even be able to start my
book of Sindarin mythology!" he exclaimed.
"Exactly," Boromir said. "I mean, it's just cutting hair. How hard can it be?"
Half an hour later, both boys were inside Boromir's room. It was a small
room, spare of decoration or furnishings beside the boy's bed, a case full of books
whose chief subjects were ancient wars and battles, and a chest of well-used arms
and weapons, accumulated during a lifetime and mostly worn out or outgrown.
On the walls hung naught but a few large maps heavily marked with notes and
small flags pinned to the parchment denoting troop movements.
In addition to its bare appearance, the chamber sported a large open
window that afforded a good amount of light. At the center of the late afternoon's
glow sat Faramir, patiently perched on a tall stool, a towel draped across his
shoulders. His hair was dripping wet and combed out, so that it appeared even
longer than before.
"Now, this shouldn't take too long," announced Boromir with confidence as
he emerged from his washing chamber, a bowl of water in one hand and a comb
and scissors clutched in the other.
"Good," Faramir replied with a broad smile. "I really want to get back to my
book. I was just getting to the good part when we had to leave."
Boromir chuckled as he set the bowl and implements down on a nearby
table. "When it comes to you and books, every part is the good part," he said
fondly. "But don't worry, in no time you'll be back reading and I'll be down in the
armory with my new sword. And to think we might have wasted all this time
trapped in Mistress Darwain's boring old salon!" He shook his head at the
horrifying thought.
Faramir giggled. "I'm sure glad we thought of a way out of that!" he
exclaimed.
"Yes," agreed Boromir as he dipped the comb in the water and shook off a
few drops. Once he was satisfied with the result, he turned to Faramir and started
to gently pull the comb through the child's long ginger curls.
Faramir sighed. "Why did we have to wash my hair again? It was clean
already!"
63

"Well...it's the way Mistress Darwain does it," answered the older boy,
doing his best to ease the comb through the hair. "Makes it easier to cut, I
suppose. I'll just wet it down again so we can get this done quickly."
His brother fidgeted a little and scratched his neck. "This towel itches. It's
all wet."
"Well...just hold still, this won't take long. How much do you want me to
cut off again?"
"Um...about this much?" Faramir indicated a height just below his chin. "I
think it looks funny if it's any shorter than that."
"All right," Boromir said laying down the comb and picking up the scissors.
They were very shiny and sharp-looking, and he reflexively opened and closed
them a few times as he positioned himself at Faramir's side.
"Right," he murmured again, staring at the side of Faramir's hair. He
hesitated, then picked up the wet strand of hair by Faramir's left ear.
Then put it down again.
And stared a few silent moments more.
Faramir frowned a bit and looked at him. "Boromir?"
"Don't move," said Boromir mildly, placing his hand on Faramir's crown
and very gently turning the boy's head so that it faced forward once more. "I'm,
um, thinking."
"Oh, all right," Faramir replied, in a voice that indicated he had full
confidence that his big brother knew exactly what he was doing. He settled down
and waited.
After a few more moments of silence, Boromir muttered, "Good a place to
start as any," gathered about an inch of Faramir's wet hair between his finger, and
started cutting.
snip
snip
snipsnip
snip
The hair began to fall to the floor in long, dark curling tendrils.
"This isn't so hard," Boromir observed. He was already halfway around
Faramir's head.
snip
snip
"If it's so easy, can I cut your hair, Boromir?" his brother offered eagerly. "It
looks like fun!"
snipsnipsnip
64

snip
"I don't think so, little brother," said the older boy with a smile. "You'd need
a step stool to reach my hair, for one thing."
snip
The last of the overlong hair fell from Faramir's head.
Surprised, the child looked up. "Are you done already?" he asked in
wonder, his blue eyes wide.
The older boy was standing in front of him, surveying the results and
biting his lip in thought.
"I've got most if it off," he said in an appraising tone. "You wanted it to
hang just below the chin, right?"
Faramir nodded, his wet hair flopping. "Yes, please."
His brother stood for a moment, still looking at his work, then
straightened, walked back to Faramir, and began fingering the strands of hair he
had started with.
"I thought you were done," said Faramir, puzzled.
"I am," insisted Boromir. "It just needs some evening out, that's all. And it's
still a little too long."
"Oh," was the disappointed reply, as Faramir scratched at his neck under
the towel. "My neck's starting to itch."
"Don't worry, this won't take a minute," promised his brother.
He went back to the beginning again and started cutting.
snip
snipsnip
snip
The cut hair continued to patter to the floor, and when Boromir paused in
his work, Faramir couldn't help but look.
"That sure is a lot of hair," he said in awe, bending down.
"Ah, ah, please stay still, little brother," Boromir said rather quickly, placing
his hands on both sides of his brother's head and carefully pulling it back to an
upright position. "I'm trying to keep everything, um, even."
"How much are you cutting off?" asked the child as one hand snaked out
from under the towel and began to feel around his ear. "It feels like an awful
lot..."
"No, no, it's fine," Boromir assured him as he lightly took Faramir's hand
and pushed it away from his head. "Don't touch it, you'll, um, disturb it."
"What's wrong?" inquired Faramir, suspicion creeping into his voice.
65

"Nothing's wrong," insisted the older sibling as he grabbed the comb and
wetted it again. "I've just got to even it out. Your hair's drying and the curls are
making it look all crooked."
"If you keep making my hair wet, I'm going to get a cold," warned Faramir
as Boromir pulled the wet comb through his hair.
"You're not going to get a cold," was Boromir's somewhat testy response.
"Now just...just be still, this has to look as if Mistress Darwain did it."
Faramir sighed and sat as still as he could while Boromir returned to his
work, the older boy muttering to himself as he plied the scissors.
snipsnip
snip
"Now this just has to match that part..."
snip
"Hmmm. This needs to be shorter..."
snip
snipsnipsnip
"Still a little too long, there..."
snip
snipsnip
"Hmmmmmmmmmm."
snip
"Boromir?"
"Yes?" said Boromir distractedly, still snipping away.
"Didn't you already cut that part at the back of my head? Twice?"
Boromir coughed. "It didn't look right."
Faramir turned his head. "What's the matter with it?"
"Nothing!" was the quick reply, as Boromir once more gently pushed
Faramir's head into a forward-looking position. "Nothing. Just relax, I'm almost
done."
"Can I see?" inquired the younger boy eagerly.
"No! Er, I mean, I don't have a mirror. When I'm done you can look in the
glass in my bathing chamber."
Faramir frowned. "I want to look now," he announced, and began to slide
off the stool.
Gently, Boromir, grasped his brother's shoulders and pulled him back up
onto his perch. "Just a few more minutes, little brother, then I'll be done, I
promise," he said firmly. "Where's that candy you were eating?"
66

Faramir looked at the table beside them and pointed as best he could with
his hands covered by the large towel. "It's right there."
Swiftly Boromir picked up the sticky green candy and handed it to his
brother. "Here, just finish that and I'll be done before you know it."
Faramir worked one hand free of the towel, took the candy and studied it.
"It's got fuzz on it now."
Boromir sighed, plucked the candy from Faramir's grasp, swished it
around in the bowl of water, and placed it back in the child's little hand. "There,
it's clean."
The younger boy seemed unimpressed. "Isn't that the water you were
washing your dirty old comb in?"
"Well, I can hardly go wash it in the Great River at the moment," was
Boromir's somewhat irritated response. "Now please, be still, or there will be no
time to have fun before dinner."
At this thought, Faramir grew quiet, and as he had no desire to put his
candy stick in his mouth any more, contented himself with breaking it into
increasingly smaller pieces as his brother worked on his hair. He did notice,
however, that Boromir had stopped talking to himself, but he wasn't sure if that
was a good sign or a bad sign.
snip
snip
snipsnip
snip
snipsnipsnip
There was a long moment of silence.
snip
snipsnip
snip
Faramir began to notice that his head was feeling much lighter and cooler
than before.
snip
snip
snipsnip
Boromir wetted the comb again and slicked down Faramir's locks.
"My comb's not that dirty," he muttered as he returned to his work.
snip
snip
"Hmmmm..."
67

snipsnip
There was another long moment of silence.
snip
snipsnip
And another.
snip
At last, Faramir noticed that his brother was standing behind him, not
moving or saying anything for a very long time.
"Boromir? Are you done?"
There was no reply.
"Can I see now?"
Still nothing.
"Boromir?"
Unsure as to whether Boromir was still going to cut his hair, Faramir
remained still until his brother finally spoke.
"Faramir?" He sounded rather anxious.
The younger boy wasn't sure he liked that at all. "Yes?"
A few moments of quiet passed.
"I love you, Faramir."
This was not at all what Faramir had been expecting to hear, and he
scowled in bewilderment.
"Um, I love you, too, Boromir," he said. "Are you done? Can I see my hair
now?"
After a moment, the very damp towel was slowly pulled from Faramir's
shoulders.
"Yes," was Boromir's answer, in a dull tone even more worrisome than
before. "Yes, you can see your hair now.”
68
Some distance away, two charwomen who were scrubbing the steps of the
palace suddenly stopped in their chores and looked up at each other in surprise.
After a moment, one of them spoke.
"Did you just hear some poor child scream?”
Denethor sighed wearily as he plodded up the road approaching Minas
Tirith on his finely decorated steed, his entourage of courtiers and guards

alongside him. The warm breeze stirred his long, curling, gray-streaked black
hair as he lifted his head and beheld the gleaming White City looming before
him, glowing in the late afternoon sun. A smile creased his face, lined as it was
with fatigue, as he envisioned greeting his sons, enjoying a fine dinner, and a
good, warm bed after so long on the road.
The brilliant call of silver trumpets sang through the air as he rode to the
Great Gate, the metal medallions on his horse's bridle and blanket jangling with
each tired step. With a chorus of monstrous creaks, rattles and clanks, the Gate
was unlocked and drawn open, and soon the air was filled with the clopping of
hooves as they entered the City and began the lengthy ride to the top level.
There was a small crowd gathered to see the Steward return home, and he
smiled and nodded as he passed through the courtyard. Once past the small
throngs, however, he turned his mind to more mundane matters as they moved
through the streets. It had been a tiresome journey, full of tedious rides and days
of meeting with Rohan's King and numerous Rohan dignitaries, nobles, and
advisors. The talk had all been full of concern for Mordor's growing might, and
the beauty of the summer day had done little to lift the heaviness now pressing
Denethor's heart.
As he traveled along, he mulled over the happenings of the visit, the
mound of papers, treaties and official documents in his pack that would need
tending as soon as possible, the troublesome news he had heard of Orcs stirring
along the borders of Rohan and Gondor. His full attention did not really return to
his surroundings until he reached the upper level, and rode into the courtyard of
the Citadel.
There was the usual assembly of servants, nobles, and citizens there to
greet him, standing in a loose crowd around the Fountain of the White Tree.
Denethor blinked, straightened in his saddle, and searched the small throng,
looking expectantly for his two sons.
Ah, there they were, standing with their governess and smiling at him as
he passed by. He smiled back as well, very pleased and relieved to see them well.
Boromir, he noted with great pride, looked his usual strong, handsome self in his
cadet's uniform, his blonde hair shining like gold in the sunlight. 'What a
splendid soldier he will make,' the Steward thought to himself, nodding to his
heir as he went by. And by Boromir's side, of course, was Faramir, smiling
eagerly at his father, his large blue eyes shining with joy, and his hair-
Denethor smiled at Faramir as well, but he could not keep a puzzled gleam
from his eyes as he studied his youngest son's hair. It was the fashion in Gondor
for men and boys to wear their hair long, a trend Faramir had never ignored or
69

protested. Yet here the child was, smiling up at him, with hardly more than a few
inches of hair anywhere on his head. Of his normally abundant curls little could
be seen, save for a slight upturning of the ends belonging to the longest strands
which barely touched the tips of his ears. In addition, the style was quite blunt
and choppy, and not becoming at all.
Before he realized it, Denethor was fully past the welcoming group, his
horse's steps now turning to the stables. Denethor pursed his lips as he guided
his mount along and wondered more about what curious events must have taken
place in his absence. The explanation, he surmised, would prove most interesting.
70
A quiet dinner followed the Steward's return, during which he listened to
his sons' revelations of all they had accomplished while he was away. His
attention was weary but sincere; at least the talk did not concern politics or war
strategy. He commended Boromir for being such an apt pupil of the arms master,
and nodded at Faramir's proud recounting of his progress with his tutor. In turn,
he answered their questions about Rohan and its court. No other matters were
discussed.
Later that evening, the Steward sat in his study, lit by numerous candles
and lamps as he made an attempt to set in order the large amount of information
brought from Rohan. Despite the warmth of the day, a fire roared in the room's
large fireplace, lending further illumination. Every once in a while, his sharp,
dark eyes would flicker over to the massive wooden door leading into the
chamber. The door stood slightly ajar, and his behavior suggested the expectation
that an eventual visitor would soon darken its stoop. Or rather, pair of visitors.
The last glimmerings of twilight were fading from the sky, and Denethor
was deep in a rather tedious document concerning the trade of various goods
with Rohan, when a double knock sounded firmly on the door. Not at all
surprised, Denethor lifted his head and said in a stern voice, "Come."
As the Steward had anticipated, Boromir slowly entered the large room, his
expression somber and respectful. Behind him was Faramir, holding tightly onto
one of Boromir's hands as they walked into the chamber, his own look somewhat
more anxious.
"Father?" said Boromir, stopping before Denethor's large desk and talking
in a hushed tone. "I know you are very busy, but Faramir and I need to...to speak
with you."
Denethor studied them both gravely before laying down his quill and
patiently folding his hands. He appeared to be trying not to smile. "Of course, my

son," he said. "May I assume this has something to do with your brother's new
appearance?"
The older boy shifted a little uncomfortably and glanced down at Faramir.
The child still seemed nervous, but he gave Boromir a firm nod, his head held
bravely up despite his fear, encouraging his brother to continue.
Boromir's lip twitched as he looked back at Denethor. "Er, yes, Father, it
does. Faramir and I...have..." He paused and swallowed. "We have something we
need to confess to you."
Denethor barely moved as he gazed at them both. "Very well," he said, his
voice not so stern as before. "You may proceed. I promise to give you both my
full attention."
For a moment, Boromir stared at his father, his green eyes only now
betraying a hint of anxiety. Then he swallowed again and quietly said, "Yes, sir,"
before recounting, in soft but steady tones, the complete tale of how Faramir had
come to have nearly all of his hair cut from his head.
"In the end, Mistress Darwain was able to fix the worst of it," Boromir said
as he finished the tale.
During its telling, he had looked often at Faramir with a countenance
wreathed in deep regret, but now lifted his gaze to face their father. Faramir's
expression had remained uncertain but resolute as he squeezed his brother's
hand now and then for support. "She thinks it will grow back all right, and had
some ideas on how we could fix it so it won't look so bad. Then she cut my hair,
as Lady Allaneth intended, and it was all over."
During the tale, Denethor had sat silently, hands folded, listening intently,
his eyes darting back and forth between Boromir and Faramir. No shadow of
anger had crossed his face; it had maintained the same stern cast throughout the
entire narration.
Boromir solemnly faced his father, his tone sincere and humble. "We have
both talked about it, and...and we know it was wrong of us to disobey Lady
Allaneth. We thought the most honorable thing to do would be to come and
speak to you tonight, and face the consequences for our actions, as men of
Gondor should."
When Boromir had finished, both he and his brother waited, each holding
their breath without really realizing it.
At length, Denethor stirred. "A most interesting adventure," he said finally,
regarding the two boys. "Tell me, Boromir, have you done as you wished, and
practiced with the new sword I gave you?"
71

At this unexpected question, Boromir blinked a little. "Well...yes, sir," he
admitted. "I used it during my lesson today with the arms master. It is a
wonderful sword, and I thank you for it." He hesitated. "But...I confess, it wasn't
as much fun to use it as I thought it would be, yesterday."
Denethor nodded, and looked over at Faramir. "And you, Faramir, have
you read the tale you were longing to finish?"
Faramir shook his head. "No, Father," he conceded. "I, um, I haven't really
felt like reading."
A small smile tugged at Denethor's lips. "I am sure that will change," he
declared, before drawing a deep breath and settling back in his chair. "Boromir,
Faramir, you must know that I am quite pleased that you have found the courage
to admit this transgression freely to me, instead of my having to hear of it from
Lady Allaneth or Mistress Darwain."
Two small voices replied "Yes, sir."
The dark eyes moved back and forth between the two boys as Denethor's
voice grew slightly sharper. "And you must know that I am quite displeased at
your disobedience of Lady Allaneth, who acts by my authority over you both
when I am gone."
Two voices repeated "Yes, sir," much smaller this time.
"I understand that there are times when one would far prefer the pleasant
activities of leisure over the less agreeable ones of duty," the Steward went on, his
tone never softening. "As my sons, you must learn to subdue those preferences,
and fulfill what has been asked of you, even at the cost of your own desires. This
is not the last time such a sacrifice will be asked of you both, nor will it be the
most difficult. I expect that you will each meet this challenge more successfully
when it is next laid before you." He paused, and gave them each a very keen,
penetrating glance. "Will you not?"
Boromir and Faramir looked their father steadily in the eye and chorused
"Yes, Father", speaking the words as the earnest promise they all understood
them to be.
After studying them both without speaking for a moment, Denethor
unfolded his hands and picked up one of the documents before him. "Very well,"
he said in a much lighter voice, following a short cough. "This matter will be
discussed no more. I shall see you again shortly when my work is concluded
here."
He turned his eyes to the parchment in his hand. Boromir and Faramir
stayed where they were, hand in hand, exchanging rather uncertain glances.
Finally, Boromir cleared his throat. "Father?"
72

Denethor did not seem at all surprised when he looked up. "Yes, Boromir?"
His handsome young face slightly contorted with confusion, Boromir
looked down at Faramir before facing the Steward once more. "Is there nothing
else you wish to...I mean to say, is there nothing more to come from this, truly?"
His father tilted his head back a little. "Do you mean to ask, my son, am I
not going to punish you?"
The young man started a little to hear it put in such forthright terms, then
nodded as soon as he had collected himself. "We are prepared to accept it, sir,"
Boromir managed to say, his voice only a little less than perfectly steady. Beside
him, Faramir nodded firmly.
Denethor laid the paper back down on his desk and folded his hands once
more, his expression considerably softer than before. "It is a brave question,
Boromir, and one that gives me great hope for you both," he replied. "But as to
the punishment for your disobedience, it has already been dealt out, by
yourselves."
Both boys gazed at him in bewilderment.
In answer, Denethor looked at his youngest son. "Faramir, your
punishment is to bear your brother's tonsorial experiment upon your head, and
behold it every time you face a mirror, until such time as it grows to a more
suitable length."
A chagrined look came over Faramir's face, and he gave his sire a nod of
understanding as one corner of his lip twitched.
The Steward then directed his piercing gaze to his heir. "Boromir, your
punishment is to behold your handiwork every time you are with your brother,
and recall the circumstances that led to his appearance."
Boromir's expression was very similar to that of his younger brother. He
also inclined his head in acceptance, and murmured "Yes, Father."
Denethor sighed and straightened a little in his chair. "The time it should
take for Faramir's hair to reach a proper length - I imagine this will be around
four months - should be of sufficient duration for the lesson of your punishment
to be absorbed you both. At its end, provided I am satisfied with your progress,
you shall receive the gifts I have brought for you from Rohan."
The two boys exchanged somewhat disappointed looks, but they each
appeared fully aware of why these presents were not bestowed now. They faced
their father, and Boromir bowed slightly, saying in a serious voice, "We
understand, Father."
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Denethor nodded, and his eyes softened. "And if you do exceptionally well
in minding your behavior," he added, "you shall hear the tale of the day your
aunts, my sisters, performed a similar experiment upon my own willing head."
Green and blue eyes both widened in surprise, but before either of the
children could ask, Denethor held up a quieting finger, his face set in lines just as
stern as before.
"But only if you are both obedient, and properly mind both your governess
and I in all things," he said firmly. The softness still gleamed in his dark eyes,
however. "Now you may go, and I will see you both later on this evening."
Boromir and Faramir then smiled for the first time since entering their
father's chamber, and executed a pair of perfect, formal bows.
"Yes, Father," they said in unison, and still hand in hand walked quickly
from the room, their steps considerably lighter than when they entered.
Denethor watched them leave, then returned to his mountain of
paperwork, now with a small smile gracing his countenance.
The next day found the Steward consistently busy with the typical council
meetings and duty-tending that always accompanied the return from a lengthy
journey. Denethor, however, did find time to seek his sons out, just to see if his
suspicions to their activities proved true.
He found Boromir fully engaged in sword practice with the arms master,
plying his magnificent new weapon with great zeal. Denethor observed
unnoticed from a distance, but even from there he could see the broad smile of
joy on his eldest son's sweat-streaked face as he skillfully swung the blade.
Denethor nodded, and set off to find Faramir.
The youngest boy was discovered in his chamber, curled up on the
comfortably cushioned window-seat. Faramir sat bathed in sunlight as he
finished his book, the atrocious haircut upon his head forgotten for the moment.
So thoroughly absorbed was he in the tale that he failed to notice his father
peeping discreetly through the half-open door, just long enough to answer his
curiosity. Once Denethor saw Faramir reading his book, a familiar expression of
quiet enjoyment on his young face, the Steward silently slipped away and left the
child undisturbed.
Just as quietly, Denethor began the long journey back to his study, to the
papers and problems that seemed now to be never-ending. But for now the
Steward's mind was on lighter things, on his sons and their promising fidelity to
the ideals of courage and honor, and on far older memories created long before
he had shouldered his current heavy burdens.
74

An observer might wonder what it was in his recollections that caused
Denethor to hesitate in his step, and reach one slender hand up to cautiously feel
the long, curling hair flowing down the back of his head as if to assure himself it
was all still there. But the memory, whatever it was, seemed to last but a moment;
then the Steward's step grew firmer, and he continued his walk back to his
duties, leaving his sons to enjoy their carefree days while they lasted, in peace.
75

‘This much I learned, or guessed’
by Nesta
The turret room was small, thick-walled, but with a surprisingly large
window, opening south to catch as much daylight as possible. All afternoon the
light had slanted in, carrying a million dust-motes, falling almost palpably on
strewn tables and piled shelves. Now, however, there could be no doubt of it: the
light was fading.
A clear bell-note from outside confirmed it. One hour before sunset.
Faramir frowned and shifted his position to ensure that as much light as
possible fell on the page before him. Very soon it would be too dark to read
without a light, and not having intended to stay so long he had not brought one.
To summon a servant to bring a lamp would be to betray his whereabouts, and
even if he pledged the servant to secrecy, his father would know within the hour;
his father could read a glance, even a thought. It wasn’t that his father had
forbidden him to visit this particular room, but Faramir felt uneasily that this was
because he hadn’t asked him. It would most likely qualify as ‘Dancing attendance
on Mithrandir’ or ‘skulking in the archives’, both of which were disapproved of.
He thought he’d heard Boromir calling for him quite some time ago; he
ought to have been at archery practice. If Boromir found him before supper time
he’d get his ears boxed, but it was worth the risk; Boromir had never in his life hit
his younger brother with any real intention to hurt, and moreover, he could be
relied on to cover for him if awkward questions were asked. And his memory for
offences was mercifully short. Their father was another matter.
Faramir had come up here because Mithrandir had said the matter was
important. No, not said in so many words; Mithrandir didn’t like to make things
obvious. It was the way his eyes grew needle-bright that told you, and his
attentive stillness whenever the subject was mentioned, however trivial the
allusion. Elendil … Gil-galad…Anárion …Isildur … Dagorlad … Orodruin …
Isildur… Aiglos and Narsil … the One who must never be named … Isildur.
It always came back to Isildur, but why? He fought alongside his father
and brother in the great war, they died in the last battle, he lived, came back to
Gondor, told his nephew what to do, rode away to his kingdom in the North, was
ambushed by Orcs, was shot, and died. Everybody knew that. How silly, how
bitter, to survive all that and then be brought down by a random shot: Isildur, a
man so mighty that you’d think Orcs would fly howling at the mere sound of his
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name. Better to be Anárion and die splendidly on the very doorstep of the Dark
Tower, so that people remembered you in fine shining songs. Nobody made
songs about Isildur’s death. Perhaps they were too ashamed.
Or perhaps there was something they didn’t know. Something that would
make the whole story look quite different. There were ways of telling the truth
that could make it sound quite different, though without telling the ghost of a lie.
Faramir shifted uneasily in his seat; he knew that particular fact rather too well.
Mithrandir seemed to think that there was something more to Isildur’s
death, something Mithrandir knew a bit about, but not much. You could see he
was panting to know more, like a thirsty horse that had had a taste of water and
then found the trough run dry. But it was maddening the way Mithrandir would
hint and nudge and go sideways and ask you questions, but refuse to answer any
questions you put to him. How could you find something if you didn’t know
what you were looking for?
Faramir sighed. He had had that thought a score of times before and sworn
to give up the search, but curiosity always won out. Curiosity, and the hope of
pleasing Mithrandir. When Mithrandir was pleased his eyes turned from needles
into flames of approval that warmed you down to the depths and made you feel
ten feet tall. He was hard to please, but it was worth it. It was worth it even
though he’d sneaked off in the night without saying goodbye, or leaving any
message as to where he was going or when he’d be back. The last absence had
been years long. Faramir had done a lot of growing up between the two visits,
but his feelings about Mithrandir hadn’t changed. One day he’d come back; he’d
just be there, as if he had never been away. Still asking the same questions.
It was those questions that kept Faramir at work in the little, forgotten,
dusty room whenever he had a few hours to spare. It was a room of chronicles:
heavy, wood-bound, metal-clasped, untouched for what was probably centuries,
and deadly dull. The people who had written the chronicles could wring dullness
out of the most exciting happenings, the sort of stories that kept even Boromir
spellbound. And they copied from one another in a way that would have earned
Faramir and other boys he knew a beating if they’d tried it. Often the only
difference was the stress they put on the activities of one particular family –
presumably the family that was paying them. Faramir suspected that in those
cases, what the chronicler wrote was not only dull but largely untrue.
Families who could prove, or thought they could prove, that they’d had an
ancestor at the last battle against the One-who-must-not-be-named always
included an account of the battle. That was what kept Faramir reading. Most of
the accounts were almost word for word the same, even the bit about the family
77

ancestor, which Faramir viewed with deep suspicion. The ancestors couldn’t all
have cloven a path up the slopes of Mount Doom and died at the very feet of the
Unnamed just as Elendil and Gil-galad came up to finish him. Very occasionally,
however, there was a variation that allowed you to glean something extra. He
had a notebook full of these gleanings; they didn’t amount to much, but he hoped
that one day Mithrandir would read them and find some key that he, Faramir,
didn’t know enough to recognise.
The chronicle before him now told just the same story as all the others, but
he rather liked it because some artist had decorated the margins with tiny
pictures. Whenever Elendil was mentioned he drew a little gold star, for Anárion
a golden sun, and for Isildur a silver moon. Where the text told about the deaths
of Elendil and Anárion the artist, or someone else, had gone over the star and the
sun with black paint, leaving the moon gleaming triumphant, but lonely. Round
the middle of the silver moon the artist, or somebody, had drawn a thin gold line.
Perhaps it was meant to mean that Isildur had taken on some of the splendour of
his dead father and brother; it was a nice idea. Underneath this moon there was a
band of the same thick black paint. Perhaps it represented Mount Doom, or
perhaps it was meant to represent Isildur’s sorrow.
Faramir sneezed and rubbed his nose; the page was dusty. There seemed
no more to be gleaned from it, and it was time he was going, or somebody would
certainly notice his absence. There was a guest coming to supper, someone
important from Rohan. That wasn’t unusual, but it would certainly mean more
trouble if Faramir was late. As he started to close the book the dust rained from
the page he’d been reading: not fine, grey dust but black flakes. The turning of
the stiff parchment leaf had cracked the band of black paint and it was coming
off.
There was no way he could restore the black paint, and since what
remained was obviously so loose that it was bound to come off in its turn, there
could be no harm in helping it a little… He scraped at it gently with a fingernail.
Underneath, he saw with sudden interest, was writing, in a different hand from
the copyist’s, and in Quenya. A crabbed hand, using a lot of contractions –
difficult to decipher, but not impossible, even in this light, if Mithrandir had
taught you.
And so Srn lay dead – he shivered; normally that name was never written, in
however contracted a form – and frm his hnd Ildr…Isildur, obviously. Isildur
what? Maddeningly, it was a word he didn’t know. He would have to find what
it meant before next time – find it in such a way that the person he asked had no
idea why he wanted to know. He was good at asking that sort of question;
78

another thing he’d learned from Mithrandir, though Mithrandir possibly didn’t
realise it.
Or perhaps the meaning of the word could be worked out from the rest of
the sentence. Mithrandir had told him that more than once, when he’d been stuck
for a meaning: You’ve a head of your own, use it. Don’t expect to borrow mine.
He began to scrape again, very gently – and stopped with a jolt. The tail of
his eye had caught a movement where no movement should be. The door was
opening. Someone had come up the turret stairs, soundlessly, unless Faramir’s
preoccupation had blotted the sound out. He looked around wildly, but there
was nowhere to hide. Hastily he clapped the volume shut, but there was no time
to put it back on the shelf.
It was ridiculous to think like that. He was the Steward’s son, surely he had
a right to be here? But, right or no right, the chronicles were his secret adventure
and he didn’t want anyone to know about it. Now his father was bound to find
out.
The visitor came in, soundlessly, and Faramir’s heart gave a bound of joy.
The cloak, the slightly bowed shoulders, the long beard – could it be…
‘Mithrandir?’
But the gathering shadows had deceived him. This was not Mithrandir,
though he looked very like him – or did he? This man was taller, lordly-looking,
and though plainly very old, he was handsome, with large dark eyes and fine
features. Nobody could call Mithrandir handsome, any more than they could call
him ugly. He was just himself, trustable, unforgettable.
‘A very youthful scholar we have here! And one who has the good fortune
to know my esteemed colleague!’
‘Sir?’ said Faramir, getting to his feet respectfully – and as slowly as
possible, playing for time to readjust his ideas.
‘I beg your pardon. My name is Cúrunir, or to some, Saruman. I am the
head of the order to which Mithrandir belongs, and for a time, a guest of the Lord
of this City. Whom have I the honour of addressing?’
The voice was pleasant, the smile kindly, the tone without irony, yet for
some reason they repelled. Faramir admitted his identity.
‘And what is it, in these dusty volumes, that so interests the Steward’s
son?’
‘I’m interested in the history of our family,’ he hedged. It was true enough,
though he had not had that particular interest in mind on his present visit.
‘And have you found something of interest in the volume before you?’
79

‘Not really, sir,’ answered Faramir, putting on what he hoped looked like a
rueful grin. ‘It was disappointing – very dull.’
‘You seemed absorbed enough just now.’
He was spying on me.
‘Well … I like the pictures.’
‘Any in particular? Would you show me?’
The old man laid a hand on Faramir’s shoulder and gently but irresistibly
forced him back into his seat.
‘What were you reading about just now?’
It was no casual inquiry: the man meant to have an answer. The suave,
pleasant voice was like a blanket on Faramir’s brain, suffocating resistance.
Anyway, there was no reason why he shouldn’t tell. If this man was Mithrandir’s
superior, presumably he had a right to know whatever Mithrandir knew, and
whatever Faramir found out he’d have told Mithrandir, so...
No. Mithrandir had never mentioned a superior, or either of the names the
man had given. Mithrandir went his own way.
He answered with an effort: ‘Elendil, and Anarion, and Isildur’ – trying
desperately not to put any extra stress on the last name – ‘and the last battle they
fought against … against …’
He found he was looking up into the stranger’s eyes. It was almost dark in
the room now, but the stranger’s eyes must be catching the last sparks of light. It
was like looking down a chimney and seeing the glowing coals in the fireplace
beneath. A reddish glow, and your eyes smarting. Looking away was an effort
that seemed to wrench his whole body, but after a time that might have been
seconds or hours, he managed it.
‘And what did you discover?’ The voice was softer now, and very sweet.
Sickeningly sweet, with an aftertaste like brimstone and treacle. Not like
Mithrandir’s astringent tones, that lashed your brain into activity as a chill breeze
might lash your body.
‘Oh, nothing I didn’t know before,’ he managed, and added, in what he
hoped was a confiding tone, ‘All these old books say the same things, the things
everybody knows. I’m getting bored with them, really.’
‘Are you indeed?’ The stranger was plainly not convinced, but he seemed
willing to let the matter drop.
‘May I go now, sir? I’ll be awfully late for dinner.’ Faramir did his best to
sound naïve and childish.
‘By all means, my boy. We shall meet again there.’
80

So this must be the guest from Rohan, though he didn’t look a bit like one
of the Rohirrim. It was odd, and disquieting.
81
He awoke deep in the night. While he’d been asleep his brain had been
worrying at the problem he’d forgotten in the shock of seeing the stranger: the
problem of the missing word. If you don’t know the meaning of a Quenya word, try to
work out the Sindarin word that corresponds to it. Mithrandir had told him that, and
taught him a few simple rules for manipulating Quenya sounds so as to turn
them into their Sindarin equivalents. It didn’t always work, but it was fun trying:
word-magic.
It worked this time: and from his hand Isildur took…
Not just ‘took’, but ‘took’ in the sense of taking something you shouldn’t.
Not stealing exactly, but wrongful taking – like borrowing Boromir’s horse
without permission, as Faramir had done last time Mithrandir sneaked away and
he’d wanted to catch him up and say goodbye properly. Boromir had used the
Sindarin word then and had added that he’d tan Faramir’s backside for him if he
took the horse without permission again; he wouldn’t bother this time, he’d
added with a grin, because the horse seemed to have done the job already.
So what had Isildur taken from the hand of … from His hand? It had to be
a weapon, didn’t it? A sword perhaps? If … He… was dead it wouldn’t be
stealing to take His sword, but it would be wrong to touch something that had
belonged to Him, because it would be evil. Anything to do with Him had to be
evil.
How did the sentence go on?
Very quietly, so as not to disturb his brother – not that it was easy, for he
slept like the dead – Faramir got out of bed, pulled on a tunic and cloak and stole
out. A lamp was burning in the passage just outside; he checked that it had
plenty of oil in it, and took it. Probably a wrongful taking, he thought wryly.
So far as he could tell by the lamplight, the turret room was just as he had
left it, the heavy volume lying closed on the table. He set down the lamp, and
with hasty fingers turned the leaves until he came to the page he’d been
studying.
The band of black paint had gone, but there was no trace of writing to be
seen in the margin, only the black sun and the black star and the silver moon
with its golden band.
Had he dreamed the whole thing?

No, he couldn’t have invented something like that. Somebody had
tampered with the page. Very old ink would flake off parchment just like paint
did; he’d seen books where it had happened.
It must have been the old man. The man who was like Mithrandir, and yet
unlike.
Faramir shivered. He had his secret, but there was no pleasure in it any
more; it was like a weight on his stomach. He wished Mithrandir would come
back and relieve him of the pain of it, but perhaps he never would.
82
‘You’re looking seedy, youngster,’ said Boromir next morning. ‘Too much
studying is bad for you, I always said so. And I hope you don’t intend to spend
the rest of the week skulking in the archives with this loremaster, the way you
always did with old Mithrandir.’
‘No, I don’t,’ answered Faramir, surprised at his own vehemence. Nothing,
he realised, would induce him to go near the turret room as long as there was a
chance of meeting the stranger there.
Boromir looked at him quizzically. ‘In that case, why don’t we beg a free
day from Father and go riding? You can ride Thoron, if you like.’ He grinned.
‘With my permission this time.’
‘Good idea.’ Faramir grinned back. He would not be telling his secret to
Boromir; it wasn’t the sort of thing Boromir understood. It never mattered
whether Boromir understood or not; it was enough that he cared. And he was
now. Isildur and all his works belonged to the far past; they could be left to the
seekers after ancient learning.

Boys at Play by Khorazîr
83

Exploring the Wild
by EdorasLass
"Is it today?" Faramir was fairly bouncing in his chair as he attempted to
eat breakfast. "Today we’re going to sleep in a tent?”
"It is today!" Boromir exclaimed. "You said yesterday that it was tomorrow
and now it is tomorrow!" He wasn't wiggling like his brother was, but his tone
told me that he was just as impatient.
"You are both correct," I smiled at them as I buttered Faramir's toast. "And
it is not just sleeping in a tent – you will do many other things as well.”
"What other things, Nanny?" Faramir wanted to know. He was normally a
neat eater, but today was managing to smear porridge all over in his hurry to
finish.
"I am not sure," I answered, deciding it would be wasted energy to clean
his face now. "You shall have to ask Halhigil and Elchim."
"Who are they?" Boromir asked. "Are they going to camp with us?"
"They are Rangers," I revealed. "They are going to teach you some ranger
skills."
Both boys stopped eating and stared at me with wide eyes. "Are you
teasing?" Faramir asked, slightly breathless.
"No," I assured him. "I am not teasing. You shall spend much of today with
them, in fact.”
They traded looks of astonishment, and burst into excited chatter.
“But –” I interrupted them, knowing how their minds ran, “you are not
going anywhere without breakfast.”
Obediently, they began to eat again, though, of course, still speculating as
to what the day held for them.
When I had approached Lord Denethor with the idea of letting them camp
out in the gardens, he had not only agreed, he had arranged the whole thing
much more efficiently than I could have, including finding Ithilien Rangers to
take charge of them for the day. "They've not yet learned many important
wilderness skills," the Steward had declared, "and this would be a fine time to
start. They shall need a guard for the night as well - they certainly cannot be left
alone, and I do not think it would be seemly for you to sleep in the gardens
overnight.”
84

I did not know any Rangers; I hoped that they had volunteered for the
duty, for if they did not know how to manage children, it could be a trying day
for all involved.
Finally Boromir and Faramir finished; then, without urging, scrubbed
hands and faces cleaner than I had ever before seen them do voluntarily. Their
small packs and bedrolls – worn blankets bound with twine – lay waiting
expectantly on one of the couches. Boromir slipped his pack and bedroll over his
shoulders easily then shoved his wooden sword through his belt. He helped
Faramir struggle into his pack, then demanded, "Where are we going? Where is
our tent?"
"We are going to the gardens," I said. "Do you remember where there is a
tall willow?"
"Can I go?" If Boromir had been a horse, he would have been stamping his
feet and snorting. "I know where it is, can I go?"
"You may both go," I nodded, and they did not need to be told twice.
Lord Denethor had informed me that he himself would assist the boys in
setting up their small camp, and when I glanced out the window, I could see that
he was already in the garden, so I did not hurry to follow them.
85
When I reached the garden, the boys and their father were deeply involved
in pitching the small tent. Lord Denethor and Boromir were cutting poles to a
proper length, and Faramir was hammering pegs into the ground with a mallet.
I did not interrupt them, but settled on the grass to watch. The boys were
enjoying themselves hugely, running to and fro to follow their father's directions,
and I was quite pleased with myself, for my idea had certainly gone over well.
I was peeking into the pack to see what treats Mag had prepared when
Faramir caught sight of me. "Nanny!" he exclaimed, running over to me and
seizing my hand. "Look, look at our tent!"
"I have been watching you put it up," I told him, restraining the urge to
brush the dirt from his knees. "What a good job you have done!"
"No girls!" Boromir had his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his
face. "There aren't any girl Rangers, Nanny, and you are a girl, so you can't play."
I did not particularly want to stalk rabbits and sleep outside, but Boromir's
tone of voice was rather too arrogant for my liking. I was preparing to chastise
him when Lord Denethor spoke.

"Boromir," he said sternly, and his eldest turned reluctantly to face him.
"That is not polite, especially considering that Nanny arranged for this outing. If
you cannot be appreciative, then you will go inside by yourself, is that
understood?"
I was caught off-guard by this reaction – I could not remember ever having
heard the Steward defend me before, and it was very disconcerting.
"Yes, Father," Boromir replied, looking much abashed. He was not an
unkind boy, but he was so impulsive that he often spoke before he thought. "I'm
sorry, Nanny," he went on, turning back toward me, "I didn't mean to hurt your
feelings, but…but there aren't any girl Rangers." He was now so earnest that I
had to hide a smile, and I would have sworn that I saw the corner of Lord
Denethor's mouth twitch upward.
Faramir looked as if he had been thinking something over and had not
liked the conclusion he had come to. "Then where are you sleeping?" he asked me
worriedly. "Are you going to leave us here?"
"I am sleeping in my own bed," I told him gently. Faramir had yet to spend
a night more than one room away from me, and he was still young enough that
he wanted me close by. "But of course you will not be all alone – you will have
Boromir and Haloth to keep you company."
Faramir looked up at me, unconvinced. "Will you tuck me in and sing to
me?"
I kissed his dirty little forehead. "Of course I will," I assured him, and he
seemed much happier.
When Lord Denethor had gone, I set the boys to unloading their packs and
setting up their bedrolls inside the tent. Before they had completed that task, one
of the promised Ithilien Rangers had appeared. Halhigil had been in the Houses
of Healing, having just recovered from a bout of lung illness. "Of course I
volunteered when the Lord Steward asked," he told me, "though the healers were
none too pleased - can't stand being kept in abed when there’s nothing wrong
with me."
“I do not know what you know of children,” I said cautiously, not wanting
to offend him, “but know this about these two – Faramir will climb anything that
looks climbable, and Boromir is… stubborn.”
Halhigil regarded me for a moment, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “I
have none of my own,” he admitted, “but nieces and nephews a-plenty. I will
keep your words in mind, and return your chicks safely to you, miss.”
Boromir and Faramir were dumbstruck by Halhigil’s very presence, and it
took a bit of friendly coaxing on his part before either boy would say a word.
86

They saw guards of the Citadel and soldiers every day, but Rangers were like
oliphaunts – oft discussed, rarely glimpsed, and, to their young minds, the
subject of many legends.
But once they started talking, there was no stopping them. Halhigil
patiently answered their questions, then led them all over the garden, halting
now and again to show them something on the ground or to point at a tree or
plant. They wandered out of my vision, but of course I was not worried – what
could happen to them here, in the company of a Ranger? Why would I be
worried?
I was being ridiculous, and I knew it, and what was more, I had no say in
the matter. Halhigil could take them into the deepest Harad, and I could say
nothing, for Lord Denethor wished them to learn skills of the wild.
Sighing, trying not to fret, I set the pack of food inside the tent, and went
back to the nursery. It seemed very quiet and empty.
87
“Where are we going?” Boromir demanded as Halhigil led them through
the garden gates. “We’re not staying here?”
“We are going out onto the Pelennor,” Halhigil revealed. “We shall meet a
friend of mine called Elchim, and we will have some Ranger training in the
woods there.”
Halhigil saw the boys exchanged an awed look; likely they had never been
outside the City walls except in a carriage.
“What will we see?” Faramir wanted to know, and Halhigil was surprised
when the boy took his hand and held it tightly.
The Ranger smiled down at him. “We shall see many things, young master
Faramir. Birds and squirrels, different types of trees, perhaps a fox or two. I shall
show you how to tell one animal’s tracks from another, and if we are fortunate,
we will follow some creature to its den.”
“We aren’t going to catch them, though, are we?” Boromir asked, glancing
anxiously at his brother.
Halhigil hid his amusement. “No, we are not,” he agreed, though that had
indeed been part of what he had planned. Apparently the sons of the Steward
were not yet ready to trap their own supper. They would learn soon enough.

Elchim was resting in the shade of a tall maple when they arrived, and true
to their Nanny’s warning, Faramir immediately began to climb into its branches
while the two Rangers spoke together. Halhigil did not stop him, only kept an
eye on his progress.
Boromir, however, had other ideas. “Faramir!” he called authoritatively. “If
you go too high and get stuck, I’m not going to come get you!”
“I won’t go very high, I promise.” Faramir’s voice drifted down from
among the leaves.
Elchim choked back a laugh. “Are you sure we’re needed at all?” he said to
Halhigil. “Sounds as if Boromir has the situation well in hand.”
Halhigil grinned. “Brothers will brothers,” he shrugged, and turned his
attention towards the children. “Come, young men, let us begin your
instruction!”
Halhigil was impressed with how eager the Steward’s sons were to learn.
He had volunteered to accompany them because he was bored of lying in the
Houses, and had half-expected two unmanageable boys. But while they were
high-spirited and energetic, they were obedient, and listened to what he and
Elchim had to teach them. It was a little odd; Halhigil was not used to having
such a captive audience when he explained the difference between rabbit tracks
and fox tracks.
They paused for a meal of cold meat, bread, and cheese, and the Rangers
were amused to find a small leather provisions bag in with the other food. “Here
is Ranger food indeed,” Elchim said with a grin. He showed the boys the contents
of the pouch: twists of jerked meat, hard flatbread, a mix of dried berries and
nuts, a little pouch holding sweetened oats suitable for making porridge.
The boys were eager to try the unfamiliar food, but both grimaced at the
meat, and Boromir refused to have anything to do with the flatbread. Faramir,
however, proved rather fond of the berries and nuts, and filled one of his little
belt pouches with the mixture.
The men would have lingered over the food, for fresh bread and cheese
were not to be taken for granted, but the children were impatient to return to
exploring, so luncheon was a quick affair.
They stayed within sight each another, but Boromir tended to end up
trailing Halhigil, while Faramir was never far from Elchim. Halhigil kept an eye
on Boromir, who was now wandering off the narrow path, while Faramir was
asking endless questions about the surrounding foliage. Elchim had been
surprised at how much the boy already knew; when asked where he had learned
88

to identify plants by their leaves, Faramir had shrugged and replied, “From
people – Nanny and Mag and the gardeners and Mother. They told me.”
“What is this one?” Faramir was reaching to touch a crawling vine, and
Elchim hastily ordered, “Stop!”
Faramir froze, but asked, “Why?”
“Because that one will make you itch dreadfully,” Elchim explained, and
Faramir backed away from the plant. “Your hand would swell up; you would
have to bathe it in starch to make the itching stop, and your nanny would have
my head for letting you get into such a mess.”
“Come look at this!” Boromir shouted. “I found something!”
Halhigil saw a crow take startled flight from a branch just above the boy’s
head. He could not help but grin; both boys had been so loud all day that it was a
wonder there were any animals left in the wood at all.
Elchim and Faramir joined them where Boromir was crouched, peering
under some thick brush at a hole set in the side of a low knoll.
“Does something live in there?” Faramir’s eyes were wide.
“That is a fox den,” Halhigil said. “Do not put your hand in there, Boromir
– “ the boy jerked back guiltily, “- what if the fox were inside?”
“He would bite you,” Faramir supplied, frowning at his brother and
ignoring the scowl he got in return.
“Where is he?” Boromir asked. “Where is the fox? I want to see him.”
Elchim chuckled. “He is probably hiding,” he replied. “We have not been
very quiet today, and foxes do not like a great deal of noise.”
“If we are quiet, will he come back?” Boromir wanted to know. “I’ve never
seen a fox before. We could sit here til he comes back.”
“He will not come back until we are gone, I’m afraid,” Halhigil said,
exchanging a grin with Elchim. “Not only can he hear us, but he can smell us, as
well, and he thinks it is not safe to return.”
“Smell us,” Faramir giggled, leaning forward and sniffing his brother.
“You smell like dirt.”
“You smell like dirt, too!” Boromir shot back. “And you’re loud! If you
would stop being loud, the fox would come back!”
“You’re loud!” Faramir pointed out, offended. “You’re loud right now!”
“You are both loud,” Halhigil laughed. “And we all smell like dirt –
Rangers do not have nice warm baths all the time, you know. They have to make
do with cold water from the river.”
“Really?” Faramir forgot the argument with his brother. “Do we get to
bathe in the river?”
89

Elchim chuckled. “The river is too far, but there is a stream just a bit further
up that would serve the purpose. Do you know how to swim?”
“Oh, yes,” Boromir said proudly. “Uncle taught us to swim! Is a stream like
the ocean?”
“No, indeed,” Halhigil shook his head. “Come, we will show you what a
stream is.” He could not imagine a child of Boromir’s age having never seen
something as simple as a woodland stream, but, he admitted, he could also not
imagine what the sea must look like.
Both boys were astounded at how small the brook was. “I could walk to
the other side,” Boromir said, sounding a bit disappointed, then he brightened.
“Can I walk to the other side?”
“Take off your boots and socks first,” Elchim bade. “Never let your boots
get wet if you can help it – wet boots will give you blisters and can cause a
terrible rot of your feet as well.”
Faramir sat down next to his brother to pull off his boots. “I don’t want a
rot in my feet,” he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
“Then keep your feet dry,” Halhigil said with a half-smile, removing his
own battered boots. He had known more than one man who had not been able to
do that very thing, and the results had been most unpleasant.
The boys were tentative at first, but the sun had warmed the water, and
soon they were shouting with laughter and splashing each other wildly. Boromir
spotted a frog, and they ran clumsily through the water trying to catch it –“No,
Faramir, he went that way! That way!” – and after Boromir slipped and fell for
the third time, Halhigil wished he’d had them remove their clothes entirely. He
had forgotten that little boys were incapable of simply wading.
Finally Halhigil called them out of the water, and they came readily
enough, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, and mud up to their knees. “I’m
hungry,” Boromir announced. “Can we eat now?”
“We shall to go back to your campsite,” Halhigil said. “There is food
waiting there, and it is growing late.”
“Will we have a fire?” Boromir wanted to know. “I want a fire!”
“We will see,” Halhigil replied, though he doubted the gardeners would
want a fire pit dug in their carefully tended grass. “Put your boots on, and we
shall start back.”
Elchim saw that Faramir made no move to obey. “Come, Faramir, you need
to put your boots on.”
“My feet are wet,” Faramir said fretfully. “They will get a rot in them.”
90

Elchim did not laugh, though Halhigil could see from his expression that it
was a close thing. “Here, dry your feet with your socks,” he said kindly, “and
then wear your boots with no socks. You should not do that very often, but it will
be all right for the short time it takes us to walk back to the City.”
Looking mightily relieved, Faramir obeyed, and soon they were on their
way back to Minas Tirith. Both boys were drooping with weariness by the time
they reached the gates, and Faramir did not protest when Elchim picked him up.
Boromir stubbornly managed to keep on his feet until half-way up the fifth circle,
and Halhigil took pity on him as well.
Boromir livened up a bit when he saw their night-guard, Haloth, lounging
on the grass next to the tent, for Haloth was a friendly young man and a favourite
of the Steward’s sons. Halhigil was grateful to set the boy on his feet, for he was
no light burden.
“How was your day of rangering?” Haloth asked, and it was the right
question, for Boromir began to talk so excitedly that his words could barely be
made out.
“I’m hungry,” Faramir said, sounding cranky and very tired. “Where is
supper? Is Nanny bringing supper?”
“Supper is here,” Halhigil said, bringing out the pack he’d found in the
tent. “While I am setting out the food, you two change into drier clothing – you
do have clothing in your packs, yes?”
Faramir scowled, and Elchim took a deep breath to brace himself for an
argument, but surprisingly, Boromir tore himself away from Haloth. “Come on,
Faramir,” he coaxed, “I’ll help you – you can’t go to sleep in wet clothes.”
The younger boy grumbled, but he went into the tent, and the Rangers
looked at each other in appreciation at how easily Boromir guided his brother.
Mag had provided a great deal of food – apparently she had heard that
there would be more mouths to feed than just the boys and one Ranger. There
was squab and cold venison, soft cheese and bread, potatoes, cheese pastries
which Faramir was loathe to share, plums and apricots, a flask of lemon-water for
the children, and ale for the men.
At length, Halhigil rose, stretching. “We must take our leave of you young
men now,” he said - the sun had set some time ago, and it had been a long day,
even for seasoned Rangers. He had forgotten how tiring looking after children
could be. “I hope that you will remember what you learned today?”
“Will you take us again?” Boromir asked hopefully, and Faramir nodded
his approval of the question.
91

“If we are able,” Elchim answered with a smile. “We are not often in the
City, but if we can, we shall.”
“Come, it is late for you to be awake,” Haloth said as the Rangers departed.
“It is time for you to go to sleep.”
“Nanny said she would come and sing to me,” Faramir suddenly
remembered. “I have to wait til she comes.”
“She will come,” Haloth assured him. “And she will be most pleased to see
that you are waiting for her in your bed.”
They obeyed, though Faramir looked unhappy, and Haloth sat outside the
open tent flap, meaning to stay there until they fell asleep. Contrary to how tired
both boys seemed, they did not drop off immediately, but began whispering back
and forth, talking about what they had done and seen that day. After a while,
Haloth stood, and began strolling the gardens, staying close enough that he could
still hear them.
There was a lull in the conversation, then:
"Let's sleep on the grass!" Boromir suggested. "If it rains, we can go in the
tent."
They dragged the blankets outside, flopped onto their makeshift bedrolls.
"It's so noisy," Faramir whispered. "Birds and crickets and leaves and
wind…"
"...bears and wolves," Boromir added.
"Are not."
"Are too."
"There aren't any wolves or bears here!" Faramir argued, though he looked
worried.
"They won't get us," Boromir sighed. "I brought my sword, and Haloth will
help keep them away."
Faramir glanced at the guard, who was leaning idly on the garden gate.
"You better," he scowled. "If bears get me, I'm telling Nanny."
Haloth smothered a laugh at this exchange; well did he remember his own
older brother trying to frighten him about what lurked in the dark. Then
Faramir’s alarmed voice made him hurry back to the little campsite.
“Where is Hanu?” Faramir exclaimed as he looked through his blankets. “I
forgot him!”
“Rangers don’t sleep with toys,” Boromir said heartlessly.
“Hanu isn’t a toy!” Faramir protested. “He’s – he’s a pet! Rangers can have
pets! I have to go get him…” He made as if to run out of the gardens, and Haloth
was obliged to stop him.
92

“You cannot wander about alone at night,” the guard said firmly, “And I
cannot leave you, so I am afraid that you have to sleep without him.”
Faramir looked on the verge of tears, and Boromir gave a heavy sigh. “Can
I go get him?” he asked, looking both annoyed and concerned for his little
brother.
“Is there a Ranger here missing his pet rabbit?”
“Nanny!” Faramir cried, leaping up and running to her. “Did you bring
Hanu?”
“I did,” she said, smiling. “Good evening, Haloth.”
“Good evening, miss,” he returned, sighing in relief at her timely
appearance. He had not relished the notion of arguing the point with a grouchy
four-year-old.
“Now I see you are ready for bed,” she said to the boys, “so come and lie
down, and I shall sing to you, all right? Tomorrow you can tell me all about your
day.”
“All right,” Faramir nodded, clutching the stuffed rabbit to his chest as he
scrambled back under his blankets.
Nanny – Haloth realized he did not even know her name – pulled their
blankets smooth, tucked the edges underneath them, and sat down between the
boys. That surprised him – very few women, even women in service, would sit
on grass without even bothering to see if the ground was muddy, but she did not
seem to care. He was also surprised that she was so calm; he had expected her to
be all a-flutter with anxiety, for everyone in the Citadel knew how protective she
was of the Steward’s sons, and putting them in the care of someone else for a
whole day had likely been trying for her.
“Now, what shall I sing for you?” Nanny asked fondly, combing her
fingers through Faramir’s hair.
“A Ranger song,” Boromir declared sleepily.
Nanny looked startled. “I am afraid I do not know any Ranger songs,” she
admitted, glancing at Haloth for help.
Fortunately, he did know one Ranger song. “Might I sing for you, instead
of Nanny?” he asked.
Faramir lifted his head and frowned. “She is not your Nanny,” he said
severely. “She is ours.”
Nanny gave a cough that sounded more like a laugh. “It is no matter,
Faramir,” she said, the faintest hint of rebuke in her voice. “Haloth may call me
that if he wishes. Now shall he sing?”
The boys agreed, and Haloth took a moment to remember all the words.
93

Oh darling, my darling, remember
That my heart lies with you when I’ve gone
This parting will not be eternal
Though I must be away with the dawn
Now softly I kiss your sweet lips
That I’ll miss so when I’m far away
Don’t cry, love, we’ve still time to linger
Til then, in your arms I will stay
One day ‘twil be no need for fighting
One day ‘twil the road lead me home
One day I’ll have no need to wander
One day, I’ll have no need to roam
“That is lovely,” Nanny said softly, “though I think they were both sound
asleep before the first chorus.”
“My uncle was a Ranger,” Haloth told her. “And my aunt sang it often
when he was away.”
She carefully moved Boromir’s arm from where it was sprawled across her
knees, and stood, sighing. “It has been so quiet in the nursery today,” she said
wistfully. “But I know you shall watch over them well.”
“I would not dare do otherwise,” Haloth replied as they moved away from
the sleeping children. “It is well-known how you respond to those who do not
treat these boys properly.”
He grinned when he saw her flush in the dim moonlight. “Cheeky,” she
said with a wry smile. “I am not quite as hot-tempered as everyone seems to
think – but if it serves my little ones well, then I do not mind.” She cast a last
glance at Boromir and Faramir. “Good night, Haloth – and thank you for
guarding them.”
94
I did not sleep well that night, though I knew they were safe. They were
only in the gardens, after all, and Haloth was there. Yet still I lay awake for some
time, dwelling on the day when they would both be grown and gone, and

wondered how hard it would be to sleep when they no longer needed to be
watched over.
Author’s Note: The Ranger song is a filk of “Kitty”. The version I used is
performed by the Pogues, but it’s a traditional song.
95

My Beloved
by Athelas63
I sit at the foot of the bed and watch him sleep. He lies on his stomach, his
dark blond hair fanned across his face, moving gently with each soft snore. I had
nearly given up on his coming. Early in the evening, I had heard the trumpets
announce his arrival into the city, immediately followed by the deeper note of his
own horn. I waited, hoping. But the hours had passed and he did not come, so I
prepared for bed. Just as I bent to blow out the candles, he came through the
door. I hugged him close, and he laid his head on my shoulder. I could feel his
weariness. He was so exhausted he merely pulled off his clothes and collapsed
into bed. Now, I sit and watch my beloved at rest.
He has bathed, and carries no weapon, so I know he has already been to
the Citadel and made his report to his father. I know hours have been taken from
my time with him so that he can give the same information that he has been
giving for years. The darkness is growing, the enemy is gaining strength. What
point is there to once again say it? What good to repeat the same story? I sigh.
Taking a bottle of oil from the shelf behind me, I pour a generous amount
into my hand and begin to massage his shoulders. The muscles are tight and as I
rub I hear his soft groan. “Shh, rest,” I whisper, working my way down his bare
back and running my hand across his ribs. I marvel again at the many scars, some
so old they are faint and white, some new enough to be pink and puckered. All
his life he has known only battle, and he bears the marks of many struggles. I
work the oil into his flesh, feeling the knotted muscles relax.
When I’ve finished his back, I move down to his legs. They are hard
bunches of muscle, perfect for the work of carrying armor and bearing him
toward war. His feet are flat and calloused. I knead the oil in between each toe
and am rewarded with a sigh of pleasure. When at last I finish with his feet, I
pour out more oil and return to his back, moving slightly lower as I go. He shifts
slightly. An invitation? I see a slight smile on his lips, and so I return to my work.
Soon the groans are more urgent, and suddenly, with astounding quickness, he
turns and grabs my wrist, pulling me down onto the bed beside him.
Propping himself up on his elbow, his soft, sleepy eyes smile at me. “Can a
man not get any sleep here?”
“I’m sorry, my lord.” I smile back. “I thought only to make your rest
more… pleasant.”
96

He laughs, showing fine straight teeth. “Indeed. But you have not, lady.
Rather, I am having trouble resting.” He leans down and kisses me gently, his
hand cupping my cheek. Few who have seen him in battle would believe he
could be so tender. His lips travel from mine down my throat. I press his face
against my breasts.
The tenderness lasts only a few moments, though, for he is at heart a
warrior, and soon he is mounting an assault upon my weak defenses. I must
confess they are not well-guarded. His love is rough, the frustration of battles lost
and men killed poured into his act of passion. I let him overwhelm me, my cry of
surrender mixes with his of victory. Afterward, he falls back asleep, his head
pillowed on my chest. My fingers caress his face and comb through his hair.
How long have we had together? This summer will be twelve years.
Twelve years since I first saw him at my soap stall in the marketplace. He had
come with a companion, a fellow soldier searching for a gift for his wife. But
when our eyes met across my baskets of herbed soaps and oils, I had somehow
recognized my soul mate.
I do not know how he found where I lived, only that the next evening he
had appeared at my door, and that he has continued to appear from that night
on, whenever he is in the city and can get away. I have never made a claim on
him, for I know I have no right. One day the Heir of the Steward will lead a lady
to the White Tower, but it will certainly not be a soap-maker from the second
level. All I can live for is whatever time he can give me.
Ours is not a complicated relationship. He speaks of battles and tells me of
the manly talk in the barracks, I tell him the gossip of the marketplace and the
city. He is in truth a plain man, and it pains me sometimes that his
responsibilities are so many and his burden so heavy, when I think he would be
so much happier living a common life.
He murmurs slightly in his sleep and I pull him close, molding my body to
his. “Sleep well, my love.”
97
The faint gray light that signals dawns coming creeps across the sky. I
move slightly to slip out of bed and his arms tighten around me.
“Don’t go,” he whispers.
“I’m going to make you some breakfast,” I say and his grip loosens. I smile
to myself. Pulling on a light robe, I put out whatever food I have that I know is to
his liking. Soon my table holds bread, the last of the cheese, the grapes purchased

just yesterday at the market. I pluck the rest of the meat from the roasted
partridge I had for my own supper last night and put it on a small wooden plate.
A cup of wine, well watered from the jug by the door completes the meal. As I
turn to wake him, I find that his eyes are already open, and watching me. He
smiles lazily and gets up.
A soldier’s life has left him no modesty and he pads around my tiny rooms
naked and completely at ease, only returning to the bed for a blanket to wrap
around him after finding my wooden chairs too hard for his bare backside. I
laugh, this is a complaint I’ve heard many times. He eats as if food was a rarity,
and we sit in the comfortable silence of those who know each other well. I open
the window by the table to let in the soft spring breeze and we listen to the birds
awaken. The sun will rise soon, but my little house is on the far southern side of
the city, and my view mostly of the mountains behind. He says he does not mind,
that it is a joy to not have to face the smoldering black sky upon awakening. As
we eat, we watch the faint light go from pink to rose to pale yellow. Dawn is here.
When his cup is empty, I go to fill it, brushing my hand across his shoulder
as I pass by. He catches it and kisses my palm, then pulls me close, wrapping his
arms around my waist. I kiss the top of his head, breathing in the smell of him.
We stay thus for a long moment. At last, he looks up at me. “I love you,” he says
quietly. “And I you,” I return. I see a great weariness in those dear green eyes,
and it pains me. No night of restful sleep can erase it, I know. The shadow to the
east grows every day, and it is his place to struggle against it. There is nothing I
can give him save what I have; a quiet place to rest and my love. I touch his face,
noting the worry lines around his eyes, and gently rub my finger across the scar
on his forehead.
His calloused hand reaches up and pulls my head close and our mouths
meet. His is warm and sweet, and his tongue gently probes as his other hand
steals inside my robe and strokes my back. I feel the slow, sweet ache that I know
so well, and lean against him. This time he urges me to the bed, and our love is
gentle and unhurried. He waits for me, and his slow movement leads me higher
and higher until I forget everything save him. I cry out in pleasure and then hear
him whisper my name and give a slight shudder of his own. He rests his weight
on me for a moment before rolling over onto his back, and we lie together
listening to the sounds of morning, our hands clasped.
“I have to go,” he says reluctantly.
“I know.”
I get up and fill the large bowl with water that I had warming over the fire
so he can wash, then watch as he dresses. For just a moment I feel the familiar
98

sadness. I wish that we could have a life together, a family. But I know it can
never be, so I push the thought away. Even if he were a common man, the
shadow in Mordor would still hold sway over us. I made the mistake once of
wishing that he had no duties, was just a common soldier, and he had looked at
me with astonishment. “No matter who I was, I would protect my city,” he had
said, and I knew it was true. He loves the White City, and if he knew spilling
every drop of his blood would make it safe, he would not hesitate to take up his
knife and slash his veins himself. It only makes me love him more.
He stands by the door and I can see his mind is already on other things. No
doubt he has more meetings today, with his father and others, strategies to
devise, battle plans to make. I am glad for what little time we have had. Abruptly
he turns back and gathers me close. We hold each other tightly. Who knows how
much time any of us has, with that black cloud in the sky growing day by day?
With a last kiss, he is gone. He never promises to come back and I never ask. It is
another of our understandings.
99
He will not return. My every fear is realized, my heart is shattered.
After the eastern shore of Osgiliath fell in June I heard talk that his father
had sent him away on a mission of great importance. I listened for the sounding
of his horn every day, but it never came. As the months passed with no word, I
felt the panic growing in my heart. Never had he been gone so long before.
Summer became fall, and winter followed with no news. The rumors in the street
were many, mostly that his father was mad with worry. Twice I saw the younger
brother as he rode through the streets, but no word of my beloved to be had from
any source.
Then the gossip in the city said that the great horn had been found, broken
into two pieces and floating in the River Anduin. I knew only death could part
him from his badge of office. Sick with fear, I found myself wandering through
the main marketplace each day, hoping to hear some word. Thus I was there 8
days ago, listening as a group of old women talked while I pretended to pick
through some wilted herbs at a barrow.
“Split in two, it was,” said one, her grey hair pulled back behind her. “They
brought it to his father.”
“It will kill the Steward,” said another. “He loves that one.”

“Remember how it was when the mother died?” the first speaker shook her
head. “He nearly lost his mind then…this will be worse. Hard on the younger
one, too.”
A shorter woman spoke up. “My granddaughter has a friend who works in
the kitchens.” The others listened attentively. A fresh source close to the Citadel
would have valuable information. “She said the younger brother had a
dream…he has visions, you know. He saw the older one dead, borne past in a
boat upon the River.” They all fell silent and pondered this bit of news. I bit my
lip and told myself it was only old women telling tales.
The sound of hooves on the stone street interrupted all of our thoughts,
and I looked up. It was the younger Captain of the Guard riding out of the city
with his troops. I looked at him as they approached and my heart fell. His face, so
like my beloved’s, was drawn with sadness and instantly I knew. If anyone
would know it would be he, they had always been so close. One look at him told
me what was in his heart. My eyes filled with tears and I clutched the sides of the
herb barrow weakly. Suddenly, the old woman with the tenuous link to the
Citadel kitchen stepped forward. He halted his horse as she placed a hand upon
his knee.
“We grieve with you, Lord Faramir,” she said quietly, her dim old eyes
meeting his blue ones.
His face crumpled with grief for a moment, then his mouth tightened as he
mastered himself. Leaning down, he patted her hand. “My thanks, good mother.”
He said, using the term of respect among the common people. Swallowing hard,
he urged his horse on and she stepped back.
I stumbled home and wept until my soul was empty.
100
The last days have passed somehow. Now they say there is to be a great
battle, that we must leave the city. I care not. In truth, I would have left without
the order. There is nothing within these white stone walls for me any longer. The
old couple who live across my narrow lane have offered me a place for my things
in their small cart. They no doubt knew my lover, yet they kept our secret all
these many years. Whether for love of me or him I know not. It does not matter.
They have always been kind to me. They are going to a village in Lebennin, and
that is far enough that I can send word to my sister to come fetch me. She lives
along the River Serni and has often urged me to stay with her.

I pack my things into a few small boxes. Everything reminds me of him, the
blankets that covered him, the cup he drank from. The tears run down my face as
I place each in the box. I take the pale pink seashell that he brought me once from
the shore and hold it against my cheek for a moment before wrapping it carefully
in a scrap of cloth and nestling it amongst the my soaps.
“It is time,” the old man says quietly from my door. He helps me carry my
things out and places them into the cart. The old woman pats my hand as we
make our way out of the city and join the crowds moving south. The people
chatter excitedly amongst themselves as we travel. There is talk of battle, and one
who might be King. I listen, numb. None of it has meaning for me any longer.
I turn back once to see the city, shining white as the sun blazes down.
Perhaps all will one day be well for others. Perhaps the King will return, and the
shadow in the east will be destroyed. I will never come back to Gondor. The
shadow in my heart will never lift. I am alone.
101

A Story of One Flood
by Lilan
Author’s Note: I’m really grateful to all those whose invaluable suggestions made
this story what it is. Special thanks to Cressida for her tremendous support when it
stopped going smoothly. I’m not sure I would have finished it without her!
‘…But what if you poured water into the dragon’s mouth?’
‘What?!’
Faramir rolled over onto his belly.
‘You could. Then the dragon couldn’t breathe fire…just steam, I think.’
Boromir looked genuinely confused. ‘How does one pour water into a
dragon’s mouth? They fly rather high!’
‘What if you use a pump and make something like a fountain?’
‘Hmm…can you make a fountain high enough?’
‘I don’t know,’ Faramir admitted and sighed.
Boromir echoed his brother’s sigh and slid off the bed, going to the
window.
‘There is going to be a storm again,’ he groaned, looking at the darkening
sky. ‘You know, I wish we were at home!’
Faramir looked at his brother with sympathy. Spending a whole day
indoors was more than enough to make Boromir cranky, and since the very
beginning of their visit to Dol Amroth, it had been rainy, windy, and cold. The
Prince and their uncle both seemed to be occupied all the time – there had been
some trouble with the dam, and they feared it might burst, not able to stand the
rush of yet another storm, and the farmlands would be flooded and people
killed…
Finally, their grandsire had left to oversee some works at the dam and had
later sent word that he would stay there as long as he was needed. The women of
the household were busy preparing various supplies in case it came to the worst,
so in the end, the brothers were largely left to themselves. Which would not be all
that bad if the weather were better…
Faramir did not mind it all that much. He could easily occupy himself with
some quiet indoor play, or a book. But he did feel for his poor older brother…
Boromir certainly liked to read too, as well as play with wooden soldiers and tell
dragon tales. Doing it for eight days, however…
102

Boromir dragged a chair to the window and climbed onto it, putting his
chin on the windowsill and heaving another miserable sigh.
‘I wish I were there!’ he said. ‘I could help too. I could…well, drive carts
with people’s things…you know I could, don’t you? Or run errands?’ He looked
anxiously at Faramir.
The younger boy eyed him critically. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Privately, he thought that Boromir had to be bored indeed to offer anything
of the kind.
‘Only, it would probably be too dangerous at the beginning,’ he added
upon some reflection. ‘Those draught horses are different from rides. You would
need some time to master them.’
He also thought Boromir was most certainly not strong enough, being only
twelve years of age, and could well be trampled down by all the busy grown
men, but knew better than to say it.
Casting another sympathetic glance at Boromir, he immersed himself in the
book about dragons again, half his mind working hard on the construction of that
fountain…
Suddenly, there was a noise in the hallway: the sound of hurried footfalls
and male voices speaking agitatedly all at once. The brothers exchanged startled
glances and, in an instant, were both out of their chamber.
Once in the broad hallway, they were in a crowd of tall, wet, panting
people. Faramir recognised two or three faces of their uncle’s courtiers, usually
very friendly with them both; today, however, they just gave the lads a cursory
glance.
Boromir ran up to one and started to ask a question, but was rudely shoved
aside.
‘For goodness’ sake, lad!’ the man growled. ‘Take yourself to your chamber
and play there!’
Boromir went white with rage, then deep red, then white again. Faramir
thought it best not to wait for yet another change of colour and dragged his
brother away from the crowd.
Fortunately, the latter was too stunned with wrath to offer much resistance.
Back in the chamber, Boromir finally found his voice.
‘How dare he!!!’ he thundered. ‘I shall tell Grandfather when he comes, and
Uncle, and then Father, and they will have him punished for it! Maybe even
flogged, out in the city!’
‘I doubt that any of them would order such a thing,’ Faramir said.
Boromir stomped his foot. ‘But did you hear what…’
103

‘I think something really bad has just happened, that’s why he was so
angry,’ came the calm answer.
‘Well…I think you are right,’ said Boromir, already calming down. ‘But he
could have told us what it was! I wonder where Uncle is…’
Barely had he uttered that when the door opened and in came Imrahil, just
as wet and unkempt as the rest of those men they had seen.
‘Uncle!’ Faramir rushed to him first. ‘What happened?’
Imrahil ruffled the lad’s hair, sighing.
‘Nothing too good, Faramir,’ he said.
‘What?’ two voices cried.
In the midst of all his worries, Imrahil found himself being very close to
chuckling. The two pairs of grey eyes bored into him as both his nephews stood
very close to him, Faramir tugging at his belt and Boromir having taken a firm
hold of his right hand. They looked like two over-enthusiastic young pups
jumping around their master…indeed, he had an impression they might start
bouncing at any moment!
‘The dam burst,’ he finally said.
There was a collective gasp from the brothers.
‘So this is why everyone is so agitated,’ Boromir murmured, feeling a tiny
bit guilty. He glanced at Faramir and was relieved to see no ‘I told you’ look
upon his face.
‘Busy, too,’ Imrahil said. ‘We need every hand we can get…a village has
been flooded, and most people are still on the roofs, some with their livestock,
waiting for rescue.’
‘How are you going to do that?’ Faramir asked, frowning.
‘Boats,’ their uncle answered. ‘We are taking them to a safe place by boats.’
‘Oh…’
They fell silent. Imrahil sighed and patted both their heads.
‘I have come here to you for a reason…’ he started. Boromir brightened
immediately.
‘What?’ Now he started to bounce indeed. ‘You want us to help, don’t you?
I can row very well, remember you taught me last summer? And Faramir…’
He faltered for a moment, realising that Faramir probably could not do that
as well as he, but not wanting to hurt his little brother…surely he wanted to be
out there too!
‘Faramir can help with the beasts, he’s so good at that!’
To his surprise, Faramir did not express any joy or enthusiasm. He seemed
to know their uncle’s next words before they were spoken…
104

‘No, Boromir, that was not why I wanted to talk with you,’ he sighed, the
look in his eyes making Boromir’s protests die on his lips. ‘Neither of you is old
enough to help, and I know your father would not look upon this favourably
either. But I do want to ask something of you.’
Boromir, who had looked crushed by the response, brightened a little.
Meanwhile, Imrahil continued, ‘We shall need the servants too, so I should ask
you to take your supper from the kitchens by yourselves, and then go to bed. I
trust that you, big and smart lads as you are, will behave reasonably and will not
give anyone any trouble. Agreed?’
Faramir simply nodded. ‘Yes, Uncle,’ he said.
‘Y-yes…’ Boromir whispered.
Imrahil looked relieved.
‘Very well then,’ he said and kissed the tops of their heads. ‘I shall see you
on the morrow.’
With that, he turned and was gone, leaving poor Boromir standing in the
middle of the chamber, looking as miserable as never before…
Faramir patted his shoulder hesitantly.
‘Leave me be!’ Boromir snapped, jerking away. ‘You…you are just like
Uncle!’
‘But it wasn’t my fault that he said no,’ Faramir objected, feeling a little
hurt. Boromir did not speak.
‘I shall bring the supper,’ Faramir sighed.
When he returned, balancing a loaded tray in his hands, Boromir was
sitting on a rug in front of the fire. He seemed not to notice his brother’s entrance,
staring at the little flames that were dancing merrily, oblivious to his misery.
Faramir came closer and carefully placed the tray onto the rug, casting a
wary glance at him. Boromir’s eyes were gleaming with tears that he stubbornly
refused to let fall: he was already twelve, after all!
Faramir sighed again and put his arms around Boromir.
‘Don’t be so sad,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat…’
Boromir sniffed.
‘It isn’t fair…’ he moaned. ‘We should be there too! Maybe we could rescue
someone, and then Father would know about it and be so proud, and Uncle, too,
and we could be real heroes who save people from certain death…’
He reached for the bowl of cherries. Faramir took a piece of cheese.
Suddenly, Boromir burst into a fit of coughing. Faramir put down his
cheese and thumped him between the shoulders. A cherry stone shot out of
Boromir’s mouth and into the fire.
105

‘You have just thought of something,’ Faramir observed.
‘How do you know?’
‘You always think of something new when you eat and make this “aaahh”
sound and choke when you do,’ came the answer.
Boromir waved his hands impatiently.
‘Listen, but…aren’t they all going to be out there? Grandfather, Uncle, and
their men, and even the servants?’ he whispered, eyes wide with excitement.
‘I suppose so,’ Faramir said. ‘Are you thinking of…of sneaking out?’
‘Certainly!’ Boromir exclaimed. ‘And then Uncle will see that I am not a
little child anymore!!’
Something in Faramir’s expression made him lose a little share of his
enthusiasm.
‘What?’
Faramir sighed and said, ‘I don’t think you should do that.’
Boromir’s eyes flashed angrily.
‘Well, if you think this is not right, you can stay here like a little girl,’ he
said. ‘I can go without you, if you are afraid!’
A minute of silence followed, and Boromir had not the slightest idea of the
struggle going on in his brother’s mind. Faramir’s natural reluctance to do a thing
which was needlessly dangerous and clearly wrong conflicted with his
unfaltering devotion to Boromir, the person whose authority could be only
contested by that of their father. He had a strong suspicion Father would
disapprove of Boromir’s enterprise. However…someone had to keep an eye on
Boromir. Faramir was certain that his big brother would land in something bad if
he himself were not around…Boromir was so easily distracted, and he still could
not keep his balance in the boat very well, despite all his bragging.
Faramir sighed and shook his head slowly.
‘No, I am going with you,’ he said, pointedly ignoring the “little girl”
comment.
106
‘…I wonder why they didn’t take your boat, Boromir.’
‘It’s probably too small…here, hold the oars. Oooh...!’
The wide lowland that had been a little farming village just days before
appeared a sea before the eyes of two scrawny boys dressed in plain and rather
shabby clothes, their faces so grimy no one would recognise the Steward’s sons.

The grime idea had come to Faramir; he thought their chances of remaining
unrecognised were better that way.
Boromir held his breath, trembling with the excitement. Never before had
he seen houses with little more than their roofs above the water…and on the
surface were floating bits of broken chairs, wooden kitchenware, toys, some other
things he could not discern…
However, his agitation soon gave way to disappointment. The rescue
teams had clearly left the place, taking even house cats with them. Some distance
away, he could make out their boats through a thick veil of rain.
‘They are gone,’ Faramir sighed.
Boromir pressed his lips together stubbornly and resumed his rowing.
‘Boromir, there is no one to rescue there,’ his brother pointed out.
Boromir half-turned his head back.
‘All the same, let us go and look,’ he said stubbornly, though Faramir could
hear a distinct quiver of hurt in his voice. ‘They could have left someone
behind…hey, remember that book Grandmother read to us? About a baby left in
a burning house, and how a man saved it? What if there is a sleeping baby in that
house over there, and it might drown if no one thinks of looking inside?’
Faramir thought that the chances of that were rather slim; he had not even
believed that book. What kind of parents would leave their child behind? Even if
they were as busy as their father, they would surely try to save it! He was sure
their father would, and their uncle and aunt, too. However, upon a little
consideration, he decided to humour Boromir, who was starting to look rather
unhappy.
‘Here, let me help you,’ he said, reaching for one of the oars.
Boromir sighed with relief. It was good to have Faramir along. Faramir
could be just a little bit like Father and Uncle when he wanted, and that made
Boromir both uneasy and annoyed at times…but today, they were together, and
Boromir was glad of that. Even though they were both quite wet already.
They approached a house, and Boromir moored the boat to one of the
beams sticking out of the water.
‘Tie it fast,’ Faramir said, placing the oars in the middle.
‘I know, I know!’ Boromir snapped. ‘This isn’t my first time in a boat!’
‘Yes, but you have lost it once, and the fishermen brought it back from the
sea, remember?’ Faramir said.
The older boy merely snorted and straightened up, reaching for the edge of
the roof and then suddenly pulling himself up. Faramir nodded with approval;
107

his big brother was strong indeed! He himself had to rely on Boromir’s strength
to get on top of the house.
Once up, they got to the comb of the roof and looked around.
There was nothing but other flooded houses around them. The boats with
the men were not visible any more through the rain, which had thickened; the
wind that had not bothered them much before was blowing rather strongly now,
and there were waves on the water.
Boromir sighed; it had occurred to him already that any unlucky forgotten
baby would be dead by now in a house full of water. Still, he suddenly felt the
excitement mount in him again. Was it not wonderful…standing on top of the
house, as if on a ship’s deck…
He turned so that the wind was blowing into his face, putting his hands on
Faramir’s shoulders and turning the younger lad with him. Faramir sniffed the
air current like a dog and smiled.
‘Like the Sea-Kings of old…’ Boromir whispered, shifting his feet to stand
more comfortably.
And suddenly the shabby roof broke under their feet, and the two little Sea
Kings fell into the house with a frightened yelp.
108
Boromir felt his feet hit the floor of the house and pushed up, holding his
breath.
‘Faramir!’ he sputtered out as soon as his head emerged from the water.
At first, he did not see or hear anything, and an icy horror gripped his
heart. What if Faramir had hit his head on something? What if he had drowned?
‘Boromir!’ he heard suddenly and felt so weak with relief that he nearly
went underwater again. Turning around, he saw his brother, pale and frightened,
but very much alive. More than that, Faramir appeared to be sitting or standing
on something and not floundering about, though only his head and neck were
visible.
‘What…what is that under you?’ Boromir managed, his teeth beginning a
lively chatter.
‘A stove, I think,’ his brother replied. ‘Come over here.’
Once Boromir was beside him, Faramir heaved a tremulous sigh and
hugged him.
‘I was afraid you had drowned,’ he whispered.
‘Me? Never,’ Boromir said. ‘Let’s try to get onto the roof again…’

To their great dismay, that proved more difficult than they had thought.
The house was filled with water, but the hole in the roof they had made
when they fell in looked unreachable to them. It had not been difficult to catch
hold of it when standing in a boat…but now, Boromir was starting to feel terribly
hopeless.
‘Perhaps we could break a window,’ Faramir suggested.
…Having swum around the house yet again, they huddled together on the
stove, even more dismayed. The windows were not difficult to break, but the
frames had proven too strong for them, and the glass too small for them to swim
out through the hole where it was.
Unusually silent, Boromir put his arm around Faramir’s shoulders and
firmly banished the tears from his eyes. Not that they would be visible on his
already wet face…but Faramir would know, he knew it.
‘Someone is going to find us soon,’ he said.
Faramir did not answer, and Boromir was grateful to him for that. His little
brother was sharp enough to understand that no one was going to come looking
for them…
109
‘Listen!!’
‘Mmm?’
‘Boromir! You said we mustn’t sleep!’
‘Argh…what is it?’
‘There’s someone outside!’
Boromir’s head jerked up, and he nearly fell off the stove.
Meanwhile, Faramir was listening intently, and then plunged forward,
towards the faint shaft of light from the hole.
‘Help!’ he cried. ‘We are here, inside!’
And then, suddenly, a head peered into the house.
‘My goodness!’ the head said. ‘What are you doing there, lad?’
‘I…I fell down, with my brother…please, sir, would you be so kind as to
help us to get out?’
Even now, Faramir did not forget his manners.
The man on the roof did not ask further questions, but fiddled a little with
something, and finally there was a long, wide strap dangling from the hole.
‘Here, I’ve made a loop on the end…grab it, lad!’

Faramir reached for the thing, but then turned his head and called
anxiously, ‘Boromir?’
‘Go,’ Boromir breathed, hardly believing his eyes. ‘I’ll come after you.’
Boromir was afraid his brother would not have the strength to climb the
rope, but the man just pulled him up and out of the house. For an instant,
Boromir was seized with blinding panic, left alone in the dark, water-filled
house…but then the strap was there again, and he could follow Faramir.
He was scarcely aware of his surroundings until they were in the boat. The
man shook him and demanded angrily, ‘So what have the two of you been doing
there?’
‘N-nothing,’ Boromir stuttered. ‘We…we just wanted to look…’
‘To look?! And how old are you, lad?’ the man growled.
‘I am twelve, and my brother is seven,’ Boromir replied proudly.
The thing that followed was the last one he expected. The man grabbed
him by the waist, and in an instant, he heard something heavy land on his
backside with a loud slap! And then again!
Boromir was so shocked he did not even feel the pain of the wet leather
hitting him. Before he could say anything, the same had been performed on
Faramir, who winced and bit his lip, but did not utter a sound either. The attack
simply infuriated Boromir, though.
‘Do not touch my brother, you!’ he bellowed.
‘Thinking about your brother, are you?’ the man snapped. ‘What were you
thinking about when you were dragging him in there, you little pup? The two of
you could have died in that house! Good that I saw that hole in the roof!’
‘Don’t you touch me or my brother anymore!’ Boromir’s eyes were still full
of fire. ‘Do you know who we are?’
The man’s anger suddenly dissolved, and a light smirk appeared on his
lips.
‘Tell me, young lord,’ he said with mocking courtesy.
‘I am Boromir, son of Denethor the Steward of Gondor!’ Boromir
announced proudly.
‘Now, such cheek deserves some more spanking,’ the man remarked,
reaching for his belt again.
‘No!’ came a cry from Faramir.
The younger lad caught his arm and looked into his eyes imploringly.
‘No…please, sir, don’t hit him…he speaks the truth.’
110

Something in his face clearly made their saviour believe him, for the man
lowered his hand and sat staring at them in astonishment. Boromir could not
help a little sigh of relief and said quietly, ‘Yes, s-sir…I speak the truth indeed.’
The man sighed too.
‘If this is true, then you deserve much more spanking, my lads…but not by
me. I’ll take you to the Lord Imrahil.’
He turned and occupied himself with the oars.
111
Later, Faramir thought that the way back was somehow much harder than
the quest one embarked upon…but perhaps that was just because they were wet,
cold, and downright miserable.
Their rescuer did not talk much. Boromir sat hugging himself, head bowed,
and gave an occasional quiet sniffle now and then. Faramir sighed and stared
ahead.
He wondered what their uncle would say. Nothing too good, for certain…
He would be astonished, then angry, and of course a little relieved. Faramir
wondered if anyone had noticed their absence. They had slipped out with ease,
the guard at the entrance distracted by some people asking him to lend them aid
with blankets, or something… Their uncle had certainly not expected them to
disobey in the way they did.
Faramir sighed again. It had been wrong of them to do it…all wrong…and
now they had to face an upset Uncle Imrahil. What could be worse than that…
‘’Tis good to have you here,’ Imrahil said, pouring the wine. ‘But frankly, I
did not expect you to come, especially since the roads are in such a poor state.’
Denethor winced a little.
‘Poor indeed,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Mark it, I was not travelling by our
usual way… But naturally, I had to come, with all this flooding. It has been a
hard spring, has it not?’
Imrahil rubbed his brow.
‘Let us say we are not awaiting winter very eagerly.’
‘Do not worry overmuch about the supplies,’ Denethor said. ‘I have been
looking into the matter for some time now, and I gather there is enough food to
suffice for all of the land.’

He eyed Imrahil more closely and added, ‘You do look weary. I hope my
sons have not been adding to the trouble too much.’
‘Surprisingly, they have not,’ Imrahil answered with a chuckle. ‘Today, I
asked them to look after themselves because I needed every spare hand, and they
have been remarkably obedient to that. You do not mind that, do you?’ he added
anxiously.
‘Not in the least,’ Denethor waved his hand dismissively. ‘They have been
left to themselves before. Boromir is old enough to be in charge of himself and his
brother for one evening…not that Faramir needs that much.’
Imrahil smiled.
‘Your sons are good lads, brother.’
Denethor nodded thoughtfully and sipped his wine. ‘Aye, they are.’
He looked straight into his brother-in-law’s face and gave an almost
imperceptible smile.
Imrahil returned it and thought, not for the first time, that to know
Denethor’s true mind was a task not for a mortal to attempt. Had he not known
the Steward for years, it would have been hard even for him to discern in
Denethor’s eyes both pride and love for his children. Still, being a son to a father
that exacting was no small task, he thought…
‘I should like to see them, now that all the urgent affairs have been
discussed,’ Denethor said, rising from his chair.
The Steward had arrived with a small suite and as quietly as possible, so
only a few of Imrahil’s men knew of his arrival. Denethor had ordered that his
visit not be announced to Boromir and Faramir until later. Imrahil wondered if it
was not a wish to give the lads a surprise that lay behind that order.
‘Come, then,’ he said. ‘They will be delighted to see you.’
112
The brothers let themselves be led towards their uncle’s office without a
word of protest. Both were too weary and cold to notice much of their
surroundings. Faramir’s mind absently noted the gasps and dropping jaws and
hands clapped to mouths. Boromir was very gloomy, steeling himself for the
lecture to come. He was certain it would be a long lecture. It struck him that he
would rather accept another encounter with their rescuer’s belt.
He felt Faramir’s hand slip into his and press it lightly. Boromir pressed it
back and gave his brother a tiny grateful smile.

Finally, they were at the door to the office…and it opened…and again,
desperately, fervently, Boromir wished he were to be spanked again. Instead of
having to deal with the person who stood at their uncle’s side.
113
Boromir stood with his eyes on his feet as their rescuer recounted their tale
to Denethor and Imrahil. Faramir was still holding his hand, but his fingers were
now trembling a little. Boromir thought his little brother might be scared, but
when he looked at Faramir anxiously, he noticed the bluish tinge of his nose and
lips. The poor lad was wet through and obviously very cold…
Boromir interrupted the account resolutely. He had a feeling this breach of
etiquette was nothing compared to all he had done on that day.
‘Father,’ he said firmly, ‘may Faramir go and change?’
A silence followed. Denethor eyed his eldest for a long moment.
‘Very well, Boromir,’ he consented. ‘Faramir, go to your chamber…and you
had better go to bed.’
Faramir looked alarmed. His glance shot to Boromir’s face, and then to that
of his father. He took a step forward and opened his mouth as if to argue, but
Denethor stopped him by putting a firm hand on his shoulder.
‘You will do as I bid, child. And…’ he glanced at Boromir, ‘your brother
likewise. There will be time to talk on the morrow.’
Faramir slowly nodded and turned to go. Boromir stood motionless until
his younger brother pulled his hand and said very quietly, ‘Come, Boromir.’
Boromir let himself be guided out to the hallway, for once letting his
brother take charge.
Silently, they made their way to their chamber. Neither spoke as they were
disentangling themselves from their wet garments, and later scrubbing
themselves clean in a tub of blissfully hot water…
Only when Boromir was prepared to get into his bed did he break the
silence.
‘Good night, Faramir,’ he said very quietly and slid under the covers.
Faramir suddenly rushed to his side and embraced him.
‘Father will not be very angry with you,’ he whispered reassuringly.
Boromir sighed.
‘He already is, Faramir,’ he said, looking into his brother’s worried face.
‘And rightly so. I have endangered both our lives…and I should have been
looking after you, not getting you killed.’

Faramir was about to protest, but Boromir shook his head sadly.
‘Go to sleep, little brother,’ he said.
114
As he was quickly making his way to his own chamber, Denethor still felt
his knees shake.
Once inside, he bolted the door and took two swift steps to the chair, not
even bothering to light a candle. The faint glow from the dying fire was enough.
He sank heavily into the chair, pressing a hand to his face.
He had managed to preserve an expressionless appearance while the tale of
his sons’ adventure was being told, but his blood ran cold every moment he
thought of how close he had been to losing them both…
He took several deep breaths to calm himself. It was a miracle that both the
lads were unharmed. On the morrow, he would talk to them about it and think of
a fitting punishment…now, he was merely grateful to have them back.
A faint noise startled him. He turned and stirred the fire, extracting several
merry flames.
The noise seemed to have come from the direction of his bed. Denethor
came closer, thinking that perhaps a cat had decided to share it with him, and
becoming somewhat irritated at the thought.
However, he was wrong, for it was no cat, but his younger son, wrapped in
a warm coverlet apparently borrowed from Denethor’s own bed.
‘I am sorry, Father,’ Faramir said, not waiting for Denethor to recover from
his astonishment. ‘I wanted to ask you about something, but you were not here,
and then I was cold and climbed into your bed…you are not angry?’
Denethor, still not over his initial surprise, nearly chuckled. No, indeed,
there was no danger of him becoming angry at this after all that had happened
earlier in the day.
‘No, child, I am not, though you should be in your own bed by now.’
‘I know,’ Faramir said, nodding gravely. ‘I only want to ask you
something.’
‘I am listening, then.’
The lad inhaled deeply, then clasped and unclasped his hands, and finally
asked his question. ‘How are you going to punish us for running away?’
Denethor sat on the edge of the bed, looking at his son’s anxious face,
barely discernible in the semi-darkness of the chamber.

‘Something tells me you are not asking this because you are afraid of it,
Faramir. Am I right?’
Faramir pondered the question and shook his head.
‘No, I am not afraid,’ he said. ‘But Boromir is…very sad.’
‘Sad? Well, he should be ashamed of what he did. Not only did he foolishly
rush into something very, very dangerous…something that could have cost him
his life; he also put your life at stake, and he was responsible for you because you
are his younger brother. But for a lucky chance, you might have both been dead,’
Denethor said, expertly keeping his voice quiet and level, though something
twisted painfully in his stomach again as he was saying it.
Faramir sighed almost inaudibly.
‘I’m sorry that we made you fear for us, Father,’ he said, clutching the
edges of the coverlet tighter.
A familiar faint sense of astonishment swept across Denethor’s mind. He
was by now accustomed to Faramir’s astuteness when it came to what was
behind the things that people said. He had not said a word about fear, nor had he
betrayed himself with any tremor of his voice or body…and yet the child simply
knew. A somewhat disconcerting sensation it gave…
He stood up abruptly and walked to the fire.
‘You do realise, Faramir, that what happened was your fault as well,’ he
said somewhat gruffly, his back to the bed. ‘I know you have not talked about
this much with your tutors yet, for it is too early for you to be taught about the
ways of the state…’
‘Oh, but I know something about it,’ Faramir said with confidence. ‘I know
that I shall advise Boromir when he is Steward…and much shall depend on
myself as well as on him…and I should not support Boromir if he is thinking of
doing something perilous. Is that right, Father?’
Denethor turned around and eyed the lad with new curiosity. Faramir was
talking so solemnly that he could be mistaken for a grown man, if not for the
voice.
‘Aye, it is, though I should prefer you not to interrupt when your elders are
speaking,’ he said, and was content to see Faramir look properly chastised. ‘Did
you try to persuade Boromir not to escape?’
Faramir nodded, and suddenly the solemnity left him altogether.
‘Yes…but he wouldn’t listen to me! He said he wanted to help, and also
that he wanted to see if there was anyone in need, and he hoped to work with
others and perhaps save someone, and surely you, and Uncle, and Grandfather,
and everyone would be proud of him, because he would be a real hero then. And
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then I decided to go with him and look after him, because Boromir can be so
careless, though he’s already so big and strong, and I…’
‘Peace,’ Denethor checked the outpour, ‘I have guessed that much. But you
wanted to know about your punishment…’
Faramir nodded, turning grave again, and yawned. Denethor came back to
sit on the bed.
‘Truthfully, I do not know yet. However, your words might have given me
a good thought,’ he said. ‘Now go. ’Tis long past your bedtime.’
Faramir let go of the coverlet, emerging from it only in his nightshirt, and
prepared to leave when suddenly Denethor’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.
‘’Tis chilly in the hallway, Faramir. You may take that with you.’
The Steward watched with mild annoyance mixed with amusement as the
child struggled to wrap the thick thing around himself. Faramir was much too
tired and sleepy, and the coverlet kept slipping out of his fingers, which were still
red and swollen from the cold.
‘Let me assist you with that,’ Denethor finally said, stooping to his son and
wrapping him up warmly.
He looked at Faramir’s flushed face under a mop of thick black hair. The
two grey eyes, darker now than was their wont, were blinking at him sleepily. A
long, thin scratch went down the left cheek; Denethor noticed it was still bleeding
a little. Faramir smiled tiredly and yawned again, showing a missing tooth in his
upper jaw… Denethor’s heart constricted painfully in his chest as he was struck
with the blood-curdling thought that he might have never witnessed the new
tooth growing in the little gap…that this sleepy, warm, innocent child could be
lying cold in a forgotten, flooded house…
With a sharp intake of breath, Denethor took the lad in his arms and
whispered, for he could not trust his voice, ‘I shall take you to your chamber,
Faramir.’
‘But Father, you can’t carry me! I’m not little anymore!’ Faramir
protested…rather feebly, though.
‘Silence, child,’ Denethor said, holding him tightly and slowly regaining his
composure. ‘If you needed to see me so desperately, you could have put on your
boots, leastways. I should rather have my son be carried to his chamber than run
around barefoot.’
When they made their way to the door, Faramir was already asleep,
snuggled close to his father’s chest. Denethor put him carefully to bed, kissing
him lightly on the cheek, and went over to where Boromir was sleeping.
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His eldest was lying sprawled across the bed, the covers kicked almost to
the footboard. Denethor smiled and covered him again, noticing that Boromir
was much taller than he had been before the departure to Dol Amroth. Yes, he
would one day grow into a fine youth… Denethor leant down and placed a kiss
on his brow. Boromir frowned and shifted a little.
The Steward stepped away, cast one more look upon the sleeping children,
and left them to recover after their adventures of the day before.
117
Boromir was awakened by a playful ray of the late morning sun.
At first, he scowled at it and turned in his warm and soft bed, determined
to have some more sleep. An instant later, his eyes opened wide and he
scrambled from under the covers and ran to the window.
The sun?!
He felt like bursting in a merry song. The rain had stopped! He could now
play outdoors and maybe go swimming if it was warm enough…
And then, the events of the day before came back to him like a…flood.
His glance shot to the other bed. Faramir appeared still fast asleep,
untroubled by the sun or his brother’s movements.
Why had no one come to awaken them?
As if in response to that thought, the door opened slowly, revealing their
father.
Boromir sighed and returned to the bedside, standing there with his eyes
upon Denethor’s face.
‘Good morrow, Father,’ he said quietly.
‘Aye, ’tis good indeed,’ Denethor replied. ‘And not merely due to good
weather. Sit.’
He did as he was bidden. Denethor took a chair and did the same, eyeing
his eldest silently with an inscrutable expression. After a while, he spoke.
‘I deem you are old enough to understand all the peril of your venture.
Have you aught to say?’
‘I am sorry I put Faramir’s life in danger,’ Boromir said.
‘Your own, too.’
‘I know…but Father, I didn’t want merely to sit here and wait and do
nothing! I thought they needed help there, and I’m strong enough to assist, I am!’

‘And yet there are things that require sitting and waiting and doing
nothing, as you say. You must learn those too. As well, you must listen to what
your elders say,’ Denethor said.
Emboldened by his father’s calm, Boromir snorted.
‘Shall I always have to listen to others and not follow my own mind?’
Child…much do I desire you to be your own man, and you seem to be one
already… Denethor thought. Certainly, he would not say anything of the kind to
Boromir.
‘Nay, if making up your own mind is preceded by careful consideration; if
you have weighed all your choices and concluded that there is not a better way.
Pray tell, where has your mind brought you this time, son?’
Suddenly, Boromir felt terribly weary again.
‘Nowhere,’ he whispered, feeling a thin veil of tears form in his eyes. ‘We
nearly died in that house, and there was nothing we could help others with,
and…and…and I have lost my boat.’
He nearly burst into tears as he said that; suddenly, the loss of the boat
seemed the most disastrous to him. But he only took several deep breaths and
looked Denethor in the face again.
‘You were to stay in Dol Amroth for a week longer, were you not?’
Denethor said.
‘We were,’ Boromir nodded, feeling an odd sense of relief.
So this was their punishment. Father would take them back to Minas Tirith
earlier than was planned…and right when the weather changed for the better.
There would be no running on the sandy beaches or swimming or rowing…not
that he had a boat anymore.
However, when Denethor spoke again, he said something very
unexpected.
‘I have decided that you will stay here for two more weeks.’
Boromir’s mouth fell open.
‘I see that you are astonished at this,’ Denethor said. ‘But such is my
decision. You will stay here, but not for pleasure. Your grandsire or uncle will
appoint you to some duties at the site of the flood, where you so much wanted to
be. You will work there, and maybe also find some of the renown you were
seeking, though that I doubt.’
‘And… and Faramir?’
‘Your brother will go with you.’
Boromir’s glance wandered to where Faramir was still sleeping peacefully,
a hand under his cheek. The talk had not been enough to disturb his slumber.
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‘Awaken your brother, ’tis rather late,’ Denethor said rising. ‘The luncheon
must be awaiting you already.’
He walked to the door and was about to leave the chamber, when
something seemed to check him in his stride.
‘Boromir, did you not say that you wanted to rescue someone?’
Boromir nodded, not sure what was to come. His father was standing in
the doorway, a curious half-smile upon his lips. Finally, Denethor spoke.
‘You may think you have. The boat your grandsire gave you was washed
to a house in a neighbouring village, also flooded after the dam burst. There was
a young woman sitting on the roof with a small child, and she was able to get to
safety in your boat.’
With that, he turned and was gone.
Boromir stood rooted to the spot for a while; then his face broke into a wide
grin, and he threw himself onto Faramir’s bed.
‘Wake up, you sleepyhead!!’
119

Mettarë, T.A. 3001
An Unexpected Visit
by Cressida
The last day of the year dawned cold and clear in Minas Tirith. A thin layer
of snow covered the fields as a grey-clad figure made his way across them,
leaning as usual upon his faithful staff. When he reached the great city gate, he
was challenged briefly by a young sentry; but he gave the password and was
permitted to enter.
The city was already stirring. Houses were being swept in preparation for
the new year, and the people abroad in the streets were in festive mood. Many of
them, recognizing the Grey Pilgrim from his earlier visits, greeted him as
"Mithrandir." And he, who had many names, slipped easily into thinking of
himself by this one.
He presented himself to the Lord Denethor, whom he found conferring
with his chamberlain about making the White Tower ready for the evening's
celebration, and requested leave to hunt through the archives for some
information that he sought. Seemingly relieved that Mithrandir required nothing
greater, Denethor gave his permission readily. After a pause, he added, "I hope
you will join us for the Mettarë celebration tonight?"
"I should be delighted," Mithrandir replied gravely. There was a gleam of
amusement in his eye which the Steward did not fail to notice.
The documents which Gondor had accumulated over the centuries were
housed in a handsome building within the Citadel. Many of them had been
rescued from the great archive of Osgiliath. Very little had been lost in the
destruction of that city, thanks to the forethought of the archive workers: during
the siege, they had carried the most important volumes to underground vaults,
where they had escaped damage in the ensuing fire. It was these documents
which Mithrandir wished to examine first, for he wanted to begin his search with
the earliest days of Gondor's history.
A pleasant-looking woman of middle age led him to a room where shelves,
from floor to ceiling, were crammed with books and scrolls in an untidy jumble.
Still more scrolls protruded from the tops of wooden crates ranged on the floor
and the long wooden tables. "I fear it is somewhat in disarray," she explained
apologetically. "The chamber housing these things was damaged in the great
storm last summer – a tree branch as thick as a man's waist blew down upon the
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oof and cracked it in several places. We had to empty the room quickly, before
the water ruined everything; we brought it here, but we have not yet been able to
set all in order, nor to repair the roof of the chamber."
Mithrandir harrumphed and knitted his formidable eyebrows. "Time was
when the lore of Gondor would have been treated with more respect! Things
have changed indeed if even Lord Denethor will not spare a few men to repair
his storehouse of knowledge."
"He has said it shall be mended as soon as the weather allows," she assured
him hastily. "But with so many raids along the river of late, it could not be done
sooner. And truly, we did not expect that anyone would ask to look over these
old documents before then. They are seldom requested."
When she had gone, the wizard made himself comfortable, took up the
nearest box of parchments, and began searching methodically through it. The
news about the river raids was very interesting, and it strengthened his certainty
that he was on to something important. Attacks on the Shire in the north had
been increasing also; he had discussed the matter with Strider when they met in
Bree shortly after Bilbo's birthday party. They had made plans to hunt for the
creature Gollum in the spring. Until then, Mithrandir intended to spend the
winter in Minas Tirith and hopefully to learn something about Bilbo's ring.
The short winter day passed swiftly. It took time to sift through the
documents, for they had been scooped up hastily and mixed together in the rush
to carry them to safety. An account of the great plague might be underneath a
copy of an edict from King Tarostar, with a list of landholders in Ithilien from
several hundred years later beneath that. Mithrandir looked carefully over each
page before setting it aside. He missed his pipe, but knew it would be inadvisable
to get it out – and not only because of the danger of fire or the need to conserve
his pipeweed. The practice was unknown in Gondor, and the smell of pipe smoke
was sure to draw complaints.
Quiet reigned in the building, save for some junior archivists chatting
about their plans for the evening. That night, the White Tower would be open to
all those in the employ of the city or of Gondor, and everyone, down to the
lowliest clerk and footsoldier, might come and drink a toast to the new year. As
the day waned, Mithrandir became conscious that the young folk were asking
each other in whispers whether they ought to tell him that the archive was
closing for the day or allow him to remain, since he was a guest of Lord Denethor
and so very fierce-looking—and if so, then who should stay behind to lock the
door? At last, Mithrandir took pity on their dilemma, set aside his work, and
prepared to leave. Though he had learned nothing of use that day, he was not
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deterred. He had plenty of time to search.
As he stood to collect his cloak and staff, he heard the door open. From his
place, he could not see the visitor; but he heard the archivist give a courteous
greeting, followed by the voice of a young man. "Pardon me for coming so late! I
promise to be quick, but I must find one thing before you close."
"Of course, my lord," another voice answered, arousing Mithrandir’s
interest. He thought he could guess who the visitor was, for he well remembered,
from his last visit to the city, a small boy who would come to the archive every
day and beg him for tales of his travels. That boy would now be about eighteen
years old, he estimated. Stepping around the corner which blocked his view, he
examined the figure kneeling before a bookcase near the door.
The youth was lean and long-limbed. Dark hair fell to his shoulders and
brushed the embroidered collar of his wine-colored velvet surcoat. He frowned
slightly in concentration as he leaned over a heavy book balanced half on his
knee, half on the edge of the bookshelf. His distinctive profile left no doubt as to
his identity, for not only could Mithrandir see in it traces of the child of several
years before, but it bore a startling resemblance to those of his father and brother.
Faramir seemed to find the information he sought, and he closed the book.
Then suddenly, as if he felt the gaze upon him, he turned his head. "Mithrandir!"
he cried in delight, jumping up to greet the wizard warmly. "I did not know you
were in the city! When did you come?"
"I arrived this morning," Mithrandir replied, not displeased at his
reception. "I have already seen your father; I am surprised he did not tell you."
Something flickered across Faramir's face. "Ah. I have not spoken much
with him today." Changing the subject quickly, he asked, "Will you be at the
festivities this evening? If you are going to the White Tower, I will walk with
you." He slid his book back onto the shelf, and Mithrandir caught sight of the title
in gold letters upon the leather binding: Lives of the Great Generals of Gondor.
"That is not your usual reading," he commented in surprise and some
disappointment.
"No, it is not," Faramir agreed with a half-smile as they moved toward the
door. "A good Mettarë to you all!" he called to the archivists, and then he and
Mithrandir walked into the crisp winter darkness.
Outside, Faramir continued his explanation, his breath making puffs of
steam in the cold air. "Last night, my brother and I were trying to remember
exactly how the troops were disposed in King Eärnil’s defense of South Ithilien—
though of course, he was not king at the time—and how it differed from the
battle of 2885. I promised I would look it up when next I passed the archive."
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"Do the young men of Gondor think of nothing but war?" Mithrandir
growled, half to himself. Perhaps it was not to be wondered at; Minas Tirith was,
after all, within sight of the Shadow. In such a place, people thought constantly of
danger and praised those who defended their city. Still, the boy he remembered
had been a promising student of the arts of peace. It would be a sad loss if he too
had learned to prize warfare above all else.
“Alas, sometimes it seems that we must,” Faramir answered ruefully. “But
now that you are here, I hope you will teach me about other things, as you used
to do! You promised once, long ago, to tell me of the time you visited the Elven
havens and saw the harbor where their ships sail for the West.”
The wistfulness of his tone eased Mithrandir’s mind. Perhaps, he reflected,
it was not only the need to find information which had brought him to the city
this winter instead of searching for Gollum immediately, as he had originally
planned. Perhaps some power understood that this young man was in need of his
teaching and had directed him here.
"I shall make sure to spare time for that," he promised. "But do you not
have duties to attend to?"
"Sometimes," Faramir replied. "If there are more orc-raids, I may be called
to go out with the city guard or the Rangers of Ithilien, as my father pleases. He
says it is important for me to learn something of the duties of all Gondor's
companies. He does the same with Boromir – he is home now for year's end, but I
think Father intends him to serve at Cair Andros for a time."
They turned a corner and emerged at the edge of the Court of the Fountain.
The paved paths had been swept clean of snow, but an unmarked layer of it
covered the grass around the White Tree. The tower doors, standing wide open to
welcome guests, flooded the courtyard with warm, golden light. Glittering stars
studded the clear night sky. The two men's backs were to the east, shutting out
the pitiless Shadow rising there.
Though he had not visited Minas Tirith as often as the north, Mithrandir
had walked this path many times before. The first time had been a brilliant spring
day when the Tree was in blossom, already an ancient symbol of Gondor then,
though still strong and healthy. Its white blossoms were each the size of a man's
fist, their perfume strong enough to fill the Citadel and yet delicate enough not to
cloy even when one paused beside the fountain, as he and Faramir did now.
Water played around the base of the Tree despite the cold weather, for it was
warmed deep underground before emerging here.
Faramir gazed at the bare branches furred with a coating of snow, and a
smile played about his lips. "I like the Tree best in winter," he commented in a
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soft voice.
Surprised, Mithrandir asked, "And why is that?"
"Because now it does not seem dead, for other trees are just as bare. It looks
as if it might be only sleeping, gathering strength to flower again in spring."
It seemed only a daydream, and yet, Mithrandir had learned in his long life
never to call anything impossible. "Would you like to see that?"
"Yes," Faramir answered simply and without hesitation. "More than
anything. It must have been beautiful."
"It was," said Mithrandir, almost to himself. Faramir glanced at him oddly,
as if intending to question him, but was interrupted by a shout from the door.
Boromir was striding toward them, clad in a coat of deep blue over a fine
linen shirt. As he had already been a teenager on Mithrandir's last visit, his
features had not changed much in the intervening time. They had matured and
become more defined, however, and his air of easy authority had deepened. He
nodded courteously to Mithrandir, but his first words were for his brother.
"There are you are, Faramir! Father is calling for you inside. He wishes to see you
immediately."
Faramir stiffened very slightly. "Then I had best not keep him waiting," he
answered quickly. "I will see you both at the celebration." He bowed and hurried
into the tower.
"Has he displeased his father?" Mithrandir asked, watching him go.
There was a short pause as Boromir seemed to consider how best to
answer. Though he was always civil, he had never truly warmed to Mithrandir,
who suspected that Denethor had taught Boromir to mistrust him. Why the
lesson had not extended to Faramir, the wizard could not guess; he was only
grateful that it had not.
"Father's mind has been much burdened with cares of state these past
months," Boromir said at last. "Faramir tells me he spends long hours shut up in
the tower, devising strategies against the enemy. It has made him difficult to
please." He gestured toward the door. "Come, I will escort you."
He turned to go, but Mithrandir remained for a moment. On an impulse,
he asked, "And what do you think of the White Tree? Would you like to see it in
flower?"
Boromir glanced back over his shoulder. "Yes, certainly," he responded
without enthusiasm. "But that is impossible, of course. It is only a reminder of the
days of the kings. They will not come again."
"Unless the king should return," Mithrandir reminded him.
Boromir shrugged slightly. "True. But I will concern myself with that when
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I see it."
They walked to the great feasting-hall in the tower, where all was made
ready for the evening's festivities. The room blazed with light from three
chandeliers filled with white candles. In one corner, a minstrel was tuning his
harp. Nearby, Denethor stood talking with the captain of the citadel guard, who
had arrived early. Two long sideboards were laid with trays of sweet and savory
confections, preserved fruit, and cheeses. A splendid silver bowl filled with hot,
spiced wine occupied its own table in the center of the room.
In the days of the kings, the celebrations had been more elaborate,
including a full meal and lasting well into the next day. Though these were
darker and leaner times, the Stewards continued the tradition as best they could.
Perhaps that very darkness made the celebration all the more important.
By tradition, the children of the ruling house would serve wine to the
guests. Faramir had already taken his place, and he presented Mithrandir with a
steaming cup drawn from the bowl. Boromir now joined him and began ladling
wine into more cups, arranging them in a neat row like soldiers on parade. The
minstrel struck up a sweet, plaintive air as a thin stream of guests began to trickle
into the hall. Mithrandir stepped aside so that the newcomers might take their
turn.
All through the evening, they came. Some would stay until midnight;
others came only briefly to pay their respects before hurrying off to other
gatherings with family or friends. There were clerks from the scribing-houses,
archivists from the house of lore, messengers of the Citadel, and those who
tended their horses. Officers and men-at-arms came, the sentries in rotation so as
not to leave their posts unguarded. The Guards of the Citadel came in their
splendid black coats embroidered with the silver crown; each removed his helmet
of bright mithril as he entered and tucked it under one arm before accepting a
cup of wine.
Mithrandir watched the procession of faces: old and young, men and
women, high and low. Some were known to him from his previous visits, and
many of them came to offer him greetings and good wishes for the new year.
Others were unfamiliar, and those he sought out to make their acquaintance, for
he went everywhere and saw everyone.
He had learned late to love this city and its people. When first he visited
Gondor, he had thought the people overproud, too much concerned with their
own power and consequence. At that time, he had been content to leave Gondor
in the capable hands of Curunír and spend the bulk of his own time in the north,
where his aid seemed both more needed and more welcome. But the people who
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dwelt here now were different. The more they had struggled against the Shadow,
the brighter they had become. Those here tonight knew that their cause might be
hopeless, that they might be the last generation to stand against Sauron, and this
brought them sadness; but they had vowed to do so with all the strength and
courage they possessed, and this brought them peace.
Boromir and Faramir served each guest with courtesy, receiving many
smiles in return. It was clear that the brothers were very popular in the city. An
image floated before Mithrandir's eyes of young Denethor at another Mettarë
celebration more than fifty years earlier, serving the wine politely with a solemn
face and a faint air of wishing to be elsewhere. People had been rather awed by
him despite his youth; toward his sons, they seemed more familiar, even
affectionate.
Boromir, especially, was receiving warm congratulations from many of the
guests. He had recently led his company to their first notable victory, Mithrandir
gathered from the talk flying about the room. An armsmaster from one of the
training halls in the First Circle seemed particularly interested and stayed by
Boromir's side for several minutes to press him for details. Boromir readily
answered his questions while taking clean cups from a tray and, without looking,
passing them backward to Faramir. Matching his pace, Faramir filled each cup
with a smooth sweep of the ladle, set it down, and turned back for the next. They
continued in this way until another guest entered, and then Faramir gently
pushed Boromir's hand back before offering a cup to the newcomer.
As midnight drew closer, the cooks and scullery-maids came from the
kitchens to share in the celebration they had prepared. The minstrel, too, set
down his harp and partook of some food and wine. An air of expectancy fell over
the room. Voices lowered almost to whispers as people began to listen for the
bell-stroke that would announce the turning of the year.
And then it came, a silvery-clear chime resounding through the Citadel. All
fell silent as the Lord Denethor stepped to the center of the room to make the two
toasts which tradition dictated must be completed before the bell finished
ringing. He lifted his cup to those gathered around him. "To those who serve the
Tower, to those who serve the city, and to those who serve our land," he recited.
The guests stood still while their Steward drank to them, their faces at once
solemn and joyous. Another year has passed, and we have endured, they seemed to
say. Another year we have remained steadfast in exile. Another year we have stood
against the Shadow.
Then Denethor raised his cup higher and called out in a clear voice, "To the
new year!"
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"To the new year!" the guests repeated as one, and drank.
As the last strokes of the bell tolled, each person then offered a toast to
those nearby. Conversation began to hum again as good wishes were exchanged.
Mithrandir found himself toasting the young sentry who had admitted him to the
city that morning, whose name, he had since learned, was Ingold. He saw
Denethor touch his wine-cup first to Boromir's and then Faramir's. A look passed
between the father and son then, and though they said nothing, Mithrandir knew
that both had laid aside their differences in the spirit of the new year.
Faramir then turned to toast Boromir, and Mithrandir caught Denethor's
eye. With a faint smile, he lifted his cup to the Steward. After a moment's
hesitation, Denethor returned the gesture. Although there had never been trust
between them, for tonight, there was truce.
The toasts marked the end of the celebration. Soon afterward, the guests
began to drift away. Mithrandir made his way out of the Tower and paused in
the courtyard, leaning upon his staff. Departing guests called out the traditional
greeting–"A good Yestarë and a good year!"—to each other, their voices ringing
sharp and clear in the frosty air. Light sparkled on the snow lying around the
White Tree and coating its branches. It was not difficult to imagine the
beginnings of buds sleeping under the snow, waiting to swell at the sun's touch.
Mithrandir smiled.
There were footsteps behind him, and then Lord Denethor was beside him.
"What makes you smile so?" His tone was unusually mild, almost
companionable.
Caught up in the mood of the night, Mithrandir chose to answer that
question with another. "Tell me, Lord Denethor," he asked merrily as he turned to
face the Steward, "should you like to see the White Tree in flower?"
Wariness leapt into Denethor's eyes. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason," Mithrandir replied a little sadly. There seemed no point in
spoiling the fragile peace between them. He ought to have realized that Denethor
would interpret the question as a challenge, for a flowering Tree in this court
could only mean a king on the throne.
Denethor raised one eyebrow, but left it at that.
Boromir had made the connection too, Mithrandir reflected, though he
clearly considered kings to belong only to the pages of lorebooks. But
Faramir...had he stopped to think of the meaning of his words, their significance
for his family? Did he see in the Tree a wish for the future or for the return of the
past? Mithrandir found himself growing intrigued. Yes, he would have to make
time to speak with Faramir, to get to know the young man he had become.
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The brothers emerged from the Tower just then. After they had wished
Mithrandir a good Yestarë, Faramir hesitantly addressed Denethor. "Father, I was
thinking – as tomorrow is a holiday – perhaps Mithrandir might dine with us?"
Mithrandir glanced at Denethor, trying to read whether his good humor
persisted. Denethor’s face remained impassive, but he inclined his head and
answered, "Very well."
The silver chime struck the half-hour, reminding them that it was time they
were abed. The small party started toward their respective lodgings, which lay in
the same direction. Rather surprisingly, Boromir hung back with Mithrandir,
allowing Faramir and Denethor to walk on ahead side by side.
Perhaps Boromir too was affected by the mood of the night. Perhaps the
lateness of the hour loosened his tongue. Or perhaps he had drunk too much
wine, though that seemed unlikely. Whatever the reason, Mithrandir would later
remember this as one of the greatest moments of openness between him and
Denethor's elder son.
"I am glad to see peace between them again," Boromir confessed in a rush,
looking after his father and brother. "Their discords are slower to mend than they
once were." Then, as if feeling he had spoken too freely, he looked away, fixing
his gaze on the White Tree. Mithrandir waited patiently, saying nothing.
After a few seconds' pause, Boromir spoke again. "When I was a child, I
wondered sometimes why no one took the White Tree away, for it was dead. But
when my mother died, I came to understand why they left it here – as a reminder
of how things once were, for it makes the loss seem less complete. The people of
Gondor keep this tree as a symbol of the days of the kings, just as Isildur planted
it to remember his brother Anárion." He looked again to where Faramir and
Denethor walked, and Mithrandir knew that he wondered if he too would be left
one day with only memories of a brother. Boromir sighed. "They fought against
Sauron and believed him destroyed, but he returned, and he will never be
satisfied until we are destroyed...."
Mithrandir risked laying a hand on the young man's shoulder. "We are
none of us granted to know the future," he said gravely. "Even those gifted with
what is called foresight only see small glimpses, and dimly at that. But that is as
much a blessing as a curse, for it gives us hope. Let us hope that Gondor may
know peace one day soon."
Boromir nodded, seeming to pull himself together, as if he had only just
realized to whom he had been speaking. "That is easy to do on such a night as
this," he returned with a half-smile. His guard was up again; there would be no
more confidences tonight.
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Still, Mithrandir thought, it had been a most surprising evening.
The new year stretched before them all, with endless possibilities for good
or ill. Things might change in ways that no one could now foresee, or they might
change very little. In another year’s time, Sauron might have arisen or been
defeated. Gondor might have a king again, or it might be conquered. Or perhaps
things would be much the same as they were tonight. All of Mithrandir's wisdom
and experience could not tell him what would happen. As he had told Boromir,
none could know the future.
Some things seemed likely. Tomorrow he would dine with Denethor and
his sons; the next day he would return to the archive. If he found out nothing
about Bilbo's ring this winter, then perhaps he and Strider might learn something
from Gollum in the spring. Beyond that, it was difficult to say.
But Mithrandir was sure of one thing: before he retired for the night, he
intended to have a good smoke.
Author's notes: Gandalf knowing the passwords of the seven gates of Minas
Tirith is a detail mentioned by Ingold in Book V, chapter 1. The idea for the Mettarë
celebration was suggested in part by the custom of military officers serving the enlisted
men during the Christmas season in some parts of the world, which was brought to my
attention by Roh_wyn. I would like to thank all who offered suggestions and talked this
story over with me, but especially Lilan, whose patience for listening to me ramble is
enormous. I would also like to thank Eru that I was able to finish the story!
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