Untitled - BoG-Archive

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
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