Untitled - BoG-Archive

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