"But now we come to strange matters. For this is not the first halfling that I have seen walking out of northern legends into the Southlands." Faramir's gazes rose from the glowing coals in the brazier before him, wandering to the halfling before fixing on Mithrandir.

Denethor, too, watched the wizard, taking in his reaction to Faramir's words. He was taunt, eager, and expectant, gripping the arms of his chair tightly, although whether in anxiety or excitement the steward could not tell. The halfling, Pippin, however, simply radiated joy and excitement, and although a stern look from Mithrandir had quelled the cry rising on his lips, his face spoke just as clearly as words could have. Clearer, maybe, when one took into account his tendency to rush into speech without thought.

The four of them were gathered in Denethor's study: Mithrandir, Pippin, the Steward himself, and his son. Faramir was still very pale and his clothes were rumpled and dirty, smelling badly of horse sweat, among other things. Mithrandir too looked a little pale and dishevelled, and both of them sat wearily slumping a little in their chairs. It was but a half hour ago that the wizard had ridden out and rescued Faramir from the Nazgûl pursuing him from the great wall, and neither man had as yet quite recovered from the desperate ride. Denethor signalled to the halfling to refill their glasses, and, after staring at the Steward for several seconds in momentary confusion, Pippin recalled his duties and hastened to obey.

Faramir dipped his head in thanks before beginning his explanation. "It was the morning of the ambush on the Haradrim that we first caught sight of them. One of my men informed me that he had caught a glimpse of some creature in the pools; some orc or goblin, he thought it. I went myself with several of my men to seek it out, but when we thought we had it surrounded it somehow slipped away."

Denethor listened quietly, watching the faces of Mithrandir and the halfling. The wizard was tense and anxious, the halfling was clearly trying to hold in his excitement. He glanced at his son, and noted that he, too, had taken note of their clear recognition.

"It was barely an hour later that we caught sight of a wisp of smoke on the northern hillside. We decided that it must have been made by the creature who had eluded us, and carefully circled around it and drew closer, careful to let nothing escape us. We came to the fire, which was in a clump of fern, and as we began to search around it for the creature, two halflings sprung out." His eyes flicked to the Pippin, and he studied him for a moment, smiling a little to himself.

"They had small swords in their hands, which they were evidently ready to defend themselves with, they wore packs and their garb was strange and travel-stained. They insisted that they were travellers, and that they had come from Imladris." Faramir paused, and his gaze shifted to his father. "They told me also that they had travelled in the company of Boromir of Minas Tirith, as well as that of a dwarf, and elf, a man of the north, and two other halflings." He glanced again in curiosity at Pippin. "Also a wizard whom they named Gandalf, who fell in Moria." He raised an eyebrow at Mithrandir, who quirked him a small smile, but said nothing. "Yet they left the company at Parth Galen."

Denethor listened intently, his eyes fixed on his son's face. He remembered the scene at the river, remembered the sight of Thorongil on the riverbank with the elf and dwarf as his son's body floated away. That had undoubtedly been at Parth Galen, or someplace near. Evidently there had been some sort of fight there in which his son had been killed, he reflected bitterly.

And Mithrandir had been with them also? Why had his son been travelling with such companions? Maybe they were all the aid he could muster for his city? Denethor could not help noting the irony of the situation, that he should send his son to bring aid and he should return with Thorongil. Not that he had returned, of course.

"He knew also the words of the riddle that my brother and I dreamed," Faramir continued, "The older of the two spoke, he told me that they were the halflings spoken of in the rhyme, and that the sword that was broken was in the possession of one Aragorn, a man of the south and the leader of their company. I asked them of Isildur's Bane, and they said that its meaning was hidden." he glanced quickly at Mithrandir, then continued, "I had not time to question them further, as I had to ready my men for the ambush, so I set two guards over them and left them."

This news was vitally interesting to Denethor, however he kept his face carefully unreadable. Aragorn… Thorongil had never told him his true name, if indeed this was not simply another alias. And not only did Thorongil bear the ring of Barahir, he now bore also Elendil's sword? There was no doubt in Denethor's mind that he had come to claim the throne, but the question was, why had he not yet appeared? Maybe he had decided to wait until the war was over before he staked his claim? No, that was unfair. Whatever Thorongil had been, he was not a coward. The news of the halflings from the riddle was disturbing, also. He ran over the words in his mind, contemplating them in the light of this new information.

Seek for the sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

It was in Isildur's Bane that the answer to the riddle lay, he was sure. Faramir's words had confirmed that.

"I returned to them near sunset, and I spoke long to the older of the two; Frodo he called himself. He told me of the errand that he came on, but he left much unsaid, their goal or outcome they hoped to achieve in their strange quest, and their place in it. It was clear that they could be going nowhere but Minas Morgul, and although they did not seem at all evil, still I was suspicious of them. I tried also to discover the meaning of the words Isildur's Bane, but they would say nothing of it. Then I spoke of Boromir, and asked why he did not lead their company, being prince of the White City? He told me then that this Aragorn, who I spoke of, claimed do be the heir of Elendil, in direct lineage from Isildur."

Faramir paused, and exchanged a wordless glance with his father before continuing. They had heated debated the possibility of an heir appearing for many years now. "He told me also that Boromir would explain everything when he arrived in the city. He told me that he had been heading straight home and should be waiting for me on my return. He knew nothing of Boromir's death." He paused, and took a deep breath. "I played along for a while, then I told him that Boromir was dead. He did not believe me until I revealed that I was his brother. They told me then that they had travelled through Lórien, and that when the company divided at Parth Galen there was no sign of any trouble. He was deeply troubled at the news, so I have no doubt that his ignorance of the matter was genuine.

"He asked me then to let him go on his way, as he said he had a deed to do that must be accomplished with haste. I told him that he must stay with me a little longer that I may judge if I was justified in letting him go. In truth, though, despite the mystery around his errand, his face and bearing were truthful, unless the halflings are better at hiding their purposes than men. He was reluctant, but he came with me."

"We talked much on the way to Henneth Annûn, of Boromir first and then of the riddle." He paused, glancing first at his father before exchanged a long wordless glance with Mithrandir. "I gathered that the thing, Isildur's bane, was some weapon; that it was or had been held by the halfling; and that, somehow, their errand concerned it. I gathered, too, that there had been some discord between Boromir and the halfling over it, which had maybe even been the cause of their company's division.

"There they rested a while, and after the evening meal we spoke again, of Boromir and other things of little import. It was then, by a slip of the tongue, I learned the meaning of the riddle. Isildur's Bane is the ring of the Nameless, that we thought to have perished with him long ago. It seems that, like its master, it is hardier that we thought it."

Denethor drew in his breath, his mind racing. This indeed was unexpected news. The ring of the Enemy? It was said to be a thing of immense power, and could be central in the war. He glanced at Gandalf, gauging his reaction to this news. The wizard was rubbing his brow tiredly, and for a moment resignedly glanced up to meet the steward's steady gaze, before dropping his eyes again to the floor. There was no doubt that he had known of this.

"The halflings were both horrified, but, perhaps seeing no other option, Frodo explained to me that he was taking it to Mordor, there to destroy it in the fires of Mount Orodruin. He said that there was no other way to unmake the thing.

"I left them then to rest, as they were very weary. Later that night, however, my men again caught sight of the gangrel creature from the morning, in the pool of Henneth Annûn. I woke the halfling, suspecting him to be the companion of whom we had seen nothing of since the previous morning. I had, in fact, sent several men out to search for him, yet they had been unsuccessful.

"The halfling told me then that he was bound to the creature, who had served as their guide. He told me also a strange thing: that the creature had borne the treasure once, for many years. He then went down to it and called it by name, and it came willingly. I spoke to it a little, and found it an ancient creature, full of cunning and malice. We bound it then, and kept it locked away, although we treated it gently.

"However, I questioned him long as to where he was leading the halflings. He would make no answer, and at last Frodo told me of it. He did not know of its name, but he described it to me: A secret path winding to the peaks of the mountain and beyond, emerging from Morgul Vale – it could be naught but Cirith Ungol. The creature himself confirmed it. I warned the halflings then against that road, and the creature their guide, yet all that I could tell them was but rumour and hearsay – I knew naught of substance of either. Frodo asked me then what my intentions were concerning them." Faramir paused, his eyes shifting from Mithrandir to glance sidelong at his father.

"I gave Frodo protection to walk free anywhere in the realm of Gondor, save to return to Henneth Annûn, for a year and a day, during which time any with him would also be under my protection. After that time, however, I bade him present himself in the city that my father might confirm my judgement." He glanced again at Denethor, who remained grimly silent. They both knew that it was a severe breach of protocol for a captain to pass such a judgement; in such a situation the halflings should have been brought before the steward. Yet Faramir offered no explanation or apology for his behaviour, quickly resuming his story.

"I provided them then with supplies for some weeks, and they set off early. I counselled them again against that road, but they were determined, saying, as indeed is the case, that the was no other route open to them."

Mithrandir reacted instantly, leaping to his feet, his eyes wild. "Cirith Ungol? Morgul Vale? The time, Faramir, the time? When did you part with them? When would they reach that accursed valley?"

Denethor listened silently. He was struck speechless, in fact.

It had not occurred to him that his son would simply let the halflings leave on such a ridiculous errand, with such a treasure in their grasp. Was Faramir bereft of his senses? Did he not realise the value such a weapon would be to Gondor, and the incredible power it would provide the enemy should he regain it? That he should allow them to simply walk away with it into Morgul Vale, of all places, and thence to the very heart of Mordor and the stronghold of the enemy – Denethor had never even considered the possibility that his son could be capable of committing such absolute, devastating foolishness. It was beyond belief. Inconceivable.

Although what hope Gondor had was slim, at least it had been there. Their future was not yet so dark that the only option left to them was to surrender their limited weapons to the enemy, and even should they come to such a pass it would be better by far to use the ring as a bargaining tool, to at least secure some future for their remaining people with it. There was no need to send it to him so freely, escorted by two halflings with orders to bring it right to the Dark Lord's chambers, that he need not go to the trouble of fetching it himself…

Denethor opened his mouth silently, then shut it again, finding himself at a loss for words. Was this how the war was to end: Gondor dealt her killing blow by the steward's own son?

Surely, surely, Faramir could not be serious?

He blinked, focusing on his son as he answered Mithrandir apologetically.

"I parted with them in the morning two days ago. It is fifteen leagues thence to the vale of the Morgulduin, if they went straight south; and then they would be still five leagues westward of the accursed Tower. At swiftest they could not come there before today, and maybe they have not come there yet. Indeed I see what you fear. But the darkness is not due to their venture. It began yestereve, and all Ithilien was under shadow last night. It is clear to me that the Enemy has long planned an assault on us, and its hour had already been determined before ever the travellers left my keeping."

"The morning of two days ago, nigh on three days of journey! How far is the place where you parted?" Mithrandir asked, slowly sinking back into his chair.

"Some twenty-five leagues as a bird flies, but I could not come more swiftly. Yestereve I lay at Cair Andros, the long isle in the River northward which we hold in defence; and horses are kept on the hither bank. As the dark drew on I knew that haste was needed, so I rode thence with three others that could also be horsed. The rest of my company I sent south to strengthen the garrison at the fords of Osgiliath." His gaze shifted to his father, and he added, "I hope that I have not done ill?"

This was too much. Faramir had looked to the wizard for approval of his careless disregard for the fate of Gondor and Middle Earth, ignoring his father's will in the matter entirely, and then humbly asked if he had done well in garrisoning his men! Denethor felt his anger grow, and when he spoke his voice was dangerously low. "Ill? Why do you ask? The men were under your command. Or do you ask for my judgement on all your deeds?" Faramir's face grew impassive, and he met his father's gaze unrepentantly.

Denethor stared into his son's steel grey eyes, so like his own, and realised that he had known what he was doing in ignoring his father – he had known what Denethor would have wished him to do, and had intentionally disregarded it. Worse, he had disregarded it and looked instead for approval from the wizard. It did not much surprise him – it had always been Faramir's way to make his own decisions despite the disapproval of those around him – but it hurt him nonetheless, to his own surprise.

His voice dropped, and he went on, "Your bearing is lowly in my presence, yet it is long now since you have turned from your own way at my counsel. See, you have spoken skilfully, as ever; but I, have I not seen your eye fixed on Mithrandir, seeking whether you said well or too much? He has long had your heart in his keeping. My son, your father is old but not yet dotard. I can see and hear, as is my wont; and little of what you have half said or left unsaid is now hidden from me. I know the answer to many riddles. Alas, alas for Boromir!"

"If what I have done displeases you, my father, I wish I had known your counsel before the burden of so weighty a judgement was thrust on me."

Denethor stared at his son for a moment, then he asked softly, "would that have availed to change your judgement?" Faramir remained silent, and after a moment he went on, "I know you well, Ever your desire is to appear lordly and generous as a king of old, gracious, gentle. That may well befit one of high race, if he sits in power and peace. But in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death."

Faramir lifted his head proudly. "So be it."

"So be it! But not with your death alone, Lord Faramir: with the death also of your father, and all of your people, whom it is your part to protect now that Boromir is gone."

There was silence again in the room. Mithrandir sat listening quietly, his eyes closed.

"Do you wish then," asked Faramir at last, "That our places had been exchanged?"

Denethor grew angry at that. Did he expect a favourable answer, when he had just thrown away the greatest hope of the city? Had Boromir been in such a position, the war might have been won! Denethor wanted nothing less than to see Faramir dead, even could his death bring Boromir back, yet may times the steward had berated himself for allowing his heir to leave Gondor. Boromir was needed now, more than his brother would have been, and if Faramir was foolish to ask such a question, he could expect nothing but the truth. "Yes, I wish that indeed," he answered quietly, "for Boromir was loyal to me and no wizard's pupil." Mithrandir quirked an eyebrow at that, but did not open his eyes. "He would have remembered his father's need, and not squandered what fortune gave. He would have brought me a kingly gift."

"I would ask you, my father, to remember why it was that I, not he, was in Ithilien," Faramir answered, struggling to restrain the anger leaking into his tone. "On one occasion at least your counsel has prevailed, not long ago. It was the Lord of the City that gave the errand to him."

Denethor listened coolly. Why had Faramir asked such a question, if he was not ready to accept the answer? "Stir not the bitterness in the cup I mixed for myself. Have I not tasted it now many nights upon my tongue, foreboding that worse yet lay in the dregs? As now I find. Would it were not so! Would that this thing had come to me!"

Faramir drew in a breath as if he was about to speak, but then let it out slowly and silently leaned back in his chair. Gandalf it was who answered, opening his eyes and sitting up briskly, his tone businesslike. "Comfort yourself! In no case would Boromir have brought it to you." Denethor's eyes narrowed dangerously and his face became stony, but the wizard paid him no heed. "He is dead, and died well; may he sleep in peace! Yet you deceive yourself. He would have stretched out his hand to this thing, and in taking it he would have fallen. He would have kept it for his own, and when he returned you would not have known your son."

Hot anger coursed through Denethor's veins, and it took a great effort to keep his face impassive. He did not reply for a while, waiting to speak until he could get his emotions under control and keep his voice calm and quiet. "You found Boromir less apt to your hand, did you not? But I who was his father say that he would have brought it to me." he answered at last, not missing the flash of pain that shot through Faramir's eyes at his words. "You are wise, maybe, Mithrandir, yet with all you subtleties you have not all wisdom. Counsels may be found that are neither the webs of wizards nor the haste of fools. I have in this matter more lore and wisdom than you deem."

"What then is your wisdom?" Mithrandir asked, his eyes dark under his thick, shaggy eyebrows.

Denethor did not expect the wizard to pay any heed to what said, but answered anyway. "Enough to perceive that there are two follies to avoid. To use this thing is perilous. At this hour, to send it in the hands of a witless halfling," Denethor absently noted that Peregrine's face furrowed angrily at that, "into the land of the Enemy himself, as you have done, and this son of mine, that is madness."

Mithrandir lifted his eyebrows at that, but he simply asked mildly, "And the Lord Denethor what would he have done?"

"Neither. But most surely not for any argument would he have set this thing at hazard beyond all but a fool's hope, risking our utter ruin, if the enemy should recover what he lost. Nay, it should have been kept, hidden, hidden dark and deep. Not used, I say, unless at the uttermost end of need, but set beyond his grasp, save by a victory so final that what then befell would not trouble us, being dead."

"You think, as is your wont, my lord, of Gondor only. Yet there are other men and other lives, and time still to be. And for me, I pity even his slaves."

"And where will other men look for help, if Gondor falls? If I had this thing now in the deep vaults of this citadel, we should not then shake with dread under this gloom, fearing the worst, and our counsels would be undisturbed. If you do not trust me to endure this test, you do not know me yet."

"Nonetheless I do not trust you. Had I done so, I could have sent this thing hither to your keeping and spared myself and others much anguish. And now, hearing you speak I trust you less, no more than Boromir." Denethor's eyes flashed with anger, and made to interrupt, but the wizard raised his hand. "Nay, stay your wrath! I do not trust myself in this, and I refused this thing, even as a freely given gift. You are strong and can still in some matters govern yourself, Denethor; yet if you had received this thing, it would have overthrown you. Were it buried under the roots of Mindolluin, still it would burn your mind away, as the darkness grows, and yet worse things follow that soon shall come upon us."

Denethor held the wizard's gaze challengingly, his eyes burning with anger. Did the wizard think him a fool and a weakling? He said he knew of the long years the steward had struggled in the tower against the dark lord himself, yet he seemed to dismiss his strength of will as nothing. It was ridiculous! Yet Mithrandir remained a valuable ally who he could not afford to estrange, and besides, the argument was achieving nothing. It was time to be politic.

Denethor shrugged lightly, and consciously relaxed himself, although his gaze remained fixed on the wizard. "If I had! If you had! Such words and ifs are vain. It has gone into the Shadow, and only time will show what doom awaits it, and us. The time will not be long. In what is left, let all who fight the Enemy in their fashion be at one, and keep hope while they may, and after hope still the hardihood to die free." He changed the subject, turning to his son, who had remained silent all this while, slouched a little in his seat. "What think you of the garrison at Osgiliath?"

Faramir straightened with considerable effort, and answered, "It is not strong. I have sent the company of Ithilien to strengthen it, as I have said." Both men were adept at hiding their feelings, and the strain between them was barely perceptible.

Denethor gave a slight nod and frowned thoughtfully. "Not enough, I deem. It is there that the first blow will fall. They will have need of some stout captain there." Already he was running through the list of possible leaders in his mind, and found it very short.

Faramir sighed tiredly. "There and elsewhere in many places. Alas for my brother, who I too loved!" He pulled himself heavily from his seat, swaying a little on his feet. "May I have your leave, father?"

"You are weary, I see," Denethor answered, his voice softening a little. "You have ridden fast and far, and under shadows of evil in the air, I am told."

Faramir inclined his head wearily. "Let us not speak of that!"

"Then we will not. Go now and rest as you may. Tomorrow's need will be sterner."

Faramir acknowledged him with another nod, and trudged wearily from the room. Mithrandir also excused himself, and was followed out by the halfling.

Denethor however, sat alone there for many hours, his thoughts on his son.

He felt incredibly betrayed, and not only by Faramir's decision in regard to the halflings. He had not missed the anxious way in which his son's eyes had continually flicked to Mithrandir's face as he reported his conduct, and the fact that he would wish for the wizard's approval over that of his own father cut Denethor deeply.

It was a betrayal of his country – to seek for the approval of the wizard over the good of his people. It was dangerous alliance – Mithrandir worked for his own ends, and could well turn against them should they lose the upper hand. Yet it was more than that. Faramir had shown no regard for the wishes of his father, and even when Denethor had rebuked him he had shown no remorse for what he did.

In a sense, Denethor felt as though he had lost another son.

Faramir had always been prone to act out of pity rather than conscious decision, however, and Denethor wondered hopefully whether his betrayal of his people might not have been out of pity for the halflings rather than conscious disregard for his people.

He had always been prone to take the pain and troubles of others too deeply to heart.

February, 3014

"Brother!" Boromir leapt down the stairs and pulled Faramir into a tight embrace. "I am glad to see you!" He pulled back and eyed his brother, taking in his torn and dirty clothing and weary bearing, his eyes lingering with concern on his brother's downcast face and troubled eyes. "Is all well? You are not hurt at all?"

Faramir shook his head, clasping his brother's shoulder in greeting. "No," he replied softly, "I am not hurt, only very weary." He drew in a breath and let it out in a long sigh, then let his hand drop from his brother's arm and turned to Denethor. "Father," he said, bowing his head slightly in greeting.

"Faramir," Denethor returned, studying his son's face concernedly. Faramir had always tended to be unusually grave when he came home from active duty, but today he sensed that there was something more to it than that. His son's face was lined and drawn, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he avoided his father's gaze. Denethor considered whether he should ask his son to report immediately or let him get some rest first. He seemed weary to the point of exhaustion.

"If there is naught of urgency to relate in the matter of your venture, I will allow you some hours of rest before you must report," he said at last, his voice a little softer than usual. "I see that you are in dire need of sleep."

Faramir nodded tiredly. "Nay, there is nothing of urgency. We destroyed a large orc-hoard at the crossroads, although only at some considerable loss of my own men." He paused a moment then, and his eyes darkened a little. "I have left most of the remainder of my company in Osgiliath and rode here with four of my men, whom I have stationed in the barracks of the sixth level."

Denethor nodded. "Go, then, and rest. If the captains need to hear a report today I will bid them summon one of your men to tell of it."

Faramir's face relaxed into a small smile of relief and gratitude. "I thank you, father. You do not know how I was dreading that long interview, and the hours of giving reports and explanations that were to follow."

Denethor gave him a small smile. "Indeed I understand better than you give me credit for. For you forget the long years that I also served as a captain here."

"Come then," Boromir said, laying his hands on his brother's shoulders and gently shoving him toward the door. "To bed with you, Captain Faramir, at once."

Another hour saw Denethor striding through the corridors of the citadel.

He glanced longingly outside as he passed an open doorway, drinking in the sight of the cool grass and shady trees, their leaves swept about by the breeze. The sound of Boromir's voice halted him, and, glancing around the courtyard, he caught sight of his heir sitting on a bench under one of the trees close by. With a little surprise he noted Faramir beside him, lying on his back in the grass and staring up into the leaves. He had expected his younger son to be still asleep, and took a step toward the doorway and stood, watching them, a small frown on his face.

Boromir was carefully sharpening his knives as he spoke to his brother, a frown of concentration on his face. "You cannot blame me for being worried about you – it is hardly normal practice to be unable to sleep after such an exhausting mission."

"The heat inside is not conductive to rest."

"Nevertheless…" Boromir prompted, but when, after a few moments, his brother had still not responded, he paused his steady strokes and fixed his eyes on Faramir. "I think there is something more."

Faramir glanced at him, then closed his eyes and turned his head away. "You are right, as always." He made no move to explain, and Boromir prompted him with a poke in the side with the toe of his boot. "Well?"

Faramir turned his head to look his brother in the face. His voice was so low that Denethor had to strain his ears to hear him. "Almost thirty of my men were killed in Ithilien, Boromir."

Boromir's eyebrows shot up, and he drew in his breath sharply. "Thirty rangers? What sort of odds were you facing?"

"Relatively even ones, actually," Faramir answered, and even from several metres away Denethor could hear the slight tremble in his voice. "There were near eighty of us, and about one hundred fifty of them."

"You lost thirty men from your company? A little more than a third of your total force?"

Faramir nodded wordlessly.

"It's not too bad," Boromir offered at last, "I've done worse myself. Especially against that many."

Faramir shook his head, his face tightening. "I'm not a child, Boromir, I know what I should hope to achieve. Yet it is not only that. I led those men to their deaths, Boromir, it was I-" He faltered, and turned his face to the ground, fighting to control himself. Boromir waited, his knife lying forgotten in his lap, his eyes fixed pityingly on his little brother. "What happened?"

Faramir lay for a moment, gathering himself, then he began to speak, his voice almost level and matter-of-fact. "It was on the morning of four days ago. A scout reported a large group of orcs gathered near the crossroads. We gathered that it was simply a hunting party, some hundred strong, and I had near eighty good men with me, so we thought that we could destroy them relatively easily. They were sheltering in a cave a little north of the crossroads, and we planned to surround them in daylight, when most would be resting inside. Everything went along fine, at first – we got passed the sentries without incident and were picking off those asleep in the cave before any of them even raised the alarm. We destroyed about half their party before they were even aware of us."

"But then you suddenly realised that it was not all their party?" Boromir speculated.

"Near," Faramir answered, heavily, "but not in the gold. When the orcs became aware of their peril we were quickly alerted, as they began to screech and snarl like beasts. Swiftly they poured from the cave to attack us, yet there was no order or discipline to their charge, and we shot them down with ease." He sighed a little, almost as though he regretted the killing of the orcs, although his father did not doubt that that was impossible. "We possessed every advantage: we had taken them by surprise; they were not at their best in the sunshine, while we were active and vigorous; they could not see us, being concealed in the shrubbery, yet they made easy targets for our bows. The most intelligent and the most cowardly among them stayed within the cave, yet, orcs not being known for either of these traits, they were few. The massacre was almost complete, when we perceived an affray on the eastern hillside, and a clamour swiftly escalating."

Faramir paused and laid his hand over his eyes. Denethor could see his chest rise and fall as he gathered a few steadying breaths.

"I know not from whence the orcs came – we had seen no sign of them. Mayhap it was but chance that governing their arrival, they may have heard the yells from afar or might have planned the affray all along – I know not. But they came up the hillside far more stealthily than is their wont, and took many of the rangers by surprise. It was then that the majority of my men fell – once I realised what was happening I gave the signal for retreat, and we circled about them and cut down every one." Boromir's face was bitter as he listened, Faramir's was simply grief stricken. "Yet we were too late for those who had been taken unawares."

Silence fell, broken only by the rustling of the leaves and the low chatter of a group of servants working in some room nearby.

At last Faramir spoke again, but his voice was so low that Denethor could hardly catch the words. "Many of those men have fought beside me since I first held a sword, they were like brothers to me, some like fathers, even. Every man of them was absolutely loyal, even in the face of hopelessness, and courageous beyond measure. There was one, Eärnur was his name. He was barely more than a boy, he only joined my company this spring. His enthusiasm knew no bounds, and he admired me as if I was Beleg Strongbow himself-" Faramir swallowed painfully, and his father could see tears trickling down his cheeks.

"He was fatally wounded in the first attack. All I could do was hold him in my arms as he died." Faramir's fist clenched, and he stared up through the rustling leaves to the great expanse of endless blue, formless and changeless as the day it was brought into being. Denethor wondered what he was thinking of as he watched his son's pale, tear streaked face fill with conflicting emotions.

Denethor realised that his hands were clenched so tightly that the nails were digging into his fists, and his eyes were smarting with tears of his own. They were tears of pity for his son, but also those of remembrance – he too had fought for many years, and led many companies, there were many companions who he had lost.

"I think that his face will stay with me for all eternity. He was in much pain. It was almost a relief when he finally passed. As he died he alternated between fear of death and what may be to come, and radiant joy over having served his captain so well." Faramir turned his face toward his brother, his grey eyes clear and full of pain. "He asked me to tell his family, who live on the Pelennor. I went to see them before I came here, and brought them the grievous tidings."

He turned his face back to the tree tops, silent for a long moment. Denethor had a good idea of what the interview with the boy's family would have cost his son: he had been through the same thing many times himself. To go into a home and break such news to a family, to see their faces drain of colour and hear their cries of pain, to see their grief and disbelief – there were few tasks more heartbreaking, or entirely draining.

Faramir had a courage of his own kind.

"There were many more also," Faramir went on, "Some did not pass ere sunrise the next day. We made came just a little away from that place, as there were too many of the grievously wounded to move to a safer haven. We tended to the dying without respite that night, and further the next morning, when much time was also spent in burying the dead. Not one of those who were caught by the orcs in that first rush survived."

Boromir nodded grimly. Orcs were adept at dealing crushing, killing blows, it was not often that anyone felled by one would recover.

"There were so many…" Faramir's voice broke, and he sat up, tears flowing again down his pale cheeks. "So many fallen. Yet I could name each one."

Boromir leaned forward and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "They each fought and died for their homes and their people," he said softly. "There is no greater way to honour them than to each do our own part in saving the world that they died for. Do not mourn for them overmuch. For my part, I would gladly give my life if by my death I could in some way bring about Gondor's salvation."

Faramir shook his head. "In my mind I know this. Yet I do not think that their shadows will ever fully leave me. The death of each man in this war weighs heavy on my heart, I cannot put it behind me without losing my heart also. It sickens me, Boromir, the thought of the grief and pain all around us. Will it ever come to an end? And can those who live through such times ever truly be free of them?"

Denethor turned, and paced unseeingly down the halls to his chambers. It was not until he stood in his doorway, his hand still resting on the cool, elegantly wrought handle of his door, that he realised that he had completely forgotten what he came for.

March, 3019

Denethor felt a wave of pity for his youngest. Faramir had not the strength of will in this area to put death behind him, as Boromir did, to detach himself somewhat from the people around him. It was an essential thing for a soldier to learn, one could not go on accumulating such a weight of guilt, for it was too much for any man to bear. Faramir would never be the soldier Boromir had been until he learnt it.

Some might call such empathy a virtue, yet in those in power it could result in the destruction of entire nations. Those who were to lead men must learn to put their emotions behind them, and in every decision think clearly on what would best benefit the nation. To Faramir's credit, he tried hard to do so.

That evening long ago, when Faramir had given his report on the deaths at Ithilien, Denethor had questioned him about the loss he felt, wanting the chance to comfort his son. Yet Faramir had been stoic about it, making out that he felt nothing. Denethor knew that it was an act put on for his benefit, that his son was trying to act the man that he thought his father wanted to see.

In truth, however, there was nothing Denethor would rather have done than take his son in his arms and comfort him. The conversation he had overheard had affected him deeply, bringing up memories he had long kept hidden.

He himself had been stationed in Ithilien as a young man, and his childhood friend, Cirion, had always fought beside him. Cirion had grown up beside Denethor and been like the brother he had never had. There were few, in fact, to whom the Steward had ever been closer.

They had both been involved in a small ambush – it was a simple piece of work and should have been completed without incident. Yet one orc had managed to escape almost undetected, Cirion had pursued it, and in cutting it down had receive a fatal slash to the stomach. Denethor had found him after almost an hour of searching, white with pain and loss of blood. There was nothing any of them could do – they were far from any sort of medical help. Even were they in the Houses of Healing, however, there was nothing they could have done for him besides giving him pain relief, for his innards were ripped beyond repair.

It was a painful wound however, and neither did it soon bring death. For hours Denethor held his friend, watching his struggle with the pain, and knowing he could feel it for hours, maybe even days more, before death finally ended his cruel torment. The rangers had taken counsel together and decided that the most merciful thing was to deal him the death he begged for. There was nothing else they could do for him.

Discussing such a thing and putting it into practice, however, were very different matters, and at last it was Denethor, pale and stricken with grief, who dealt him the blow. He had stabbed his friend in the heart, and immediately wished despairingly to do the same to himself. Even then, however, it was the thought of his city and his duty to her that stayed his hand. Often he felt that it was the only thing that had kept him alive through those dark days.

His duty to his city – she was all he lived for.

It was an all-devouring focus, and an intensely lonely one.

Yet still, like his son, he sometimes felt that the shadows of those whom he had lost would haunt him forever.