Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Milestones (#2670)
Author: GirlfromGondolin
Chapters: 5

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: Vignettes of Denethor and Faramir, spanning much of Faramir's life, and seen only from Denethor's POV. My first-ever fanfic!
Published: 21 Apr 2006
Updated: 01 Dec 2006
Warnings: None
Type: General
Characters: Denethor; Faramir


Chapter 1 - The Board is Set

Disclaimer: The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema.

Minas Tirith, 2990 TA

“My lord,” the voice spoke softly in Denethor’s ear, “Master Faramir waits in the sitting room.”

Denethor nodded in response. “Please ask him to wait, Beleg. I shall be with him shortly.”

It was Valanya, the day of each week when he set aside a few hours to spend with his sons. He particularly enjoyed this respite from his official duties, not only because it broke the tedium of his office, but also because it gave him a chance to observe his sons in private, without the interventions of their governess, or their training masters. Or the cook, who seems to think they eat either too little, or too much! Spending time with Boromir was easy enough, for the lad was full of stories, of his friends, of sword practice, of the Tower Guards. Faramir was another matter altogether. He was a serious child, more fond of listening than speaking. But at the same time, even the smallest thing aroused his curiosity. Last week, on their usual walk, the boy had found a frog on the street and insisted that Denethor tell him all he knew of the animal. Denethor sighed, certain there would be more frogs, and probably beetles and grasshoppers in his future.

He paced the short distance from his study to the sitting room. It was a large, well-lit room, but otherwise unadorned and unremarkable. Indeed, on this day, the only thing of particular note in the room was the small boy who stood at the window, peering intently out of it. Denethor cleared his throat softly, to alert the child to his presence.

“Papa! I mean, Father…” Faramir turned away from the window, giving his father a small, but very formal, bow. Denethor inclined his head politely in return, unable to completely suppress his amusement at the gesture. “And how are you, Faramir?”

“I am well, Pa…Father…” Faramir hesitated, but Denethor waited, giving the boy a chance to finish his thought. “Shall we walk on the walls again today, Father, and hear the rest of the story of Castamir and Eldacar?” Faramir’s enthusiasm for any tale of Gondor was endearing, and Denethor allowed himself to be amused once more.

Denethor joined Faramir at the window, and noted that the morning’s light drizzle had turned into a steady downpour. “We shall have to do that another time, Faramir. It is raining and I don’t wish for you to be outside in that.” Faramir frowned, clearly disappointed at this. “But Father…”

“No, Faramir,” Denethor said, reaching out a hand to ruffle the child’s hair and console him. To his shock, Faramir recoiled, and Denethor could not help but be annoyed with the boy. What now? He fixed Faramir with a stare, awaiting an explanation.

Faramir shuffled, his expression confused. “I’m sorry, Papa,” Faramir said, forgetting not to use the childish appellation. “Boromir says…he says…well, he says that if I want to grow up, I will have to stop acting like a small child.” The words were coming out all in a rush. “It is bad enough that you think I’m too small for a little bit of rain. But that,” Faramir pointed at Denethor’s still outstretched hand, “that is for a child!”

Denethor pondered this for a moment. Faramir was rather upset, almost tearful, and Denethor cast about for some way to make amends to the boy. I don’t need a crying child on my hands. And Boromir is right, Faramir is older now.

“Well, Faramir, in that case, perhaps you would like to do something a bit more grown up today? Would you like to join me in a game of chess?”

Denethor chuckled, as Faramir nodded his head enthusiastically. “Even Boromir cannot play chess yet!”


Chapter 2 - The Steward's Gambit

The Steward's Gambit

Minas Tirith, 2995 TA

Denethor put a hand to his forehead. He had a throbbing headache, the result of spending too much time with the palantír the previous night. In the beginning, it had been easy enough to look into the orb, but now, even as he began to master it, it was becoming increasingly exhausting. It was almost as if the thing had come alive and wished to pit its will against his own. Sometimes he considered abandoning the palantír altogether, but he knew it was invaluable in the struggle against the Enemy. Though it brings us great pain, we cannot abandon Gondor, for she is not ours. Until the king returns…

The sound of a spoon grating against a bowl brought Denethor out of his bitter reverie. Faramir was eating breakfast with Denethor, as he did everyday. They had begun this practice a few months ago when Boromir had left to join his fellow soldiers at the garrison in Osgiliath. Faramir had been moody and out of sorts ever since. Indeed, on this morning, the boy seemed in even more of a dark mood than usual. He was not eating, simply pushing the porridge around in the bowl, and the sight annoyed Denethor.

“Faramir, you have been at the table for almost an hour, and yet you are not even half finished with your breakfast. You must not dawdle so.”

“Yes, Father,” the boy answered softly. He met his father’s eyes for a moment, and Denethor was startled by the boy’s appearance. His eyes were red, his face pale and drawn.

“Faramir! You are unwell?”

“No. I just…” Faramir shook his head. “It is naught. I am well, sir.”

Denethor watched him for a moment, not quite certain Faramir was telling the truth. Then he gave a soft grunt. “Very well, Faramir. You had best go now and get to your lessons. I will see you at supper.”

------------------------

At breakfast two days later, Faramir seemed even more haggard than he had been before. This worried Denethor, but the emotion warred with his anger, and he felt little sympathy for the boy on this day.

“I spoke with Master Amlach yesterday, Faramir.” Denethor allowed the words to sink in, curious to see how Faramir would react.

Faramir stiffened, and seemed about to speak, but then shrugged and returned his attention to his breakfast.

“He said you have been falling asleep during your lessons. What have you to say for yourself?”

Faramir did not answer immediately, nor did he acknowledge Denethor’s question in any particular way. The determined silence only increased Denethor’s irritation.

“To have your masters complain about you is a grave thing. If you are sleeping through lessons, it means you have no respect for your master, and…”

“No, Father! It is not so. I like Master Amlach well, and my lessons too. It is just…I don’t…” Faramir spoke haltingly, his brow creased in frustration. “I have…”

“Speak, Faramir, for pity’s sake! Only be quick about it.”

“No. You will think it silly.” This time, the words were spoken without hesitation, almost defiantly, but there was a note of sadness in Faramir’s voice as well, and Denethor wondered if he was being too harsh. Silly? That is only because you are so full of fancy, Faramir! Still, there is no need for me to be so harsh. Denethor tried a different tack.

“Tell me what troubles you, Faramir. It is not like you to not give heed to your lessons. I worry that something is wrong, that perhaps you are ill.”

Faramir looked at Denethor, gray eyes wary. “I am not ill, Father. I fell asleep during lessons because I have not been sleeping at night. I have been walking through the City.”

“You have been walking through the City? At night? Without guard? Faramir, what…”

“I’m sorry, Father,” Faramir interrupted. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I do this because I can’t sleep!” Denethor listened intently, suddenly reminded of something, words spoken long ago by another. Can’t sleep, or afraid to sleep?

“You have bad dreams.” It was not a question, and if Faramir was surprised by Denethor’s conclusion, he did not show it. Instead, he simply nodded, slouching into his chair in resignation.

“Of what do you dream, lad?” Tell me, so you don’t live with this burden alone. Tell me, so the dreams don’t take you, as they did your mother!

Faramir hesitated, and then took a deep breath before he spoke. “I dream of terrible things, Father. It is very dark in my dreams, and I stand at the edge of a cliff or a mountain, and all the land about me is about to be drowned by great ocean waves.” As he spoke, he gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white from the strain. “I try to run away, but I cannot escape it, no matter how fast I run,” Faramir said, shivering. “What does it mean, Father?”

The Downfall. He dreams of the Downfall. Denethor’s blood ran cold, and his own shiver mirrored Faramir’s. Ah, Finduilas. Of all the gifts you could give your son, why did you choose this one? A bequest more curse than gift?

“I don’t know what it means, Faramir,” Denethor lied, fearing that the truth would be too much of a burden for the boy. “I am not wise in such things. All I know is that you need to sleep. Otherwise you will fall ill, and then you will not be able to walk through the City at all, even during the day.”

This won a small smile from Faramir. “Alright, Father. I will try.”

That night, Faramir slept fitfully, but mercifully without dreams, with Denethor sitting at his bedside.


Chapter 3 - Fianchetto

Minas Tirith, 3000 TA

Denethor gave the message a cursory glance, then pushed it aside, as if the paper itself offended him. In truth, it was the content of the message that disturbed him, announcing a most unwelcome visitor.

“What shall I say, my lord? Should I ask him to call at another time?”

“No, Beleg. Show him in.” Best to deal with this now.

Denethor stood to welcome his guest. “Mithrandir. It has been a long time.”

“Indeed, Denethor. A very long time. You are well?”

Denethor shrugged, waving the wizard into a chair before the fire. The wizard smiled genially, taking the proffered seat and pulled out an oddly shaped wooden thing from somewhere deep in his grey robes. It had a long stem, ending in a small bowl. A pipe! I did not know Mithrandir smoked. He took the chair opposite the wizard, watching in fascination as the wizard filled the pipe with something that looked like dried dead leaves, and then struck a flint to light it.

“What is it that you smoke?”

“Pipeweed. It is a common plant…you would know it as galenas, although I think it does not grow here. Only in the North.”

It is not the first time you have brought something here from the North. “The Rohirrim grow it?”

“No, further north.” The wizard did not seem inclined to say more, so Denethor allowed himself a moment to reflect on his guest. He did not seem any older than he had been the last time Denethor had seen him, when Finduilas…

“Your sons…they are well?” Denethor was jolted out of his reverie by the wizard’s voice, and merely nodded in response.

“I have heard that Boromir serves in Osgiliath now.”

“Yes, he does. He was made a lieutenant at midsummer, second to the captain of the garrison.” Denethor could not keep the note of pride out of his voice.

“And what of Faramir? He does not serve at Osgiliath?”

How do you know that he does not? “He serves with the Tower Guard, here in the City.”

“That is good, then. I should like to meet him, speak with him.”

Denethor felt a small note of alarm in his heart and it mixed with his growing irritation, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. “Why? Do you wish to make him your pupil? As you did my father?”

Mithrandir’s face had been a polite mask until then, but now the wizard’s expression changed, first to one of anger, and then, oddly, to one of sadness. “Ecthelion was not my pupil, Denethor. Rather, he was a man who was wise enough to heed good counsel.”

“Then I shall have to remain unwise, and heed my own counsel, for at least that, I may trust in.”

Anger flashed on Mithrandir’s face, and he fixed Denethor with a gaze so fierce that it took all of Denethor’s strength not to look away. Then, just as quickly, the anger was gone, and the wizard assumed his mild expression once again. He inclined his head politely to Denethor, as if conceding defeat. This only served to anger Denethor more, and he fought to keep control over his emotions and over the conversation.

“What business do you have in my City?” Denethor made his voice polite, but kept his tone as imperious as possible.

Surprisingly, this had little effect on the wizard. “My business is my own, Denethor, and as such, of little consequence to you. But since you ask, I should like to spend some time in the Archives.”

The Archives? What does he think to find there? “I doubt you will find any wisdom there that you do not already have. Nevertheless, I will let the Archivist know to expect you.” Denethor stood, letting the wizard know the audience was at an end.

“I thank you, Denethor, for your…hospitality.” The wizard seemed slightly amused, as he got to his feet and moved towards the door. “There is another small matter. I have asked Faramir to assist me with my research in the Archives. I think you will not mind. Good day, Denethor.”

-----

Later that evening, as they finished their dinner, Denethor observed his son closely, to see if there was anything in his demeanor to suggest an encounter with a wizard. He was disappointed to find nothing, save the look of studied indifference that Faramir always wore. There was nothing for it. He would simply have to ask the lad.

“I hear you met with a wizard today.”

Faramir shrugged noncommittally. “I would not say I met with him exactly. I was on patrol in the first circle when Mithrandir rode into the City this morning.”

“And you asked to aid him with his work in the Archives.”

“Yes. He said he was in need of a scribe, and as I no longer serve you in that capacity, I saw no reason to refuse.” Faramir’s tone was too innocent, even for him, and Denethor found himself at once both curious and annoyed.

“I see. No reason to refuse.” You did not even think it would displease your own father?

Faramir met Denethor’s eyes for a moment and then, as if reading his father’s thoughts, asked, “Why do you dislike Mithrandir so?”

Denethor felt the same sense of alarm as he had earlier when speaking with Mithrandir. “You presume too much, Faramir. I did not say I disliked him.”

Faramir smiled, his expression amused. “Perhaps I do presume, but you have not said you do not dislike Mithrandir either.”

Denethor returned Faramir’s smile, mildly pleased at Faramir’s abilities to steer a conversation. “I do not dislike him. But neither do I trust him.”

“Why not? He does not strike me as a man of bad intentions. Indeed, I think he has great wisdom, and I should like to learn from him.”

There are others who are wise in this world, Faramir. “You will only learn from him what he wishes you to know. He has secrets. Whatever his intentions, whether good or no, he does not keep us informed of them. And yet, he always seems to know of our own intentions. I would be wary of him.”

Faramir’s expression became thoughtful. “If you wish me not to be in Mithrandir’s company, then so be it. You are my lord, and it is for you to say what shall be.”

Yes, that would be the right thing. I do not need the wizard turning you to his ways. But even as the thoughts formed in his mind, they seemed wrong to Denethor, petty and unbecoming of him.

Denethor sighed heavily, suddenly very tired of the whole conversation. “No, Faramir. You wish to learn from Mithrandir, and learning is not to be disdained, no matter its source. Still, I would ask one thing of you.”

“Whatever you wish, sire. If it is in my power, I shall see it done.”

“You will tell me all of what Mithrandir tells you.”

Faramir did not hesitate. “No, my lord. This I cannot do.”

Cannot? Or will not? “And why not, Faramir? You would defy me to do Mithrandir’s bidding?”

“No, my lord. I do not defy. But you said once that an honorable man does not reveal what another tells him in confidence. And I would be such a man.”

Denethor frowned at Faramir, irritated at having his own moral lesson turned back on him. At the same time, he could not help but be a little proud of Faramir’s nobility, his strength of conviction. So be it, Faramir. Be thou an honorable man, then. But the wizard will not be there to guide you when you must choose between honor and loyalty!


Chapter 4 - Middlegame

Middlegame

Minas Tirith, 3005 TA

"Faramir. Thank you for waiting." Denethor sat, and gestured his still-cloaked son into the chair opposite his own. A fire had already been lit, and Denethor suspected Faramir would appreciate the warmth after a long, cold ride to the City. It was just as well Faramir had arrived, for there were things Denethor wished to discuss with him.

"I trust you have supped already?"

"No, my lord. I wished to see you first. I bring dispatches from Osgiliath." Denethor reached out, and took the leather-bound sheaf of papers that Faramir proffered. "And also a letter from Lord Dervorin," Faramir continued, pulling a sealed envelope out of the inside of his cloak.

Dervorin was the new lord of the Ringló Vale. He was also a kinsman of Denethor's, and frequently imposed on this kinship to extract favors from the Steward. I see this letter is no exception.

"Dervorin asks for a small portion of the City's tax revenues, to help repair the roads in Ethring." Denethor spoke matter-of-factly, neither conveying approval nor disdain.

"The roads are poor, my lord," Faramir responded, his lips quirking in a half-smile, barely suppressing his amusement.

Denethor raised an eyebrow at Faramir, glad that the papers hid his own obvious amusement at Dervorin's letter. "And?"

"I have word that Ethring frequently trades metals with Lossarnach, in exchange for laborers for farms in the Ringló."

"I see. So Dervorin has both men and trade goods enough to rebuild his roads?"

Faramir shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps."

Well done, Faramir. "And what news from Osgiliath?"

"There is not much to tell, beyond what is in the messages, my lord. Things in the Vale are quiet now, but the captain thinks the creatures may march, if the weather turns colder at year end."

"And what does Boromir think?"

Faramir sighed. "I do not know, my lord. He was away on patrol when I arrived at the garrison, and I did not see him."

"I'm sorry you missed him, then. He was here just a few days ago." Denethor paused, not sure how to continue. "He spoke of...well, we discussed your future, Faramir."

Faramir was clearly surprised, but recovered quickly, slipping on his usual mask of polite indifference. "Oh? Well, my lord, I'm glad you have seen fit to include me in such a discussion then."

Denethor ignored the barely concealed rebuke in Faramir's words and pressed on. "You know that you are to be assigned to the garrison at Pelargir, but Boromir tells me you do not wish to be a soldier."

Faramir smiled. "I think you should not believe everything Boromir tells you."

Denethor did not answer, purposely ignoring Faramir's attempt at jest, and instead fixing the younger with a stare that demanded a serious response.

Faramir shifted in his seat, not entirely easy with himself. "I did not tell Boromir I do not wish to be a soldier. I did not use those words."

"Your exact words are of no consequence, Faramir. I wish only to know the import of what you said to your brother."

"I told him only what I know to be true...that some men are made for war, where others are not."

"You do not wish to serve Gondor?" Denethor was shocked, for he had never had cause to question Faramir's loyalty ever before.

"No, Father! You mistake my intent. I only wished Boromir to know that wielding a sword is not the only way a man may serve his land."

Denethor sighed, not sure how to make Faramir understand. He rose, and walked to the window. Night had fallen, and the City seemed pale and ghostly in the faint moonlight. Across the Pelennor, a few lights could be seen, distant farms, a few tiny villages. Men of Gondor, all of them. Do they not serve? Do they not fight?

"Come here, Faramir." Denethor beckoned his son to the window. "Look outside. Tell me what you see."

Faramir joined Denethor at the window, leaning out of it a little. "I can see the City. And Osgiliath."

"And to the East?"

Faramir did not answer, and Denethor did not expect an answer.

"We battle a pitiless foe, Faramir. Relentless evil that shadows us and draws us into Darkness. How can you serve Gondor, if you will not help thwart the Enemy?"

Denethor walked away from the window and back to his chair, but Faramir did not join him, still looking out the window. "I wish for a time when no man is sent into battle unwilling, but we do not live in such a time. I cannot spare my sons even as I ask other men to sacrifice theirs."

Denethor was about to continue, but Faramir interrupted him. "I see all of Gondor. What it was, what it can be again." Faramir's voice was soft, but confident and determined. He turned to face Denethor, his expression fierce. "There is naught I would not do to see Gondor saved. You know that. You need never doubt it again."

I never doubted it, but you needed a reminder, Faramir. "Very well, Faramir. I am pleased that we have an understanding." Denethor stood, allowing Faramir to excuse himself. "I will see you on the morrow."

"Goodnight, my lord." Faramir rose and made his way to the doorway that led upstairs to his own quarters, but then turned abruptly to face Denethor once more.

"Father? You once said that if I needed something, I should ask you."

"Yes. What of it?"

"I have a boon to ask, then." Faramir paused, as if for effect. "Let me choose my own billet. As you allowed Boromir to do."

"You do not wish to go to Pelargir? Why not? You have learned Haradic, it would be the best..."

"I want to be in Ithilien."

"Ithilien? You wish to be a Ranger? Why?"

Faramir shrugged. "It suits. And more, I think it proper that someone of our house should serve in Ithilien."

"I shall think on it, Faramir, though I think it unwise to send you to Ithilien. Good night."

Faramir bowed quickly and left the room, leaving Denethor to his thoughts. He had expected Faramir to choose Pelargir because Boromir had chosen it as his first billet. Failing that, Denethor had thought to place him at Osgiliath, where Boromir could keep an eye on him, and where he would be close enough to return to the City, if Denethor needed him. But Ithilien? That Denethor had not expected.

No. He simply cannot go to Ithilien. It is too close to...but Faramir is a grown man, and I must respect at least some of his wishes. If he is in Ithilien, I cannot always count on him to help me with council meetings. But Faramir is right, someone from our family ought to serve in Ithilien, for we are of that land. Then again, the Rangers are a funny lot. They might not like having the son of the Steward in their midst. But Faramir is a good archer, and he is patient, and...

Denethor's thoughts chased themselves endlessly, and he spent the better part of the night trying to come to a decision. By the time morning broke, he was tired and irritated. Enough! If Faramir wishes to be in Ithilien, so be it. He will learn soon enough that being a Ranger is no easy task!

He grabbed a sheet of paper from his desk, and penned a curt note to his son.

Faramir,

I am told that new recruits for Osgiliath and Cair Andros depart in two days time. You will ride out to Ithilien with them, and present yourself to Captain Minardil of the Rangers.

He did not bother to sign the note, instead sealing it and ringing for his man, who appeared almost instantaneously at the door. "Beleg, please take this message to Faramir, and let him know that I am too occupied with other tasks to meet him over the next few days."

When Beleg left with the note, Denethor began to slowly regret the tone of his message to Faramir. He had been too harsh, had turned Faramir's sincere request into an onerous command. He was sending his son into the field without so much as an embrace.

This is not right. I will not do to my son as my father did to me. There must be a better way.

He cast about for ways to soften his words for Faramir, and then remembered something...an old memory. Yes, that might work.

Several hours later, he handed Beleg a package and another note to deliver to his son. Faramir will understand.

****

It was a cold and wet night in Ithilien, when a young soldier came to rest under a tree. He was new to the Rangers, but he had learned quickly that much of ranging was waiting, and that suited him just fine. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, as rain fell from the leaves of the tree and puddled in his quiver. The water ran into the intricate leaves and flowers carved into the young Ranger's longbow, finally pooling in the patterns etched at the end of the bow; a simple star, the crest of his house, and underneath it, neatly inscribed long ago, the name of the bow's first owner: Denethor, son of Ecthelion.


Chapter 5 - The Pieces are Moving

Minas Tirith, Spring 3010 TA

Denethor clapped his hand gently around the weed, pulling until it came up, roots and all. It was a small flowerbed, hardly more than a patch of soil, but Denethor had tended it himself for many years now. He enjoyed gardening, and all the planning and preparation that went with it. It is a wonder that a man can make something from nothing with naught but his own hands and a bit of earth.

“My lord, if I could have a word.”

Denethor stiffened at the sound of Faramir’s voice, surprised. “Faramir. To what do I owe this pleasure?” His tone was perfunctory, but not any different from his usual manner of greeting.

“I sent you a message this morning. About meeting with Vorondir?”

Denethor ignored the question and asked one of his own. “How long has it been since you returned from Ithilien?”

“Two days, Sire. I met with you as soon as I . . . “

Denethor did not let Faramir finish. “And what have you been doing with your time these past two days?”

“I have been in the Archives. Reading.”

“About what?”

“About things that interest me.”

Denethor thought there was a flippant note in Faramir’s voice, and this irritated him. “Oh? Things that interest you? Things such as that wizard friend of yours tells you, I suppose.”

In the past, Faramir would have answered defensively, or shrugged and looked away. But now he simply fixed Denethor with a steady gaze, his eyes narrowed, his stance challenging. In fact, it was Denethor who was forced to look away.

To cover his discomfiture, Denethor waved Faramir over to the flowerbed, motioning him to pick up the trowel that lay on the ground.

Faramir hesitated at first, and then squatted opposite Denethor, digging up an unfortunate weed. They continued in this manner for a while, both weeding a part of the flowerbed, not speaking, but content in their own fashion. After a time, Faramir twirled the trowel absently in his hands, and the light glinted off the metal in an odd way, making Denethor look up.

“We have . . . we have not done this together in a long time.” Faramir’s voice trailed off, and Denethor was suddenly reminded me of a time long ago, when he would be out in the gardens with his sons, with Finduilas. An odd tightness came into his chest, and Denethor swallowed hard, trying to fight the memory.

“So what were you reading in the Archives?”

Faramir let out a breath, seeming slightly vexed, and gave Denethor a cold look. “If you must know, I was reading about archery.”

“Archery?” Denethor could not hide his surprise. It was rare for Faramir to take an interest in martial pursuits when he was not afield. Denethor wondered at this, and Faramir must have noticed, because the look of slight annoyance on his face disappeared, replaced by eagerness. “Yes. And not just about archery, but about bows, and swords and other things. Ancient bows made from things other than wood. In Nùmenor, they made bows from a new sort of metal.”

“Metal? Like steel?”

“Yes, but lighter than what we use to make our blades with. An alloy of some sort, more flexible than steel. And it does not rust in water.”

This intrigued Denethor. “Is this some metal that is known to us? Something that could be made in Gondor?” It struck him that the metal could be used for things other than bows or other weapons. or tools, or perhaps maybe in building?


“I do not know if we have it. Perhaps we can make something similar. But I suspect it is as most things from Nùmenor. Lost to us, except in ancient books.” Faramir paused, thinking.

Denethor nodded, letting his mind wander for a moment, pondering on what else had been lost to them. A tree, a king, a throne. And love and peace and everything.

He shook off the thoughts, thinking it pointless to wallow in pity for himself or for Gondor. “What was it you wished to speak to me about? About Vorondir?”

Faramir shook his head. “Later. It will wait.” He seemed happy for some reason, and this made Denethor oddly content and he did not wish to spoil it in any way. “Very well. Come see me on the morrow, at six bells, and we will discuss the matter.”

---

The next morning, Denethor flipped idly through the pages of the City’s latest tax rolls, Faramir standing before him. The tax reports were extremely detailed, and extremely tedious. Vorondir is particularly good with tedious details.

Vorondir was the City’s quartermaster, responsible for all the monies and stores in Minas Tirith. Once a month, he sent the Steward a ponderous report on the City’s finances. That was why he had been surprised when Faramir asked to join Vorondir on his rounds. Denethor did not think either of his sons would willingly spend their scarce free time with Vorondir.

He considered Faramir for a moment, thinking. “Why do you wish to see or speak with Vorondir?”

Faramir shrugged. “Vorondir knows what happens in every circle, how much grain was harvested, how taxes are paid, how much gold was bought and sold at the markets. I wish to know of these things.”

“To what end? It is for Vorondir to know such things, and he does well enough on his own. His reports are . . .”

Faramir interrupted him. “But the City is our charge as well, as are its people. It is right that we should take an interest. The people do not take their plaints to Vorondir, after all.”

Denethor leaned back in his chair, considering this. He steepled his fingers, tapping his forefingers together lightly, while fixing Faramir with a steady gaze. “You wish to be Steward?”

Faramir met his gaze evenly, neither surprised nor cowed by the question. “No. I have never wished for what is not mine by right.”

Denethor could not help but think that Faramir’s words were an accusation of sorts. Are you so infected with the wizard’s poison, Faramir? Does he tell you that I seek the throne instead of the black chair?

“It is not seemly, Faramir, that you should concern yourself with tasks involving the City’s treasury. You are a captain of Gondor, and you should learn to conduct yourself as one!”

Faramir was calm, but Denethor could see a slight flush on anger on his face. “With all due respect, my lord, I am a captain, but I am also a lord and prince, and I would conduct myself as one. As a lord of the City.”

“A lord of the City concerns himself with statecraft, with giving sage advice in council, with understanding and using power. He does not concern himself with . . .”

“Those who have no power?” Faramir’s voice was still soft, the even tone belying the sharpness of his words. “We are princes only to the wealthy and powerful then? We should do naught to spread our grace among the poor, among those who need it the most?”

“Faramir! Enough!” Denethor was indignant, but also severely upset at himself for losing his composure around Faramir. “You forget your place, Captain.”

Faramir dropped his gaze, and seemed contrite. “I apologize, my lord, for my impertinence.”

Denethor said nothing, merely keeping his gaze on Faramir, still fuming. Faramir began to speak, but Denethor held up a hand to stop him, not wishing to hear more words. Then he waved the hand at Faramir, dismissing him. He did not bother to watch as Faramir left the room.

A deafening silence filled the room around Denethor and he wondered at what had passed between himself and his son. Is this the doom of our house, that fathers and sons must always be at odds? As I was with my father, and as he was with his before him?

---

Denethor absently shuffled the sheaf of papers before him, wondering how to begin. He had asked Faramir to meet with him, and now Faramir sat in a chair before him, and if the younger man felt any anxiety over their previous disagreement, or curiosity about this meeting, he did not show it.

Denethor kept his tone “Thank you for seeing me, Faramir. I know you are preparing to leave for Ithilien, so I will not take much of your time.”

Faramir nodded, and smiled politely, waiting for Denethor to continue.

“You were concerned about the plight of the poor. Do you think there is great want in the City.”

There was no immediate response. Then Faramir shrugged. “In truth, I cannot say that I know there is want. But I suspect there may be. It was a hard winter. I wished only to know if there was aught we needed to do.”

You set at naught what I do for the people of the City then? The thought made Denethor bitter, but he controlled himself, and focused on the matter at hand.

“I think it is time you learned how to care for your own people.” Denethor held out the sheaf of papers, and Faramir leaned over to take them, now openly curious.

Denethor watched as Faramir examined the papers, slightly amused at Faramir’s surprise.

“Do you know what that is, Faramir?”

“Yes, it is . . . it is a deed of property. You are giving me your lands?”

“Not all of my lands, only what would be yours by right. The property was left to me by my mother, part of her dower. Most of the land is here and in Anorien, although there are a few farms in Lossarnach as well.”

Faramir seemed perplexed. “Why are you giving me this now? Surely there is no hurry to . . .”

“You are interested in knowing how Gondor is managed, how we care for our people. What better way then for you to have your own lands to manage, your own people to care for?”

Faramir was quiet, watching his father intently. “I am surprised, my lord. I had not expected this . . .” His voice trailed off, and Denethor allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction.

You expected me to punish, not reward. But your compassion should not be punished, for it is your mother’s gift to you. “Whatever you may think of me, Faramir, it is not always my intent to punish you. If there is something you need to learn, I would have you learn it properly.”

Faramir nodded and rose to take his leave. “I thank you then. It is . . . a generous thing.”

“Use it wisely, for I would expect nothing less from you . . . lord and a prince.”
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