My usual profuse apologies for taking so long, and thank you to everyone who’s been reading, reviewing, and sending messages reminding me to get this thing up here!  Okay, so I went over three months this time – but only by a little!  I know I always say this, but the next chapter should be up sooner.  The next trials and tribulations of our hero are ones that I’ve been wanting to write for a very long time, so hopefully they will soon be written and posted.

Thank you again for still being interested in reading this!

            The Army of the West had dwindled to a distant vision, far below us along the Osgiliath Road.  The morning sun still glimmered from each helm and spearpoint and shield, when Éowyn daughter of Éomund turned to me and said, “Shall we go, My Lord Boromir?  I would not keep the Lord your father waiting.” 

            “Yes,” I said.   Though if truth were told, I felt the same reluctance to give up on those last glimpses of our army as I saw now on the faces of Pippin, Merry and Svip.  “Let us go.”

            The shapeshifter and the Hobbits hopped down from the stone ledge.  Svip cast a hesitant glance up at me, then said hurriedly, “I ought to get to the Houses of Healing.  I’ll see you tomorrow, Boromir?”

            “Yes, of course.”  I thought that I ought to say more to him.  Svip did not seem at all happy about leaving.  I wondered if his work at the Houses were becoming less congenial to him, or if he simply did not like this parting so swift upon the heels of our parting with Faramir, Imrahil, and the rest.  I was about to suggest that he could spend the day with me if he cared to, but he turned abruptly and scuttled for the Citadel Gate.

            I will go to see him soon, I told myself; before we meet in the morn.  Today at the Houses, or tonight at the Fountain, I will seek him out and we will talk, if he wishes to.

            Lady Éowyn was gazing after Svip with a troubled expression.  I asked, “You are ready, My Lady?”

            “Yes.”  She set out toward the White Tower, with swift, determined stride.  I made haste to catch up with her, and the Hobbits scurried in our wake, Merry at Éowyn’s heels and Pippin at mine.

            At the door to the Tower the usual guards were joined by the clerk at his camp-stool and folding travel-desk, posted there to chronicle all audience-seekers who presented themselves.  The two guards bowed, and the clerk jumped up from his stool and did the same.

            “You may go through, My Lord Boromir,” said the clerk.  “Master Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers is currently in audience, but the Lord Steward gave orders that you were to be admitted whenever you arrived.”

We followed the familiar path down the long hall, ever cool and shadowed in even the brightest sunlight, and halted at the tall, polished doors.  I knocked once, and the doors swung open in their meticulously oiled silence.

I heard Pippin whisper to Merry, “There are servants by the door, in alcoves; you just can’t see them when they open it.”

“Oh.  Well, of course,” Merry whispered back, striving to deny any look of startlement he might have worn on seeing the doors open of seemingly their own volition.

As we strode between the black marble pillars and the carven images of Gondor’s kings, I glanced over at the Lady of Rohan.  Lady Éowyn showed no qualm or timorousness.  I reminded myself that such poise was only to be expected of she who had slain the Captain of the Nazgûl.  If the lady did feel any nervousness at presenting herself before the Steward of Gondor – or any fear that the Steward might not grant her request – it would be a cold day in Orodruin before she allowed those emotions to show.

Master Rađobard, standing before my father’s chair, stepped aside and bowed to us as our footsteps heralded our approach.  My father’s seneschal Cosimo, elder brother of my own seneschal Gavrilo, set aside his quill and bowed from his seat at his desk beside the Steward’s chair.  His ancient joints were no longer well-suited for speedy risings and re-seatings.

“Boromir, Lady Éowyn, you are welcome,” said my father.  He went on in dry tones that probably only Cosimo and I could recognise as amusement, “Is that my esquire I can see lurking behind you?”

“I am here, My Lord,” Pippin piped up, stepping hastily to my side.

“Are you ready to resume your duties, Master Peregrin?”

“Of course, My Lord.”

“Then post yourself here,” the Steward said, gesturing to Cosimo’s desk, “and stand ready to give Master Cosimo any assistance.”

As Pippin hurried to the desk, my father continued, “I can see no difficulty in granting your request, Master Rađobard, nor do I believe the Council will have any objection.”  He turned to Cosimo.  “Take down this: In reparation for his ship the Eärendil, lost in the Battle of the Harlond, Master Rađobard son of Baldir, Leader of the Guild of Merchant Adventurers, is hereby authorised to take as his personal property the vessel known as Scatha, formerly held by certain pirates of Umbar, and all weaponry, furnishings and other effects that may be found thereupon.”

“I thank you, My Lord,” Rađobard said, with another bow.

“Master Halfling, when the ink is dry, bring me the order,” the Steward commanded.  We waited as the seneschal poured sand upon the writing, blew the sand away again, and affixed to the parchment the crimson wax on which he imprinted the Lord Steward’s seal.  Gingerly Pippin carried to my father the document upon a writing desk fitted with inkwell and quill, and the Steward gave his signature.

“Take that to Master Rađobard,” my father said to Pippin.  “Rađobard, this grant is but little token of the gratitude your country owes you for your efforts in the late battles.  But I trust it may take some steps toward recompensing you for the losses you sustained in that struggle.”

“Gondor’s safety is the only recompense to be desired, My Lord,” Rađobard declared.  “Every Man of the Merchant Adventurers thanks you for this grant.  If the Scatha or any other vessel of our fleet may be of use to serve the needs of Gondor, you know that you have only to command.”

“I know it, and I thank you.”

Rađobard took the parchment and Pippin carefully made his way back to Cosimo, eyeing the inkwell as though convinced that it would leap out of the writing desk for the purpose of making him spill it before the Lord Steward. 

Smiling with a look of delight that I was very glad to see upon him, the Guildleader bowed again to us.  He and I exchanged comments that it was good to see the other, then Rađobard said to the Lady of Rohan, “Lady Éowyn, all of Gondor rings with your fame as the warrior who turned the tide of the great battle.  Permit me to add my voice to the chorus of thanks that is your due.”

“I thank you, sir,” she replied.  Her face and voice kept to their usual solemnity, but I thought I detected in her gaze a brief sparkle of gratified pride.

As Master Rađobard made his way from the Tower Hall, the Steward inquired, “Now, Boromir, what is it that you and the lady would seek of me?”

“It is the Lady Éowyn’s suit, My Lord,” I said.  “I asked her permission to broach it to you, and to accompany her in this audience, to lend whatever persuasion my words may have to its support.  I believe her justified in the request that she will make.  Master Rađobard spoke even now of the debt that all Gondor owes to Éowyn of Rohan.  With that debt in mind, and as the lady’s kinsmen, let us do all that we can to find for her a favourable answer.”

“Very well,” said my father.  “What would you ask of me, Éowyn Daughter of Éomund?”

The lady curtsied low to him, then arose and spoke in her clear tones, “My Lord Steward, in these days of peril I ask the right to labour for the safety of our countries.  The injury I sustained on the battlefield beyond these walls has taken from me the chance to ride with our army to Mordor.  But my broken arm does not stop me from riding a horse, My Lord, nor from wielding a sword.  Nor has it taken from me my skill, nor my resolve to play my own small part in the defence of Gondor and Rohan.  Lord Steward, I beg of you the honour of a place among Gondor’s forces, where there is work of use to be done.  As Eorl my longfather did not stand idle when Gondor had need of him, so I would I not be idle now when Mundburg’s need is great.”

Long and keenly my father gazed upon her.  The lady held well the Steward’s scrutiny.

“We have not forgotten our indebtedness to you, Lady Éowyn,” the Steward said at last, “nor your valorous deeds and those of your kinsmen and longfathers.  Yet I would be remiss in my duty did I permit you to undertake too strenuous duty now, before you are fully healed.  How say you to this?  The Riders of Rohan under command of Marshal Elfhelm patrol day and night the borders of the Pelennor.  When next the Marshal returns from his shift, present yourself to him with my compliments, and with my request that he assign you place in his command.  You may tell him that the Steward of Gondor supports in full your wish to join in the Éored’s duties.  But on one condition do I endorse your cause: you must accept only every other day’s duty, riding with the patrol one day and remaining in the City the next.  I would betray the King your brother – and betray you as well, Lady of Rohan – did I fail to acknowledge that even the most valiant cannot recover their full strength without rest and time.  Will this content you, Lady?”

She bowed her head to him.  “It will, My Lord.  I thank you, Lord Steward, for your kindness and wisdom.”

“Cosimo,” my father commanded, “Prepare an order that the Lady Éowyn may present to Marshal Elfhelm.”

Cosimo took up his quill and set to work.  The lady drew in a breath as though to speak again, then abruptly she shut her mouth.  The Steward did not fail to notice this, and he turned his clear-seeing glance upon her once more.

“There is more that you would ask, Lady?” he inquired.

Her face coloured slightly as she said, “My Lord, forgive my presumptuousness in making another request of you.  I – if you will, I would ask for the order to include the statement that I may remove my place of residence from the Houses of Healing.  I require the Healers’ assistance no longer.  The room and the Healers’ time both would be better used to aid those whose hurts are greater than mine.  There is little I require, Lord; if there is room in some barracks or boarding house, I will be at ease there and I will be even more in the Lord Steward’s debt.”

My father smiled.  He glanced from Éowyn to me, and to her again.  “Cosimo,” he said then, “add to the order that Lady Éowyn will remove from the Houses of Healing to the West Guesthouse, and that any room she may choose there is to be placed at her disposal.”  He added to the lady, “I believe that you will find it comfortable.  Do you require further servants beyond your Halfling esquire?”

“No, My Lord, I thank you.  Master Meriadoc is all I require.”    

We waited as Cosimo finished penning the order, and Pippin took it for the Steward’s signature.  My father asked me of the progress of our fortifications at Osgiliath, and I answered him, all the while noticing that the Lord Steward seemed to be smiling more than necessary as his gaze took in the Lady Éowyn and me.  With effort I repressed a sigh, for I thought that I knew full well that particular smug and self-satisfied expression.

My father’s graciousness to the lady, I thought, owed less to the justice of her claims than it did to his belief that he had just discovered a suitable candidate to be my wife.  Nor was it like to be coincidence that he had chosen the West Guesthouse as her new place of residence, for the West Guesthouse is the one nearest to the King’s House.

Devoutly I hoped that Éowyn had not noticed my father’s gaze upon us – or if she had, that she did not place on it the same interpretation as I did.

I told myself, I really should not complain.  The fact that my father felt up to playing matchmaker was a hopeful sign indeed.  For the first time since I had returned from my fatal quest, it seemed he believed Gondor secure enough that he could return his attention to our lack of a next generation of heirs.

With the order that she had sought held firmly in her hand, Lady Éowyn, Merry and I took our leave.  Pippin bravely strove not to look too forlorn as we departed from the Tower Hall without him.

Returned to the morning’s sunlight, we paused by the Fountain of the White Tree.  Éowyn of Rohan permitted herself a deep sigh.  Then she smiled at me, with more true happiness than I could remember seeing on her face at any time past.

“I thank you for your help, Lord Boromir,” she said.  “I thank you more than I can say.”

  I nodded, then I said, “Pardon me for asking this, Lady – but do you anticipate any difficulty in putting my father’s order into practice?  I know that the soldiers of Rohan are more accustomed to the notion of shieldmaidens among their ranks than are those of Gondor.  Will they be accustomed enough?  They will not resent the order that places you among them?” 

Solemnly she considered that, then she answered, “They will not resent it.  Our forces know and trust me, as I do them.  We have endured much together – and my late deeds in arms will give me whatever acceptance among them might once have been lacking.  There will be no difficulty, My Lord.”

“I am glad of it,” I said.  “I will escort you to the West Guesthouse, then I must make speed for Osgiliath.”  As we set out, I continued, “If you wish it, I will send to you women of my household who can make any adjustments to the clothing Lord Éomer purchased for you – while yet not indulging in any unnecessary fussing.”

Colour crept over her face once more.  I hoped that the sharp-eyed gaze she aimed at me reassured her that I was not laughing at her.     

“Very well, Lord,” she said.  Grudging amusement touched her smile as we walked on.  “I accept, and again I thank you.  Though I trust I will have little need for garments besides those I now wear.  A Rider of Rohan should have scant call for afternoon dresses or ball gowns.”

My wits failed me utterly in finding a reply to that which did not sound inane, but fortunately Lady Éowyn spared me the duty of answering.  She began with some hesitation, “Your friend the shapeshifter – his name is Svip?”

“Yes, it is.”

“My brother told me a little of him.  I apologise that I did not introduce myself to him.  I fear he must think the women of the House of Eorl sorely deficient in manners.”

“To tell the truth,” I said, “you are one of the first women of our race that he has really encountered.  He is not like to know whether it is customary to be introduced to ladies, or not.”

“In that case, I will be doubly deficient if I do not correct my fault.  I would not have him think that all of my sex are as churlish as I have been.  Lord Boromir – I could not help but notice that horses seem uncomfortable around him?”

I nodded.  “The steeds of Rohan fare better with him than others, but no horse that I have seen is fully at ease in his presence.  They do not like him in his own shape, and even less, perhaps, are they comfortable with his horse form.”

She frowned in thought.  “I will need work with which to occupy my time, on the days when I am not with the patrol.  If you wish – and if Lord Svip would not mind – I will train the horses of the Citadel to work more comfortably with him.  If you intend to continue going into battle with him, the ability of the horses to work with him could mean the difference between life and death.”

I reflected that poor Éomer would really have a bone to pick with me, if I conspired with his sister again to negate all efforts at making her rest and recuperate.  But I confess that my conscience did not pain me overmuch on the subject.  If the lady’s reactions were anything like my own, she would fare far better with practical deeds to accomplish than by sitting about waiting for time to heal her. 

I said, “That would be a worthy achievement, and I at least would welcome it.  I will speak of it to Svip when next I see him.  He may be hesitant at first, but I do not think he will turn down the opportunity.  He is as uneasy around horses as they around him, but that may end as well if the horses’ fear is eased.”

We had reached the West Guesthouse, nestled in the Citadel Wall with our guardian mountain looming behind it.  Lady Éowyn glanced up at the tall, narrow building, then she spoke suddenly in a voice surprisingly soft and uncertain, “Do you think there will be any of these rooms available – with their windows looking eastward?”

“I am certain of it,” I said.  “Minas Tirith is not currently overflowing with guests.  Even if there were none empty, the Steward’s order would be sufficient to claim for you any room you wish, whether vacant or not.  But, I would be surprised did any of these rooms prove to be taken.”

She nodded, smiled faintly, then cast a distracted glance over her shoulder: north and east, where, blocked from our sight by the buildings of the Citadel, the Army of the West marched upon the Osgiliath Road.

I parted from Éowyn and Merry, after receiving the lady’s assurance that she would need no attendants beyond the young Hobbit to move her belongings from the Houses of Healing.  Merry’s face bore a broad, brilliant smile as he wished me goodbye, and I reflected that Master Meriadoc at least should be well pleased with the Steward’s verdict.  Lady Éowyn might wish that the Lord Denethor had not commanded her to take alternate days of rest.  But his order that she ride with the Rohirrim patrol should mean that she would feel no need to leave the City in disguise in a bid to catch up with our army.

The days that followed seemed strange to me, almost as though we had journeyed into our past. 

At Osgiliath work progressed swiftly.  Guildsmen from the Stonemasons’ and Carters’ Guilds laboured alongside our troops in rebuilding East Osgiliath’s wall.  The old stone bridge we made no effort to rebuild, contenting ourselves instead with repairing and strengthening one of the pontoon bridges left to us by the enemy.  If the time came when we were again compelled to retreat to the western shore, the pontoons would be easier by far for our rear guard to destroy behind us.

The Merchant Adventurers’ Guild plied their trade again.  Their new flagship the Scatha remained in harbour, with a crew of armed guildsmen ready and waiting to turn the pirate ship’s weaponry to the Harlond’s defence.  But their other surviving vessels voyaged downriver, with the Steward’s commission to buy up grain and other foodstuffs for re-provisioning Osgiliath.

It was easy almost to forget the times in which we laboured, the promise of death and doom that lingered on the eastern horizon.  The days were fair, pure spring days of sun and untainted sky.  It seemed impossible that so many of our comrades had marched into the east, to face first the end that was likely soon to come upon us all. 

Almost I imagined that we had stepped twenty years and more into the past, to the days when our doom was not yet certain.  It seemed that again we lived those days of purpose and hope, when we had strengthened our defences along the eastern shore, sent forth sorties ever farther into lands that had been the Enemy’s, when we fought in the untarnished belief that we could be victorious, that Gondor would never fall. 

Almost could I believe all of that.  Yet our past was not come again.  Purpose and tantalizing hope were not enough to deny the truth of our present days. 

My brother was not safe in the City, nor at his post at Henneth Annûn, but rode with seven thousands for the Black Gate of Mordor.  Our uncle did not rule secure in Dol Amroth by the sea, but rode to the darkness at Faramir’s side.  The Men of Gondor, Rohan and the southlands advanced upon a foe they could not hope to defeat.  And we, left at home, laboured at fortifications that must count as no more than sandcastles, when the black tide rolled in upon us at last.

As sunset neared on that day of our army’s departure, I rode back to the City.  Leaving my horse at my townhouse’s stables, I betook me to the Houses of Healing, where I found Svip at work mixing healing unguents in company with Dame Ioreth.  That worthy dame was telling the water creature some anecdote about her sister who dwelt in the woods of Lossarnach.  The thought came to me that Svip had found here a kindred soul who could talk as relentlessly as he could.

Eagerly Svip accepted my proposal that he join me for a walk to the roof of the White Tower.  The Guards had informed us that my father was in his chamber at the top of the Tower, so we spoke as quietly as we could that we might not disturb the Steward in his retreat.  I leaned against the parapet and Svip stood on a chair that we had requisitioned from the uppermost guardroom, and we watched rosy-hued sunset creep over the land.

“You seemed troubled this morning, Svip,” I said.  “I wanted to ask you, would you prefer some other duty than your work at the Houses of Healing?”

“No, no,” he said hurriedly, “it’s fine.  Only … well, there isn’t so much work there now … many of the patients have been released … Thorolf’s back on duty now too, you know, he’s with the rest of Cirion’s Rangers at Osgiliath.  And – and I don’t like you leaving the City without me.  There could be another attack, couldn’t there?  We don’t know when it could come; you’ve said yourself the Dark Lord’s got thousands and thousands more troops.  I just don’t like that you’re out there without me.  If something happened, I wouldn’t be there.  After all,” he added in defiant tones, “you’re still part of my collection.  That’s why I left home in the first place, so I could keep an eye on you.” 

“I know it, Svip, and I thank you.”  It seemed a perfect opportunity, and I outlined for Svip the Lady Éowyn’s offer. 

As I had anticipated, Svip greeted nervously the concept of spending days in close company with horses.  But he could also see the possibilities.

He cocked his long head to one side, frowning in thought.  “Well,” he murmured, “if you really think I should …”

“Lady Éowyn will be a kind teacher;” I said, “you need have no dread of her.  She will have the horses well under control; I believe the Rohirrim understand horses better than the horses do themselves.  And if there can be built up at least a core unit of the Citadel’s horses that are unafraid of you, it will increase greatly our efficiency together in combat.”

“I know,” Svip said, “but I still think I should be with you.”

“You can be, every other day, when Lady Éowyn is on patrol with the Éored.  You will be helping her, Svip, as much as if she were still in the Houses of Healing and you were tending her hurts.  She will heal far faster with this challenge to which she can turn her thoughts.  You will be helping her to do that.”

Svip mused, “Do you think we can train with the horses near to where you are?  So if there’s any attack, we can get to you quickly?”

I smiled and told him, “I am certain that could be managed.”

Thus the next day I rode Svip to Osgiliath, after our morning’s dip in the Anduin.  The water creature seemed nearly his cheerful self as of old.  He enthusiastically apprenticed himself to the Stonemason’s Guild in mixing mortar for the wall.  But he also checked, more frequently than may have been strictly necessary, on my welfare and that of his old friends in Cirion’s company of Rangers. 

The Rangers and I were among those labouring to move back into place the great stone blocks of East Osgiliath’s wall.  In this effort we had the cranes and pulleys of the Carters’ Guild to help us, and the machinery fascinated our small green friend. 

I thought that if Svip started building up a new collection, I would see if the Carters’ Guild had an old crane that they would be willing to part with.  Doubtless it would hold pride of place among Svip’s treasures – until the next fascination came along.

As the afternoon waned, one of the Rohirrim’s patrols rode in along the shore, from their route south to Emyn Arnen.  The Horselords filed through the narrow path still open in the remains Osgiliath’s old East Gate, past the towering blocks waiting to be hauled into place when need came for the gate to be sealed.   

While their patrol continued on to the bridge, two of the foremost Riders left the column and rode to me: the Lady Éowyn and Marshal Elfhelm.

The Lady of Rohan armoured and helmeted as I had seen her last, clad as any Rohirrim warrior save for her long white skirt and the sling on her left arm.  Nor did any other Rider bear before them on the saddle a young Hobbit esquire.  Éowyn waited for Merry to hop down first, then the lady herself effortlessly alighted, to bow her head to me and request an introduction to Svip.

The shapeshifter scrambled down from the crane where he had been perched.  After a nervous glance at me, he bowed low to the lady.  I performed the introductions.  With Éowyn leading her horse, the lady and the two Halflings then walked aside, discussing plans for their training session on the morrow.

Marshal Elfhelm dismounted and took from his pouch a couple of sugar cubes, proffering them to his roan.  As he stroked the horse’s face and mane, he said to me, “We have something to report today, My Lord.  I think that we have company.  Yesterday we suspected it; we found tracks in several places where the forest meets Emyn Arnen.  But the tracks were all in rocky terrain; none were clear enough for us to be sure.  Today some of us rode to the Emyn Arnen watchtower, while others patrolled the base of the hill.  I have reports with me that the watchtower’s commander requested I carry to the City.  They confirm the same thing that the keenest-sighted among us saw from Emyn Arnen’s crest.  There is movement in the Mountains of Shadow, where the foothills come nearest the Harad Road.”

“Movement,” I repeated grimly.  “You and the commander are certain it is no mere herd of mountain goats?”

“Certain, My Lord, unless the mountain goats of Ephel Dúath are caparisoned in metal.  They have not come near enough for any detail to be clear, but there was most certainly the flash of sun on metal, too frequent for it to be some mere trick of the light.”

I nodded.  The watchtower’s garrison were experienced Men, and well used to the moods of the mountains of Mordor.  I had read in Húrin of the Keys’ reports that the Emyn Arnen post were among the last to reach the City as our foes closed in upon us, making their escape scarce an hour before the advance of the Haradrim would have cut them off.  Those same Men had returned to their post on the day after the siege was broken.  If they saw cause for concern in the movements amid Ephel Dúath, then cause there decidedly was.

“I do not need to tell you to maintain a sharp lookout,” I said.  “I hope I also need not remind you, Lord Marshal, how little we can afford further loss of life in any but a decisive struggle.  If you are tempted to send sorties into the mountains to flush out these visitors of ours, resist it.  If the enemy are again gathering in the mountains, we will only help their cause by sending our Men where archers could pick them off from hiding without ever a blow being struck in return.”

“Very well, My Lord,” the Marshal said with a grimace.  “Some of our boys were getting their hearts set on a little hunting trip.”

“They will live with the disappointment.  One thing that you can do is to send a squad of picked Men to reinforce the Emyn Arnen watchtower.”  I glanced over at the Lady of Rohan and her companions, and added, “You will of course ensure that the squad does not include the Lady Éowyn.”

“You need not tell me twice,” Elfhelm said, with feeling.  “If aught happens to her, Éomer King will rip my head from my shoulders.”

That evening, when Svip and I again watched the sunset from the roof of the White Tower, my gaze turned often to the scarce-visible speck that was the Emyn Arnen watchtower, and to the brooding Mountains of Shadow beyond.

The next morn Lady Éowyn met us at the Harlond Gate when we emerged from our morning’s swim.  Her entourage consisted of Merry, two grooms from the Citadel stables, and a full dozen horses, four from my townhouse’s stables and eight from those of the Citadel. 

The green of Svip’s face went pale and sickly at the sight of them.  But as we rode for Osgiliath, with Svip huddled before me on our usual Rohirrim steed Fengel, the lady drew Svip forth with questions on his people’s habit of transforming themselves to horse form.  The water creature seemed almost comfortable by the time he, Éowyn and Merry dropped me off at Osgiliath’s West Gate, and they returned with Fengel to the side of the Causeway a little space away, where they had left the grooms and the other horses.

  The reports of the Rohirrim’s patrols held to the pattern of the day before.  None of their Riders along Rammas Echor, nor on the east shore north of Osgiliath, reported any glimpse of the enemy.  Every report of enemy presence came from the patrols around Emyn Arnen. 

In the night the Men in the watchtower had sighted two small fires, in the darkness of Ephel Dúath.  The Rohirrim that day found tracks at the edge of the foothills, that they had no difficulty in identifying as the tread of iron-shod Orcs.  They found also, amid the rocks, a mountain goat that had bled to death, a black-feathered arrow lodged in its side. 

As evening approached I took my way on foot across the pontoon bridge, through West Osgiliath and back to my comrades at the edge of the Causeway. 

It seemed there had been no disasters, and neither Svip nor the horses appeared any the worse for wear.  When I joined them Lady Éowyn was in the process of teaching Svip to ride, the lady walking along beside while Svip spent a few minutes on each horse in turn.  Merry stood ready with a basketful of dried apples, carrots and sugar cubes. 

The best proof I could wish that the day was a success came when Svip himself volunteered that they should spend another hour or so at the training.  Readily assenting, I reclaimed Fengel from the training session and rode back to the City.

It had been my thought to go at once to my father, to discuss with him the latest reports.  But as I rode through the gate into the Third Level, Lord Húrin of the Keys hailed me from the door to the City Armoury.

“Lord Boromir!” he called.  “I have been lying in wait for you.  Have you the time to share with me some wine and your counsel?”

“Gladly,” said I, “though I hope the counsel will not be so bitter as to need the wine to sweeten it.”  Leaving Fengel with the guards in the courtyard, I walked with the Keeper of the Keys to his office in the armoury’s centre bastion.

Our discussion remained in the realm of pleasantries until we were ensconced in Húrin’s office, each of us provisioned with a goblet of 2920 White Tree wine.

Húrin reverently replaced the bottle on its shelf and sat down.  Only then did he begin, “About an hour ago we received a request from the garrison commander at Halifirien, asking if evacuees are permitted yet to return to the City.  It is the sixth such request we have had in the last two days.  We had two requests yesterday, from the commanders at Nardol and Erelas.   They come from farther afield today; from Minrimmon, Calenhad, Halifirien, and from the Lord Mayor of Tumladen.  The word is spreading of our victory a few days ago, and the people are growing restless to return to their homes.” 

Húrin paused to take a drink, and I asked, “Has the question been brought to the Steward’s attention?”

“Aye, Lord,” Húrin said, frowning, “I passed the first two requests on to him yesterday evening, and all but the last, I sent to him today noon.  But I have not been able to see him to ask his instructions in person.  I was told he has been in his Tower chamber.  If he has considered the requests, My Lord, I at least have not received any answer upon them.”

“I see.”  It occurred to me that I had not seen my father in person since Lady Éowyn’s audience, now two days before.  I wondered how long he had been in seclusion in the Tower chamber this time, and how long I could let it go before I really started worrying about him.  Not, from previous experience, that worrying about him was liable to do any good.

I took a drink, then I said, “Then we must make the decision ourselves, and hope the Lord Steward will be in agreement with us.”  I thought a moment, and I frowned darker the more I thought on it. 

Regretfully I decided, “It’s too soon to permit any returns.  A day or two ago, I might not have said so.  But with these reports from the Rohirrim and the Emyn Arnen garrison …”  I shook my head.  “We cannot risk it.  Until we have some knowledge of how our forces have fared in the east, we dare not risk authorising our people’s return to a City that might become the scene of yet another battle.”    

Húrin of the Keys took another swig of his wine.  “It’s a hard thing to tell people that they cannot come back to their homes.  And to require the fortress towns and our neighbours to support thousands who would be able to support themselves could they return to their own lands and businesses.”

“It will be a harder thing to let them return, and to have them perhaps be still on the roads when the next army of Mordor crosses the River.”

Húrin sighed.  “Aye, My Lord.  I’ll send word to the commanders and our allies, that the evacuees must remain where they are until further notice.”  The Keeper of the Keys frowned, absently flicking with his forefinger at one of the gems on the base of his goblet.  “This mission to Mordor,” he said finally, “do you think there is really any hope in it?  Did we send our Men with any real hope that they could aid in the fight against the Dark?  Or did they go simply to get the Wizard and the Captain of the Northmen out of your Lord father’s hair?”

I laughed at that, albeit with little cheer.  “There may be something in that,” I said, “though I would hope that seven thousands were not sent forth merely to rid my father of two annoyances.”

Húrin bit his lip.  “It seems like foolery, the more I think on it – this whole expedition.  Yet I confess I cannot truly think of any real alternative – save only to keep all of our fighting Men in the City and prepare that we may defend Minas Tirith to the last.  The Wizard heaped scorn enough on that option in the council.  But the more I have thought of it since the army’s departure, the more I wish that we had followed that course – the Stormcrow’s scorn notwithstanding.”

“Aye,” I said.  “I have thought of that as well.  But there is no use in it.  It is too late now for second thoughts; we must defend Minas Tirith to the last, whether or not our army returns home.”     

“Aye.”  Hesitantly Húrin eyed me.  “My Lord … what of this Captain of the Rangers?  The one that some are calling king?”

“What of him?” I sighed.

“You travelled with him for months, sir, did you not?  What do you think of him?  Is he – is he anyone that Gondor would ever want as her king?”

I managed a thin smile.  “I wish I had a company of bowmen for every time someone has asked me that question.”

“I’m sorry, My Lord, it doesn’t matter – ”

“No,” I told him, “no, you should have an answer.”  I thought to myself that I should just issue a proclamation stating my opinions on Aragorn Son of Arathorn, since I was being called upon to express them so often. 

“He is a good Man, I believe.  A skilled warrior, and a strong leader.  Gondor could do far worse.  What I do not know,” I went on, “is whether there is any need for Gondor to have a king.  Perhaps family feeling prevents me from seeing the truth clearly – but I truly cannot say that I believe we have been any worse off these past thousand years with the Stewards as rulers of Gondor, than we would have been with a line of kings.”

The Keeper of the Keys nodded.  “Aye,” he said again, in apparent satisfaction.  “So say I also.  Times change.  Because we had kings once, must we have them always?  The Stewards have ruled well, and have held back the Enemy from Gondor’s door.  What need have we then of a king, who could do no better?”

I smiled at his vehemence, but I could feel my smile turning bitter.  “Ah, but of course,” I observed, “I am sure Lord Mithrandir would tell us that a king will do better.  That he will usher in a new Golden Age, and that any achievements of the House of Stewards will seem as nothing, viewed beside his glory.”

“Golden Age, my arse,” Húrin muttered. 

“Now, now, My Lord of the Keys,” I admonished.  “You may be speaking of our next king.”

“Valar’s blood,” he swore, “I hope not.  But My Lord, in all seriousness – I want you to know that you will have my support, if the question of whether to acknowledge him as king ever comes before the Council.  Whatever decision you and the Lord Steward may reach upon the matter, I will stand by you – as, I know, will all of our people.”

“Ah,” I said, smiling still and hoping that there would not come a day when I would have to consider this matter seriously.  “I thank you, Húrin, for reminding me of my overwhelming responsibilities.”

He grinned.  “You can handle it, sir.  I’ve known you would be a leader we could rely on – ever since you were six years old and wheedling all us ten-year-olds into showing you every fencing move the Master-at-arms just taught us.”

“Now that, I should think,” I pointed out, “would only have told you how annoying I could be, not how reliable.”

Húrin snorted.  “You’ve got less annoying over the years, My Lord.  Anyhow – I’d rather have an annoying Steward, any day, than a king out of the wilds of who-knows- where.  Although,” he added in a speculating tone, “I suppose having a king could bring some advantages.  You don’t happen to know, do you, sir, whether this Lord Aragorn is married?”

I laughed.  “I’ve heard he’s betrothed to the daughter of Elrond Half-Elven.  I’m afraid you won’t be able to marry him off to your sister.”

Opening his eyes wide, Lord Húrin exclaimed, “He’s engaged to an Elf?  We’re in worse trouble than I thought.”

I muttered before I could stop myself, “You don’t know the half of it.”

“What are people thinking?” he continued in tones of outrage.  “They must not know anything of him, the ones who are saying that he ought to be king.  What do we want with a Northern Elf-lover ruling us?  Will he have us all move into the forests with him?  Or bring in Elf Lords to make up the majority of the Council?”

I said, trying to return the discussion to some level of decorum, “It is true that building more cordial relations with the Elven kingdoms would not be amiss.  Particularly if the threat of war remains – and our kingdoms remain – after this present crisis.  We will be foolish not to cultivate the friendship of those who might stand beside us against the darkness.”

“Yes, but bloody hell!  We can build up more cordial relations without our rulers marrying them!”

I drank down the last of my wine.  “Húrin, my dear friend,” I said, “I can appreciate your feelings.  But our judgement on whether Lord Aragorn is the right Man to lead Gondor must not rest on age-old suspicions of a people who were once our friends, and who may be so again.”

“Aye, My Lord,” Húrin sighed heavily.  “Though I might question whether they were our friends even in the Last Alliance – or if it were desperation only that drove them to tolerate us then, even as it is now.”

Húrin of the Keys finished off his wine, and set down his goblet with a thud.  “Forgive me for speaking so freely,” he said.  “I’ll hold my tongue better in Council.”

“Aye,” I smiled, “that is my usual resolution as well.  And I usually fail at it utterly.” 

When I sought out my father that evening, I was informed that indeed he kept still to his Tower chamber.  I left orders that I was to be notified the instant that he descended.  But in the morning when Svip and I paid our visit to the River and rode on to Osgiliath, still had I had no word.

Reports soon reached me at Osgiliath that for a few of the Rohirrim, their longings for action had received at least some satisfaction.  In the night a patrol nigh to Emyn Arnen had met with a band of Orcs, no more than two score at the most, on a foray out from the foothills.

Whether this band were a hunting party or a handful of hotheads who could not be restrained from launching a strike against their enemy, we were not like to discover.  Whatever had been their goal, they found themselves sorely outnumbered.  Even in the darkness that should have favoured the Orcs, the Horselords had made short work of them, slaying eighteen and being restrained with difficulty from chasing the few who survived to retreat into the mountains.  The Rohirrim casualties were minimal, flesh wounds to three of the Riders and to two of the horses.

The weapons and armour which the Horselords took from the corpses and sent to Osgiliath for my inspection, bore on breastplate, helm and sword hilt the foul blazon of the Eye of Mordor.

 That day as I laboured with the rest on the East Osgiliath wall, my gaze and my thoughts were drawn along the shore, south to the hill of Emyn Arnen.

Grimly I chid myself for allowing the Lady Éowyn – my wife’s cousin, sister to the King of Rohan, and with a broken arm to boot – to continue riding with the patrols, in the precise section of territory where she was most likely to find herself in combat.

It was with a nearly sickening surge of relief that I saw, late in that afternoon, the patrol returning with Marshal Elfhelm, Lady Éowyn and Merry riding at its head.

The patrol had little of substance to report, save only continuing sightings from the Emyn Arnen watchtower.  As Éowyn and Merry paused to exchange greetings with Svip, back at work mixing mortar with the Men of the Stonemasons’ Guild, I held another brief conference with Elfhelm the Marshal.  The Rider’s expression was as grim as my thoughts, as I broached the question of reassigning the Lady Éowyn.

“Well, My Lord,” said he, “there’s the question of whether or not I’ve any command over her.  In theory I’d guess that I do.  But I’ve no great wish to try putting the theory into practice.  If you want to try convincing her to join another patrol, then I wish you the very best of luck.”

With no very great enthusiasm I accepted that duty.  Svip and I joined the patrol on their ride back to the City.  On that ride the lady and I discussed theories of whence these Orcs in the mountains might hail.  We agreed that it was most likely they were remnants of the host that had besieged the City, waiting now for the next invasion force to join them from Mordor.  On the subject of Éowyn’s presence in the Emyn Arnen patrol, we did not touch, despite various smirks and raised eyebrows from Marshal Elfhelm that queried me on when I would get around to mentioning it.

As we passed through the Great Gate, I asked Lady Éowyn if she would join me in my sunset walk to the roof of the White Tower.  With her usual enigmatic solemnity, she accepted. 

I know not if Svip and Merry had guessed that there were matters I hoped to discuss with the lady alone, but the two of them laid plans to seek out Pippin and see if he could join them for the daymeal in the Citadel’s barracks.  So it was that the Lady Éowyn and I set out on the climb up the Tower of Ecthelion’s stairs.

“It is a long climb,” I said belatedly, as we passed the door to my father’s office and climbed onward.  “I am sorry, I should have remembered your injury.  If you would prefer not to continue on …”

“I can assure you, My Lord,” was her dry reply, “I climb upon my feet, not my arms.”

That set me down a few notches, and I came up with nothing else to say until the lady asked if I believed the sightings of the enemy should lead to any change in our strategy.

It was a perfect invitation to discuss her future postings, but I put off taking her up on it.  Instead I answered, “I will see what can be done to increase the manpower of the patrols, and of Osgiliath’s garrison.”

The guard on the Tower rooftop, to my great joy and relief, told us that my father had descended from his chamber a few hours since.  Discreetly this guard moved to post himself at the west side of the Tower, where the Steward’s chamber would block the lady and me from the guardsman’s sight. 

I appreciated his discretion, but I sighed as I speculated on what precisely the Man believed I had in mind when I brought the Lady of Rohan to the roof to watch the sunset with me.

Lady Éowyn leaned her uninjured arm upon the parapet, and gazed out toward the east.  I stood beside her, and sternly ordered myself to avoid the subject no longer.

“I hope you will pardon me for saying this, Lady.  I very much doubt it was the Lord Steward’s intent that you should join the patrol on its most dangerous route, in the very areas of the eastern shore where forces of the enemy are most likely to be concealed.”

“Indeed, My Lord?” she queried.  “If the Lord Steward had a preference on the route of my patrol, he did not state it in his order nor during our audience.  But of course, you know him best.  Do you mean that his order was intended as the simplest way of quieting an annoying woman, by fobbing me off with an assignment which would have the appearance of importance and trust, while yet running no real risk of sending me into combat?”

Mentally I groaned.  But yet I also could not restrain a smile of admiration – at the fierce spirit with which she spoke, and also at the keen sight that she turned upon our motives. 

I said, “That is not exactly how I would have put it, My Lady.  But you may essentially be right.  Do you blame my father – or me – if we would prefer not to send our kinswoman to her death?  And if we would prefer not having to explain your death to the Lord your brother, when he returns?”

She smiled, a smile that seemed both of amusement and of challenge.  “You are brave Men, My Lord.  I am sure you will weather that ordeal, if you are forced to face it.  But for your sake and your Lord father’s, I will endeavour not to be slain.”

“I am your debtor, Lady Éowyn,” I said, bowing to her.  I turned then to lean upon the parapet, gazing out on the fields of Pelennor and the sunset-reddened path of the Great River.  Not turning to face the shieldmaiden, I continued, “In Gondor we are used to our women facing the perils of war along with our men, as our children must also face them.  But we are not used to our women riding into battle beside us.  I hope you will forgive my provinciality of thought, if I confess that I pray we need never become used to it.”  

Quietly Lady Éowyn replied, “The men of Rohan are not used to it either.  But they can learn.  As, I am sure, can the men of Gondor.  We must all learn to accept realities that we would prefer not to face.” 

For some moments we stood without speaking.  I watched as the first glimmers of light became visible in Osgiliath, our Men’s cook fires flickering to life in the ruined city.  I glanced to Emyn Arnen, where gleams of light shone also from the watch tower’s windows.  Squinting into the dusk I sought for any answering firelight in the Mountains of Shadow, but I saw none.

Éowyn spoke suddenly, “They could not have reached it yet – the Black Gate?  They have not been gone long enough?”

“No.  Not yet.  It must be another three days, at the very least, before they can reach it.”

“Three days,” she murmured, so quietly that I had to all but guess at her words.  “Three days.  And what then?”

I had no answer for that.  The lady turned to me with a wan, haunted gaze.

“Lord Boromir … ” she began, “forgive me for asking you this.  It is not fair of me to trouble you by asking it, but I must.  Would you sense it if some misfortune befell the Lord your brother?  Or any of the others who ride with him?  Would you – if something had happened to them, would you know?”

Grimly I met her gaze.  I felt the same chill close around my heart that must have been gripping Lady Éowyn’s heart as well.

“No,” I answered her.  “I’m sorry.  My father and brother have all of the visions in our family.  When I died, Faramir knew of it, but I … ”   I shook my head.  “I wish I could believe that I would know it, if anything befell him.  But I have no cause to think that I would.  I am sorry I can be of no help to you, My Lady.  I must wait for earthly messengers to bring me news, just as everyone else.” 

“But your father would know?” she asked, with a hint of hopefulness.  “And would he tell you?”

“I don’t know.  It may well be that he would not; my father is apt to keep his own counsel.”  Then I truly thought of it.  “But … yes.  Perhaps; I think he would.  If it were Faramir – if something had happened to him – I think that Father would tell me.  For the others, for all of them, I cannot say.  I do not know if my father would tell me, even if a vision had shown him destruction coming to all of them.  But I think he would tell me of Faramir.”

“I am sorry, My Lord,” she whispered.  “I am sorry for asking.”  She gazed up at me with a desperate pleading in her eyes.  “If he tells you … if he tells you anything of their fate, will you tell me?  I feel that I cannot bear this waiting to know.”

I challenged myself as to the propriety of my action, yet still I reached out and placed my hand over hers, as she gripped the parapet. 

“I will tell you, Lady,” I promised.  “I will tell you if I learn anything of their fate, from whatever source.”

Her glance dropped.  “Thank you, My Lord,” came her almost inaudible whisper.  She looked over at our hands, and I felt her hand flinch slightly below mine, as though she wished to draw away from me but held herself back from doing so.  I withdrew my hand from hers.

She murmured, summoning up a faint and pain-filled smile, “I believe it is the worst thing of all, of being a woman – the waiting.  Waiting always, while the men ride to battle, never knowing who will ride home alive, and who will return a corpse.  When I rode with them, Lord Boromir, I prayed that death in battle would spare me the pain of ever waiting for them again.  I suppose I am a coward, for what else is one who cannot endure the pain that is dealt out to them?”

“You are no coward, Lady,” I insisted.  “And some pain is more than anyone can bear.”

She took a deep breath, and made a valiant effort to smile with more cheer.  “Yes, My Lord, but not this.  These are only everyday fears that I have allowed to take hold of me.  I should know better, by now, than to quail at the monsters of my own making.”

I smiled back at her.  “None would blame you,” I said, “for these monsters come to all of us.”

“Aye,” she sighed, “and I fear I am but poor company, to make your thoughts darker by my presence than they were without it.”

“Then, My Lady, let us fight the darkness in time-honoured fashion, by changing the subject.  When did we last meet?  I have been asking myself that, but I’m afraid I cannot remember.  My memories are of a lanky girl who I think I never saw off the back of her horse.  It must be long since you were the child I remember.  I’m sure I did not see you when I stopped at Edoras last year, on my way to Imladris.”

“No,” she said, trouble returning immediately to her gaze.  “No, we did not meet then.  I believe – I am sorry, My Lord.  Before this year, we met last here in Minas Tirith – five years ago, when I was here for the funeral of the Princesses.”

“Yes,” I said, “of course.”  My voice sounded strangely distant to my ears, as though it were another Man who spoke.  The ache of that old wound stabbed at me with her words, as though the loss were become fresh anew. 

I told her, “I thank you for being here then.  I am sorry that I did not remember.”

“No one would blame you for that, Lord,” she said.  “It was not a time that any would wish to remember.”

I thought, now that she had reminded me, that perhaps I recalled her at the funeral after all – a pallid, rain-drenched figure, whose face mirrored all too clearly the pain in my own soul.

I fought to think of something to say, but Éowyn succeeded in it before me.  “They were happy here, Lord Boromir,” she said with hurried intensity, as though hoping with her words to banish all sorrow from about us.  “It was clear from all of their letters, from the way they wrote of you, and of Lord Faramir, and of their lives here.  I had only a few letters from Princess Théodhild, but Princess Éoflæd wrote often, and she wrote of what Théodhild was doing as well.  They were happy here.” 

I smiled ruefully, thinking of Théodhild chewing her quill pen or throwing it down in disgust, or more frequently groaning of the number of letters she had to write but never quite getting around to starting them.  I said, “She did try to keep up with her letter-writing.  Perhaps she did not succeed very well at it.  But she did try.”

“I know she did, My Lord.  I did not mean to sound complaining.  A wife and mother has more pressing demands on her time than writing letters to her spinster cousin.”  Frowning in concern, Lady Éowyn said, “I am sorry, Lord Boromir, if I should not be speaking of them, if it is inappropriate for me to do so – ”

“No,” I assured her, “it is not inappropriate.  There is no ill in their kin speaking of them, and remembering.”

I gazed at the rose-tinged spire of the Tower, and beyond, to where the last spears of sunlight gleamed between Mindolluin’s crags.  I thought of other hours spent here atop the White Tower, and as I thought of them, again I smiled.

I turned once more to face the sombre-eyed lady beside me.

“You never met our son, did you?” I asked. 

“No, My Lord.  Princess Théodhild had just learned that she was with child, when you made your last visit together to Edoras.  And I did not travel with Théoden King when he made his last visit here.  And after that … I am sorry.  I wish that I had met him.”

“Aye.  I wish it as well.”  I did not think I had taken the decision to continue speaking of him.  But as I stood there I realised that I wanted to speak of him, for perhaps the first time since he had died.

“Findemir learned to walk up here,” I said.  “Well, not only up here, but … Théodhild used to bring Findemir up here with me at dawn, whenever I was home.  There was an old wolfhound that Théodhild had brought from Rohan – ”

“Glessig,” Éowyn put in eagerly.

“Yes, Glessig.  She used to come up here with us.  I half think that Glessig believed Findemir her own pup; she kept as sharp an eye out for him as any nursemaid.  She used to stand next to him, while he was sitting on the floor.  He would take hold of her fur and use it to pull himself up on his feet.  And then she would start walking, very slowly, all the while watching him, so that he could walk along with her.  I believe they must have covered several leagues’ worth, at least, walking on this roof.”

When I fell silent, Lady Éowyn asked quietly, “Does Glessig still live?”

It surprised me how much I wished that I could answer yes.  “No.  I’m sorry.  She lived perhaps another year after her mistress died.”

“I am sorry,” Éowyn murmured.  “I should have liked to see her.”

A breeze had risen, rushing upward from the bosom of Anduin and setting the Banner of the Stewards snapping bravely on the spire above us.  The Lady of Rohan turned, to gaze again toward the east.

I thought that I should say something to her, while she stared as though her gaze could oversoar the distance and reveal to her the Black Gate itself.  I thought that I should give some words of comfort, some assurance that her brother and our army would win through safely and make their way home again in victory.

But there was no assurance.  There were no words I could speak that she would not recognise as simply the prayer of desperate hope.

I watched the last sheen of the sun sink behind Mindolluin.  I thought of Faramir, Imrahil, Éomer and the rest, perhaps now pitching camp for the night somewhere along the Morannon Road.  And I thought of standing here on the White Tower at sunrise, leaning against the parapet with Théodhild beside me, and watching while our son and his wolfhound nursemaid circled the Tower roof in their slow, patient march.

The sun sent forth one last spark and vanished in the mountain’s darkness.

“I must go to my father,” I said.  “I should consult with him before expanding the garrison.”

Éowyn and I spoke little as we descended the Tower stairs, save only in greeting to the guards whom we passed.  At the door to my father’s office, the guard there confirmed that the Steward was indeed gone to his chambers in the King’s House.

It’s about time, I thought.  Maybe, if the Valar are truly kind, he will even be sensible enough to try getting some sleep.

The Lady of Rohan walked with me until we reached the King’s House.  There we parted, Éowyn saying in her quiet, solemn tones, “I thank you for sharing your time with me, My Lord.  It was good to speak of these things.  Of – of all of them.”

“It was,” I agreed.  “I hope that we will have the chance to speak again.”

She nodded to me, then turned her steps toward her lodgings.  With the white of her skirt and the gold of her armour and her hair, she seemed to gleam like some spirit of light as she strode into the evening’s shadows. 

The guards outside the Steward’s chambers greeted me with worried looks, expressing a warning that it was not their place to put into words.  I nodded to them in thanks and steeled myself to face whatever Stewardly mood of which they hoped to warn me.

It took me three times of knocking on the door before my father’s reply sounded with irritated tone, “Come.”

As I stepped within and one of the guards pulled the door closed behind me, I was surprised to see that no lights had yet been lit in the room.  The table and chairs where the captains had dined together before the beginning of the siege were cleared to the sides of the chamber.  A folding desk and leathern camp chair were set up near the fireplace, but the hearth also lay dark and cold, with no cheerful blaze upon it to warm the room or banish its shadows.

In that shadow I saw my father, standing in silence beside the chamber’s only source of light, the tall arched window that looked toward the east.  From this window he gazed, unmoving, the misty half-light showing him to my eyes less as a Man than as a grey and lifeless statue.  

“Sir?” I ventured, when he showed no sign of acknowledging my presence.  “Have you a few minutes that you can spare?”

            He slowly turned his head.  In the evening’s faint light I saw his mouth twist in a mocking smile.

            “Who knows if I have a few minutes?” he mused, in tones almost too soft to be heard.  “Who knows what time any of us may have left, before the darkness and the fire come to swallow us up?”

            “Aye, My Lord,” I said warily.  “If you do not wish to speak now, I can return at some other time.”

            He gazed at me unspeaking for some moments, then he shook his head.  “No,” he said, his breath gusting out in a sigh.  “You may remain.  Or leave, if you wish.  It does not matter.”

            What in blazes? I wondered.

I sought in the events of the last few days for some means of explaining this mood.  I could think of nothing.  The Rohirrim’s brush with the enemy was troubling, but we had suffered no serious casualties.  These increasing signs of enemy presence across the River should be nothing new to my father.  Such threats as these he had faced for decades, with his countenance undisturbed and with untroubled mind.   

            We had received no news from our army, but that, I told myself, was cause more for relief than for fear.  Our troops’ successful progress was like to be marked by a lack of messages.  There was no cause to continually deplete their numbers in sending home messengers with nothing to report. 

And at least while they were close enough to Gondor for survivors to make it home, it was in the return of the surviving few that we were like to learn of any disastrous battle.

            Of course, I reminded myself, there are battles so disastrous that none survive to return.

            I thought in sudden dread of my conversation with Lady Éowyn.  Again I heard her asking me whether my father would tell me, if a vision informed him of disaster to Faramir or the others. 

“Have you received knowledge of the army, My Lord?” I asked, my stomach twisting in foreboding.  “Has some misfortune befallen them?”

            “I do not know,” he said heavily.  “I have seen nothing of them.” 

“Then – ”

Another thought suddenly occurred to me.  I paused for a moment, afraid even to put that thought into words. 

“You have seen some vision of Frodo?” I forced myself to ask.  “You have seen that – that something has happened to him?”

My father gave a laugh, sharp, cold and bitter.  “Your little friend the Ringbearer?” he sneered.  “I have not.  I would that I had.  It would bring me no grief to see Fate overtake the one who has ensured our destruction.  I can think of few satisfactions greater.  Only seeing the deaths of those who sent him on his idiotic mission would afford me greater pleasure.  By the Valar, Boromir, I pray I will live to see the Wizard and his puppet king perish, as the Enemy takes to himself his Ring that they so graciously sent home to him.”

Automatically I wanted to argue with him.  But I told myself there was no use in it – even less use now, with him in this frame of mind, than there was at any ordinary time. 

“You are in no mood to speak with me, sir,” I said, bowing.  “I beg pardon for intruding upon you.  I will seek audience with you tomorrow.”

Exhaustion seemed to take the place of his anger.  “No,” he said.  “No, do not leave.  We will talk.  Sit down.”

I made no move to do so, waiting for him to be seated himself.  Gazing at me once more, he took in a deep breath and straightened to his full height.  He tugged impatiently at his garments to correct some unevenness imperceptible to my eyes, then he crossed the room to take his seat behind his desk. 

“Sit down, Boromir,” he repeated in tones of command.  “What was it that you wished to discuss with me?”

            Obediently I collected one of the chairs from the edge of the room and took my place at the far side of the Steward’s desk.  I would still have been happier by far to make myself scarce.  But I had received an order – and who could say when next my father might be in the mood to hear my request at all?

“Sir,” I began, “you have received the report of the patrol’s encounter last night, and those from the Emyn Arnen garrison?”

He nodded impatiently, and I hastened on.  “I request your leave to increase the garrison at Osgiliath.  I believe that another two companies can be found, from the troops of the Outlands and the City Guard.  I would add another squadron of the Guard to the Rohirrim’s patrols as well, if enough horses can be found to make that possible.  It seems now sufficiently clear that the City faces no immediate threat from our own side of the River.  There may be enough of the enemy concealed about the Ephel Dúath that we should expect attacks upon the eastern shore, perhaps sooner rather than later.”   

            “Do as you will,” said my father with a wave of his hand, seeming to take no interest in the words I had just uttered.  “It will make little difference, in the end.”

            I forcibly stopped myself from yelling in frustration.  “In the end, sir?” I asked.  “In what end?”

            He eyed me with a look that seemed part of pity and part of disdain.  He said, “You do not wish to know.”

            Calm, Boromir, ran my thoughts.  Stay calm.  “I assure you, sir, if you have some intelligence which concerns the safety of Gondor, not only do wish to know it, I respectfully demand to know.”

            Now any pity was gone from his gaze.  “You demand?” came his mocking echo.  “I could wish that you had been as forceful upon another occasion.”

            Valar’s blood, I wondered, where are we going with this?  “On what occasion, My Lord?”

My father sneered, “You should not need to ask.  I am referring to the occasion on which you held Gondor’s safety in your hands, and you threw it from you as though your country’s life were no more to you than rubbish.”

            With fists clenched, I waited until I was certain that my voice would be calm before I answered.  “I’m afraid I do not yet understand you,” I said.  “To what are you referring?”

            “Why, My Lord Boromir,” came the Steward’s reply, “I am referring to the day when the Captain-General of Gondor neglected to take unto himself the Ring of Power, when he thought the foolish wishes of a Hobbit of more value than the lives of his people.”

            I sighed, as the accusation that was all too familiar to me from my own thoughts sounded again in my father’s words. 

“We have trod this ground before,” I said wearily.  “I fail to see what we gain by discussing it again.  How if I did seal Gondor’s doom by failing to bring the Ring here?  We are never like to know whether that is so or not.  And we cannot change the past by arguing it now.”

            “No,” he said, in hollow, lifeless tones.  “No, we cannot.”

            Of a sudden, all other thoughts and dreads faded to nothing beside my wish to take his despair from him.  I reached out and put my hand over his, where it rested on the desk. 

I more than half expected that he would pull his hand away.  But he did not.

            “My Lord,” I said, “please tell me.  What is it that has brought this mood upon you?  What has changed since last we spoke?”

He smiled a winter-cold smile, his gaze as bleak as Caradhras’ snows.  “When last we spoke,” he said, “I believed there was yet a chance.  We had one last chance to be seized, and I had seized it.  Now that last gamble has failed.” 

He jerked his hand from under mine, stood up and commenced pacing toward the window.  “I have now failed, even as did you.  And I cannot see any more chances left to us.”

Automatically I stood, as respect dictated.  I held my position by the chair, warily watching the Lord my father’s pacing.  “I don’t understand,” I said.  “What chance is it that you have taken, that has failed?”

Instead of answering, he fired back another question.  He stopped suddenly and whirled about to face me, demanding almost in a yell, “Why did you let it go?  Why did you not keep hold of it, when you held it in your hand?”

This time I had no need to ask to what he might be referring. 

“I am sorry, sir,” was my helpless reply.  “Frodo was too swift for me.  And I was not certain in my course.  I dreaded to hurt him.  And I doubted, still, whether Elrond and Mithrandir might be right.  I believed them wrong.  I believed them too cautious; I thought their plan was the counsel of fools.  Yet I dreaded to take the Ring, lest events should prove them right after all.” 

Bitter fury burned in my father’s eyes.  “I thought I had at least one son who would choose action over fears.  I thought you had the courage and strength to strike the blow for your country.  I was wrong.  We have no hope left, Boromir.  Do you understand that?  None.  Strengthen your garrison; increase your patrols.  It is useless, all of it.  As useless as your friend Aragorn’s expedition to the Black Gate.  We are children playing with toy soldiers while the house around us is burning.”

He stared at me as though expecting an answer.  When I did not come up with one he turned abruptly and strode back to the window, where he stood once more gazing out toward the east.

I confess that I entertained longing thoughts of beating a retreat.  But the question of what “last chance” he had referred to still stood unanswered in my mind.

“Your pardon, sir.”  Somehow I kept my voice calm, wishing all the while that I could scream out my demand to know what in hell he was talking about.  “You spoke of a last chance that you seized.  May I inquire again what you meant by that, My Lord?”

He gave a short, brittle chuckle, then he clutched his hands about his arms as though seized by a sudden chill. 

“Aye,” he said without turning to look at me, “aye, you may inquire.”

I thought, If he does not give me some real answer soon, I’ll have to take myself out of here before I start throwing things about the room. 

“Sir?” I asked through gritted teeth.

Now he did turn back to me.  He stood a shadow among shadows, the evening light behind him nearly as dim as the room in which we stood. 

“I did what I had to do, Boromir,” he said.  “The only thing I could do, since you failed to secure the Ring when you had the chance.  I sent out a company to find your precious Ringbearer, and to bring the Ring here – with its bearer if possible, without him if necessary.  Now those Men whom I sent are dead.  I have seen their corpses litter the rocks of Ephel Dúath.  And I can see no choice but to believe that our last hope has died with them.”

I stared at my father as though I were stricken dumb. 

“My Lord,” I managed at last.  “My Lord, I – ”  I shook my head and started again.  “When did you send these Men?”

“They departed a full day before our noble king’s expedition.  I would not have it said again that I am tardy in taking action against our Enemy.  Those Men whom I sent went first, but they will not be the last.  They will soon have a mighty fellowship of dead to join them.  I hope it may provide their souls some comfort, to know that they were the first to fall in Middle Earth’s last great conflagration.” 

I whispered, “Who did you send?”

“A company of Ithilien Rangers, under command of Damrod Son of Daeron.”

I thought, Faramir’s Rangers. 

“Sir,” I protested, my mind crying out helplessly that I must be dreaming all of this, “sir, they were Faramir’s Men.”

“They were Gondor’s Men,” he snapped back.  “They were soldiers of Gondor, their lives at their country’s command – as are all of our lives.  They understood that, as I had expected that you would understand it as well.”

“What happened to them?” I persisted, fighting to stop myself from thinking of how deeply Faramir would grieve at this news.  “They were attacked?”

The Steward said as though losing patience with my questions, “I did not see the battle itself.  There were Orc corpses among them.  Not so many as I should care to see.” 

“And – and they are all dead?  You saw them?”

“If any have survived, they can only be very few.  I saw no sign of any survivor.  Any who lives yet will be the darling of the Valar indeed if he can live to make his way home.” 

I shook my head stupidly, then I ventured again, “Sir – this mission.  What if it had succeeded?”

“What if it had?  Why, then we would have the Enemy’s Ring here.  We would have cause no longer to spend our waking moments trembling in terror that the Nameless One’s great weapon may at any instant fall into his grasp.  And if it came to it, aye, if it came to it at last, in the end, we would have at least the chance of using his weapon against him.  One final chance which might have saved us, which now we shall never have.”

“What of the army, My Lord?” I demanded.  “What of the seven thousand Men we sent forth on the decision of the council?  If your private mission had succeeded, if the Ring were brought here to you – would not the army’s expedition, their almost certain deaths – would not their deaths be for nothing?  We sent them to Mordor as a diversion, that the Ringbearer might perhaps gain some slim chance of reaching his goal.  If you yourself had forestalled him, sir, what then would seven thousands of our Men be dying for?”

“They would still provide a diversion,” my father said coldly.  “A diversion from their comrades who would bring the Ring to us.  But these ‘ifs’ are useless, Boromir.  Their mission has failed.”

I murmured, stunned, “You would sacrifice Faramir – Uncle Imrahil – all of them – you would let them sacrifice themselves for a cause that you yourself sought to bring to nothing?”

“The cause is the same,” he snapped.  “Their lives are sacrificed for Gondor.  It is not my doing that their sacrifice must be in vain.”

I had been clutching hard to the back of the chair in which I’d sat.  How hard, I did not realise, until with a dull snap the top slat of the chair-back broke loose in my hands.

Dazedly I looked down at the chair.  One side of it was still fixed in place, the other side dangled free of its moorings.  My father, it seemed, took no notice of it.  I looked up again and heard myself ask, “Does Faramir know you sent his Men?”

“I am not responsible for what Faramir may or may not know.  I did not discuss it with him.  Nor did I care to have the mission known to all and sundry, for reasons I should not have to explain to you.  The more who knew, the more likely that intelligence of it would make its way to the Enemy.” 

“Was that the reason, sir?  Or was it because no Man in his right mind would ever agree to send forth such a mission?” 

“Eighty Men agreed to it,” he snarled at me.  “Eighty Men of Gondor set forth without question, as was their duty.  As would thousands of others, did I ask it of them.   I am sorry to see that you are not among their number.”

I stared at him, and I whispered, “I cannot believe that you would do this.”

“Then you will never be the Steward that Gondor requires.  Gondor perhaps is fortunate that she will not now live to see the days of your reign.”

His words would have hurt me bitterly, at any other time.  Now they seemed almost without meaning, amid the rest of this horror.

“It is madness,” I murmured.  “It is madness.  You doomed those Men.”

            “Aye, perhaps,” he shot back in answer.  “Perhaps I doomed those Men, even as Mithrandir has doomed us all.”

            “No.”  I surprised myself by how vigorously I leapt now to defend Mithrandir’s plan.  “No,” I argued.  “It is not the same.  His plan had some chance of success.  A very slight chance, but it had some.  This had none.” 

I shook my head, still half-hoping that I might awaken from out of this. 

“My gods, sir,” I whispered, “why could you not let it go?”

            Haughtily he replied, “I am the Steward of Gondor.  I am not the Steward’s Heir.  It is for me to fight for my country, beyond all hope.  I have not the luxury of giving up as easily as you do.”

            “But there was no chance,” I repeated helplessly.  “We both know how little likelihood there is of even two small Hobbits making their way through the wastes of Mordor unnoticed by the Enemy.  How then could eighty Men accomplish it?”

            “It was a chance – a very slight chance,” he added, throwing back my own words against me, “against a certainty.  Now – ” he shook his head, and his gaze moved once more from me, to the lands of the East beyond the window.  “Now it is over.”

I stared down again at my damaged chair.  Cautiously I sat down, leaning forward to not put weight on the part that I had broken.

A portion of my mind still insisted that there must be some way out of this.  If I only found the proper combination of words to break the spell, all of it would be revealed as merely a conjuror’s illusion.

I asked myself, How did I let this happen?

Faramir, I knew, would ask the same thing of himself.  But he at least had his wound as a contributing factor, in explaining how this insane expedition could have set forth without his knowledge.  Though Faramir was not like to accept that his wound absolved him of responsibility and blame.

And I, I thought, I did not have the extenuating circumstance of a wound.  I should have realised what was happening, I should have noticed that a company of Faramir’s regiment was not otherwise accounted for.  I should have seen it.  I should have stopped it.

I should have stopped it.

I laughed, the sound bordering on hysteria.

“What did you think would happen, sir?” I demanded.  “What did you think your mission would accomplish?  How were eighty Men to elude discovery in the very stronghold of the enemy?  And even if they did escape discovery for a time, how were they to track down the Halflings without bringing down the Dark Lord’s eye upon themselves, the Halflings and the Ring?  There was naught your mission could achieve save the very end we most dread!  Sauron himself could not have thought up a plan more suited to accomplish his goal!”

“Ha!” my father exclaimed, “My Lord Boromir, do you accuse me of dreaming up unrealistic plans?  How will your friends the Wizard and his pet kingling answer the same accusation?  Am I to be blamed for risking one last desperate throw of the dice, when it is the self-styled Steward of All Middle Earth who created the impossible pass in which we find ourselves now?”

My father was pacing again, forcing out his words with a feverish intensity as though he feared there was not time enough left to us to say all that he longed to say.  “Tell me that the plan I tried was madness.  I will answer you that yes, it was.  But it was a madness forced upon me by your Grey Fool, he who thought with his left hand to use me for a little while as a shield against Mordor, and with his right to bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me!

“How long has he known of the Ring of Power’s existence – nay, of its very location?  Can you tell me that?  I can tell you the answer to that, Lord Boromir.  It was now seventeen years past, as Mithrandir himself has told us, when your Ringbearer’s uncle used the Ring in front of all his people, and when Gandalf Mithrandir suspected that this Hobbit’s toy might be the One Ring.  Seventeen years!  What did he do for all those years?  What prevented him from acting then?  Why did he not send the Ring to Mount Doom before the Dark Lord realised its location and sent forth his Riders in search of it?

“And his beloved Estel, his Elven foster-child, his would-be king!  If he was indeed King in right and truth, why did he not act before we teetered on the brink?  If he had the power to make that army of dead Oath-breakers follow him, why did he not do so seventeen years past?  Why did he and his ghostly minions not carry the Ring to Mordor and deposit it in the Mountain of Fire before Sauron’s armies were massed against us, before the maw of death was opened to swallow us whole?”

I sprang to my feet and reached my father in two steps, seizing hold of his arms.  “Father, stop!” I yelled.  “Please, you must be calm, I beg of you – ”

He wrenched free from me and laughed, a wild, snarling sound.  “I will answer you that, too!  The Wizard and his king did not act until all-but too late, and why?  So that Lord Aragorn could pose as the saviour of his country!  So that we would not have any strength left to resist him!  They chose this timing, Boromir, chose it so that we would be too desperate to take any course save to lick their boots and to follow where they led!  But they have waited too long.  They waited too long, and they will pay the price, and by the gods I am glad of it.  They miscalculated and now they will die with the rest of us, and if only I may witness that, at least I will smile as I die.”

When my father stopped speaking, the sudden silence was stunning.  I stared at him, at his furious face and his blazing eyes.

There was much in what he said – much against which I wanted to argue; much also with which I agreed, or almost agreed.

Yet as I stood there, none of that seemed to matter.  I was thinking not of my father’s tirade, not of Aragorn and Mithrandir and the timing of their plans.       

Instead I could only think of the Men my father had sent into Mordor.  Eighty Men, Men of my brother’s regiment.  Men whose loss would wound Faramir to the heart, who now lay butchered in the mountains of Mordor – and all for nothing.

“Sir,” I said, “I will not debate it with you.  In much that you have said, you have my full agreement.  But we have strayed from the point.  If you blame Aragorn and Mithrandir for wantonly throwing away our people’s lives, for the sake of their plans – how then can you justify throwing away the lives of those eighty Men?  Throwing them away on a scheme that had no hope of success – save only to take some revenge upon the Wizard, by striking against the plan that he hatched, and by sealing the doom of his Ringbearer – if it is not sealed already.”

“I justify it, Boromir, because with the Ring we might have some faint hope.  Without it, we have none.”

His words hit me like ice racing through my blood.  In my mind I heard suddenly my own voice, crying out in same desperation that I heard now in my father’s words.  We do not desire the power of Wizard-lords, only strength to defend ourselves, strength in a just cause.  And behold! In our need, chance brings to light the Ring of Power.  It is a gift, I say; a gift to the foes of Mordor.  It is madness not to use it!

“Would it bring us any hope, sir?” I asked.  “Or merely a swifter doom?  How can we know that it would not bring Sauron down upon us, to blast the Citadel asunder and reclaim his Ring from its ruins?  How can we know that you, or I, or Aragorn, or any of us could use it – without destroying ourselves and all of those about us, as surely as though Sauron himself had wrought our destruction?  It is his Ring, My Lord.  As such would it not continue to serve him, even when worn on your hand, or on mine?”

“We cannot know,” my father answered softly.  In his eyes I read scorn, more piercing than any words of anger.  “We shall never know, since my attempt has failed, and since my sons lack the courage to take the chance.”

At another time I would have angrily answered his words.  At that moment I wished for nothing more than to take myself out of his sight, as far and as fast as possible.

“Since the choices I have made offend you, My Lord,” I said, “I will spare you the annoyance of my presence.  Good night.”

I stalked from the room without looking back.  With a haste as though some army of demons raced at my heels, I made my way past the guards, down the stairs and out of the King’s House, into the air of the night.

I gulped in a breath of the soft, cool air.  The waning moon was just starting to rise, and I thought of how its pale light would play on the faces of my brother’s slain Men, their corpses scattered on the rocks of Ephel Dúath.

More slowly now I turned my steps to the Courtyard, and the Fountain.

Svip was already abed, asleep in the Fountain in his usual spot, his head on the carven stone at the centre with the falling water as his bed-curtain.

I sat down on the edge of the Fountain.

The singing of the Fountain called to my mind images of days long lost.  I could see my family in the sunlit Courtyard, all of us together.  I could see my father, with his hand on my shoulder, speaking to me of the history and lineage of the White Tree.  And I saw my mother, holding Faramir’s shoulders to stop him from falling, as he stood on the Fountain’s edge and laughed as he held out his hands into the bright mist of falling water.

I thought, We will never be together again.  None of us will stand here as a family again, now.

I leaned forward and put my face in my hands.

From behind me Svip’s voice came hesitatingly, “Boromir?”

I straightened again and turned to face him.  He had sat up and was eyeing me worriedly through the water.

I asked him, “Do you fancy a trip to the River?”

“Of course,” he said, knowing better than to ask why I wanted to make that trip now.

We spoke but little as we made our way to the Anduin.  We walked side by side until we left the confines of the Citadel, then travelled the rest of the way with Svip in horse form and I upon his back.  The Guards at the Harlond Gate forbore to question as they heaved the Gate open for us.  Our daily swims had become known enough to the garrison by this time.  It likely seemed to them little more strange for the Steward’s son to go swimming at nightfall, than it did at dawn.

The blackness of the water seemed the perfect match for my thoughts.  As I cleaved through the inky water, down to the mud and rubble below, I wished that I never had to rise again back into the world.

The merciless refrain kept running through my thoughts: Faramir will not forgive him.

It was useless to remind myself that much could happen between now and Faramir’s return – and that for all I knew, none of us would live to see that day.  My thoughts still sprang forward, unrelentingly, to the day when Faramir would return home.

When Faramir came home, when he learned what our father had done, I thought that I knew precisely what my brother would say. 

He would study our father with a gaze as cold and bitter as any of the Steward’s own.  He would say, “You are my father no longer, sir.  You will not see me here again.”  And he would leave, for Ithilien or whatever command the Steward still permitted to him.

And whatever I might say to them, and however many the years that passed, Faramir and our father would not speak to each other again.

It had come at last, the doom I had dreaded for so long, the breach between my father and my brother which could never be healed.

Faramir will not forgive him.

Faramir would not forgive him, and the family that I loved was gone.